oh, I wish and I wish and I wish and I wish ... I could start over again.
2002-08-21 || 1:04 p.m.

I am glad, more glad than anyone could know, that other people are happy. I mean this in all sincerity.

I want to have the monopoly on the 'shit life' thing. I never, ever want any other solitary human being to feel anywhere near the way I feel. I loathe myself so much that I could never begin to put it into words. I hate being alone but I realise it is for the best. I do not believe in destiny - not for others, only for me.

The stupid thing is that I am not unattractive. I am actually rather fucking gorgeous. Really. But inside I suck.

I could say that the way I feel is because of the crappy things that have happened to me. My mum treating me like a piece of shit. Being sexually abused at 9/10 years old. Being beaten by the first boyfriend I ever loved culminating in him trying to kill me five years ago, but I don't think these things are the reason. I see them as further corroboration that I am correct to feel the way I do. They are not the cause for the way I feel.

I have ways of coping. The ways I have of coping are seriously deranged and dangerous. My first way of coping stems from something that is even more horrid than those things above, something that I cannot write about and probably never will. The only way I could cope with it when it happened was to realise why it was happening. The reason it was happening was because I am not really a human. I am just a piece of shitty scum. What is inside me (metaphorically speaking) is so foul and horrid that no-one could ever begin to imagine it. And it therefore follows, that if I am not human I have no right to claim the things that others take foregranted.

My second way of coping, thinking about it, is probably not as bad as the first. I cut myself. I cut myself badly. I choose often to do it with rusty razors in the hope I will get blood poisoning but I haven't so far. I have to do this because then I hurt on the outside as much as I hurt on the inside.

I am truly a freak.

When I think about it, I don't think its such a bad thing. In Victorian times, psychological problems were dealt with by blood letting with leeches. I think bleeding helps. I like it.

I have skirted around writing about this since I had this diary but I just feel so sick with it all. I did write one entry once but I then deleted it. Maybe this one will go the same way.

Going away has probably hindered rather than helped. When I was away I did feel human. I felt just a valuable as anyone else. But of course I'm not and its forgetting this that screws me up.