I tried to eat without throwing up. And I succeeded. For two days.
I enter the house, leave my backpack on the stairs and go get some musli. I have been planning to eat them for hours. This and some other super-delicious food made by dad. All is good. Dad comes in.
Me: Hey, is 8,000 euros per semester much? For a private college, I mean..
And the discussion goes on normally. Then, bang. She starts yelling and screaming that I never told her about that, that I never tell her about anything and that I avoid her. I am like are you fucking kidding me. She starts crying and says she is dying, says she should have stayed at home (while I was a kid) instead of working. Blah blah, then I fight with Dad, I can see in his eyes that he wants to beat me up, slap me. Kick me. But he does not dare. I go upstairs, quickly hide a blade somewhere near. He comes in, we talk, I cry, the woman who says she is my mother cried, my brother cries because the fucking bitch cries. (should I go downstairs and cut right in front of her? Yes! No.. lil brother is there. No need to traumatize him. I'll cut in silence) My dad is desperate, he asks me what my problem is, he yells at me, tells me to go talk to her. I give him my usual smart answers, not letting him win this argument. ("Well, if she has problems, she has to find a way to cope. She is an adult, it is not my job to make sure she is okay. If I have problems, I cope." He says, "Let's not talk about your ways to cope." -- cutting) He leaves, I cut, slice slice slice, I pull down my sleeve, the sleeve (thank God it is black) is full of blood. He comes back, we fight, "Maybe you should not have had kids," he leaves. I get out of my room, go into the bathroom. Where is the key? He says he took it away. Why? Caution. Fine. (I can cut in my room too, right? Right.) So I go back and cut some more. He comes in. We talk, blah blah, I might have touched something with my index and left blood on it. Dad gives me a look.
"What?" I ask.
"Nothing." He leaves. I obviously know he has seen the blood. Should I go and put my bleeding wrist in front of his face, or..? Neah, I don't want to look attention-seeking. Psychotherapist calls. We talk. Dad has called her. Then I cut some more. Then we talk again.
Now I am fine, ready to do some homework and studying. There is no reason to give a fuck. The world would be a totally different place if I gave a fuck. Go on, smile, shine, succeed, excel. Be the best, hide, ignore without being ignored. Listen to your friends' stories, help everyone, pretend all is fine, and it's going to be fine in the end.
This evening was so disgusting that not eating won't be an effort from now on. I do not know if I want to sleep tonight. Maybe I don't. But maybe I will.
I need to learn how to cut, because my cuts have never been serious enough. I need to end up in hospital. I need to end up dead.