enough.

shitt, its long, but please continue reading.

I was 10 or maybe 11 years old when I first startet to write. In a book with a horsecover. I wrote mostly poems, but afterwards I could write several pages. Always in the same way I do today. I write about myself, just I don't mention any names, and always trough self perspective.
As I think I was, in a depression, or maybe just an outsider. I used most school days and classes to sit and write. Time passed, the book was almost filled.
I was a smart girl, and I noticed the teacher stopped sneeking over my shoulders when I wrote. I noticed she always where inside the classroom before the classes started.
Then one day she told me to stop my writing, to focus more on the social activities, and see a bit around me instead. That very same day, I wrote than all the shitt I could think of in that book, about my teacher, how rood it was to read others private stuff, how she rather could tell me that I was disturbing her lessons, if she really wanted me to stop. I left the book on my desk, and I understand she read it.
I never stopped writing, still later I did it more secret.
She never complained again.

When I was thirteen I again used writing to something more than just fun. It became "my way". If I don't count the cutting, it was the only way to escape myself.
It helped. I got better, I now wrote short stories and even more poems, in both english and norwegian. I had this diary on the web, and I wrote in scratch books, and just on word programs. I even startet to paint my feelings.
My writing followed me trough the time I were not allowed to go outside, trough the time I lost my very best friend (she tried suicide and got locked in for several months. I was not allowed to talk to her, not even now, her parents blame me for her problems. Like I make people shizo, yeah..). I explained myself trough the writing, why I threaten that girl with my knife, why I ran away from school, and why I almost fainted once a week. It helped me when my parents searched my body for scars... I can't count all the times it was my savior.
As my mum actually is clever, at some points, she noticed and went trough all my diraies, all that I've ever written.
That day I wrote 4 pages about how much that hurt me, how much I "hated" her and never could forgive her for leaving my dad.
She never touched my writing again. still I hid it more safely, to a place she never will find. And now, I just write on my own computer and have a password to open it.

I'm not going to tell you that I hate you for this. Because I don't. ( You know who you are. I guess you're sitting at your room right now, in that blue chair, probably smoking (rød), I know you read this. ). And I'm not mad at you, and I'm not going to leave you for this. Maybe I understand why you do this, why you read it... Maybe I don't.
But I don't believe you'll give me an explanation, ever. Maybe I want you to. Maybe I don't. I guess it will be a relief to me, if you had the guts to admit it, but on the other side... I wouldn't do it either.
It's alright to me. I'm used to it. I won't wake up tomorrow and think about it.
Whats done is done, and its okay.

If you want to know anything about me, if you need an explanation from me, just ask.
I will probably give you an answer.

Now you know my secret. maybe I never hid to well, maybe you figured out a long time ago. I don't know, and I don't care.
I just want you to know this started way before I met you. And it's not your fault, at all. and I just fainted once, and I will not die.
And I'm not sick. You know I'm not.

I keep asking myself one question though. How the hell can you love this?
how can you love what I am? what I've become?
I feel ashamed.

Maybe you want me to eat... Maybe you're worried. Don't be. I've got people to call, who knows. And they know what to do, if something bad happens.
Please don't worry about me. I've got things under control, I promise.
And please don't try force me to eat at any time, I'll let you know if I want something. don't stress about this, you just make me stressed, then I'll start... yeah, stress.
it will just make things worse.
Don't be afraid to eat in front of me. Mostly I don't feel the hunger and you're not exactly making me jealous.
"and please don't try this at home",
I beg you... please, please, please.
don't think about doing this yourself.
I will never think about food in a normal way ever again.
this can be hell, it has been hell, it will be hell again.
you don't want to go trough this.
If you want to do something for me,
then don't starve yourself.
please...

I love you, I still do. this haven't changed any of my feelings for you.
I mean every word I wrote about you, and I hope I have the guts to tell you face to face once, how much you mean to me.
I hope you don't think about me with the same shame as I think about myself because of this.
I love you, don't forget that.