I will try.

Dear Blog,

I’m sorry that I’m putting restrictions on you. I apologize, I mean I should know better. But it seems that I don’t know any better. Because I’m so used to juts writing everything down. All of my feelings, and thoughts and ideas. Because it makes me feel better once it’s documented. You know?

It makes me feel better that there is someone who will just listen. I don’t want to tell people my life story and have them be all, “Alright. Well this is how we fix it.” I just want to tell someone about it. I mean, yeah these thigns should be fixed.  They should be different from how they are, but I just want someone to understand that when I’m not smiling, or when I’m lost in thought or grumpy or just anything that it could be because of something going on in my life. Like I don’t know. My  dog dies, so I’m sad. Yeah,I want to tell someone about it. I want people to know that I’m grieving the loss of someone close to me, but I don’t want them to be all, “Alright well this is what we’re going to do next. We’regoing to have a funeral, so you get closure. Then we’re going to write poems about how great your pet was and then we’re going to burn them and let the ashes float into the abyss which your pet is now in.”

NO.

I don’t want that. I want you to be all, “Well. I’m sorry Morgan. *hug* It will be okay. If you need anything, I’ll be here, okay?” To which I will reply, “Okay.” And I’ll make a measly smile and sniff a little bit. And until I tell you I want to fix it, that’s all I want.

So lately I’ve been pressured by someone close to me. Pressured to do what? Someone wants you to smoke? No. Drink? No. Hardcore drugs? Absolutely not. Sex? Not even that.  Then what?

Getting better.

Well why is that a problem?

Because I’m an addict. Not like a drug, alcohol, sex, adrenaline, candy, whatever addict.

I’m an addict by my own rights. I’m an addict that’s addicted to this thing. And this thing, is my monster. And I’m addicted to it. I’m not ready to take care of it.

My monster messes things up for me. It makes me absolutely uninterested in everything. It makes me so sleepy I’m practically comatose. It makes me so awake I’m an insomniac. I’m lethargic, I’m hyper. I’m all over the place. I’m so happy I don’t know what to do besides just scream and laugh. I’m so sad that the smallest thing makes me sob for hours. It’s a monster. It’s my monster.

Well Morgan that sounds horrible, why are you addicted to it?

There’s more to it than the mood swings. It’s bigger than the mood swings. I blogged about it once. This self-mutilating problem.  I haven’t . In a long time. But what is a long time? Depends on how much attention you pay. But it’s been a long time.

But it’s an addiction, just like any other addiction. I know it’s bad for me. But I don’t care. I don’t care that if I *could die. I don’t care that it leaves these things on my body which are everyday reminders of who I was or who I am. I just do not care. And maybe that’s what I’m addicted to. This idea of not caring. And it might seem like I’m pining for attention via blog. But I’m not.  Earlier this year Demi Lovato came out about her addiction. And I was really mad. I was disgusted with the idea of being open about it like she was. And I voiced my opinion to my aunt. And she shot back with (and this isn’t verbatim) “You do it too.” Or something like that. It made me mirror myself onto the television screen. And I thought about it. Why did it bother me so much that this Disney star was so open about it, and yet I hated the very fact that I have told people in my family about this? And I think I know. Because, I’m not ready to come to terms with it. I’m not ready to admit that I have a problem. And mostly, because with her problem she had a whole support group cheering her on to get better. Mine was swept under the rug. Even after repeats of what had happened. And trust me, even though I told someone about it because I wanted to get help, does not mean that I stopped right away. It’s a stress reliever. It releases endorphins into your system. It’s like writing. Once it’s out there, it’s out. I have no idea if any of that even makes sense to anyone but myself, but it does to me. And that’s what matters, right?

But I don’t want attention because of this. I don’t want people to worry. Because for me it’s about the control. I like having control over this. I like to know that I can do it whenever I want, whether I do it or not. I’m in control. It might be a teenager thing, to be in control or want to be in control because we’re mini adults we just don’t have all of the same privileges as being an adult. And so we try to get as much control as we can. And this is a piece of control that I use as a crutch. The fact that I could if I wanted to. But I haven’t and I don’t. But I don’t want attention because of it. I don’t . In middle school there were all of these girls (why only girls? I don’t know. But girls.) were running around school flashing these scratches on their arms, stomach, legs, everywhere. And they were all “Oh woe is me. Look how sad I am?”. Maybe they were sad, maybe they were looking for the same thing I was looking for. Maybe they were searching for some type of control just like me. They just had other ways of doing it. But it made me so mad watching them exploit their monsters when I hid mine from the world. When I was screaming inside for someone to just grab me and shake me and say, “Morgan! What are you doing?! It’s going to be okay!” Maybe that’s what I’m searching for now. For someone to just grab me, shake me and tell me it’s going to be okay and that I don’t have to worry anymore.

I remember the first time I saw someone do this to themselves. I was in third grade. It was my best friend Becky. And I was confused as to why she would do something like that. And she said it was because she was fat. She wasn’t fat. Not at all. But it scared me. It was on her hand. Maybe that’s where I got the idea. Somewhere in the recess of my mind it said, “Morgan. This is how you fix your problems. Just like this.” And I was like, “Yeah. This works, kinda. I’m in control. I do what I want.” But it doesn’t work. Though, at the same time it does. I’m not saying DO IT. I’m saying the opposite, DO NOT DO THIS. It’s horrible. It’s not right to do. No one should ever do it. Even if I say that it works kinda, because when I did this I felt like my mind was so clear and my thoughts so vivid and I felt like I was unstoppable every time it happened. But that’s not true. Every mark pushed me one step back. One step behind of growing. But I didn’t see that. I didn’t understand that this monster didn’t help me. I didn’t know .

I’m not even sure if I know now.

I’m going to stop talking about this though. I just thought I could explain to you something. I don’t even remember why or how I became to start blogging about this.

It just happened.

You wanna know what else just happens?

Love.

Whether it's real or not. 

It happens.

And even though you don't want it to.

It does.

And sometimes I just want to punch it in the throat.