They don’t see me, not really.
They tell me I’m a horrible person with a horrible personality that no one could ever love.
They don’t see the tears. They don’t see the cuts, or the knife I keep on my bedside table. They don’t see me eat, because I don’t. They don’t see me in the bathroom, throwing up. They don’t see me shivering, shaking, crying, gasping for breath as I suffer a panic attack. They don’t see me stay up late trying to cope with all of my classes, the workload that they put on me. They don’t see how much I just want their approval. They don’t see that a 4.3 GPA is damn good, and hard to get. They don’t see me cry myself to sleep over the guy who calls himself my best friend, because one night he used me for my body then started ignoring me. They don’t see the struggle I go through everyday trying to find my spirituality. They don’t see the empty hole not believing in God or Christ or anything has left in my soul.
They don’t see anything important.
Instead they see the bitchiness.
They see the fear that comes from hurting yourself. They see me sleep-deprived and rude. They see me push away food and they call me ungrateful. They see the one B on a report card of straight A’s. They see the 4.5 my GPA could’ve been. They see the guy who they loved so much, who stopped coming over because of how terrible I was. They see the heathen daughter who is an embarrassment to the family. They see the daughter who won’t believe in Christ or eat meat just to spite them. They see the daughter who is never good enough, never tries hard enough, is never thankful enough. They see the daughter they won’t admit to hating.
They don’t see how much I hate myself, because that’s all I know how to do.