MEHRR! MEHRR! MEHRR!!

I groan and sit-up to turn off my alarm clock. My head is pounding with confusion. I try to remember my dream, but nothing comes to mind. A feeling of loss hits me. I miss dreaming.

I get out of bed and go to my closet. I pick out a pair of sweats, a tank top, and a zip-up. It doesn't seem worth it to go for style anymore. When everyday is compacted with feelings of grief, regret, and loss looking good just doesn't seem worth it. Comfort is the way to go.

I go into my bathroom to do my hair and make-up. When I look in the mirror I see the scar on my nose. I run my finger across the scar and my eyes fill with tears as a feeling of weights being on my chest hits me. A series of mini flashbacks go through my mind: Running to his house. Doing shots of Five O'Clock. Hospital scenes through drunken eyes. Lying on my bathroom floor, crying, wishing I could go back in time. My breathing becomes short, quick, panicky breaths. The events of February 07, 2010 soar through my mind. I feel like dying as the tears begin to pour down my face I clench my fists, digging my nails into the palms of my hands. A sharp pain shoots through my nerve endings and registers in my brain. I focus all my attention on it. The panic begins to subside and my breathing regulates. As I start to calm down the tears dry up and my mind slowly begins to clear. I unclench my fists, look at the bathroom floor, and wish I could just lie down and go to sleep so I could escape all these horrible feelings for a little while.

I finish my hair and make-up and look at myself in the mirror again. It's like there's something missing. I look different. Maybe it's the lack of joy in my eyes or the fake smile I've plastered on my face. Whatever it is I wish I could have it back.

I go back in my room and stare at my bed. It would be nice if I could just lie there and sleep the rest of my life away.

I sigh and go downstairs for breakfast. My mom talks to me as I eat and I talk back only as much as I have to. I know she knows something is wrong, but she acts as if nothing is wrong... everyone does. Sometimes I wish my mom would bring it up. I think I'd like to talk about it. She wouldn't even have to say anything once I started talking about it. I just want to let it all out. I'm afraid if I don't it's going to continue to force happiness out of my life forever. My brother comes downstairs and we leave for school.

We don't talk in the car. A lot of people don't talk around me. It's like they're afraid if there's conversation I'll bring it up and they won't know what to say. It's sort of okay because everyone isn't asking a million questions about it, but, on the other hand, I WANT to let it all out.

When we get to school a feeling of dread hits me. I'm sick of pretending everything's okay all the time. I sigh and step out of the car. The cold morning breeze feels good on my face. I look back at the car; I wish I could get back in it. I force myself to walk up to the school, a smiling face masking the sadness.

School is one big blur. I barely pay attention to anything. The only things I really notice is when people bring up what happened (there's often many jokes made about it) and when I see him. Other than that, I'm just going through the motions.

After school I go to a friend's house for a few hours. Again, I just go through the motions. All the time, of course, with my fake smile plastered over my true frown.

When I get home I can finally go back to the solitude of my bedroom. I plop down on my bed and close my eyes. My head is bursting with thoughts: how many times it was brought it up today, how many times I saw him, homework that will never be finished, February 07, 2010,... It's all just too much. I wish I had someone I could talk about everything with. I feel like if I keep bottling it all up I'm going to explode. I can't take much more of this.

Tears start to leak out of my closed eyes. I don't stop them; soon my face and pillow are covered in mascara-tears. I hate crying. I never use to be one who cried, but now it's all I ever seem to do.

I fall asleep, crying, thinking: I wasn't going to be that girl.