"yesterday was thanksgiving. i went to see my family, even though i didn't want to. when i talked to my mother, the woman who is supposed to know me best and be able to tell when i'm dying inside, seemed not to notice anything different about me, physically or emotionally. she didn't notice that my smile didn't meet my eyes or that i did not speak but to say monotone, instinctual things like 'hello,' or 'i'm fine, how are you?' the worst of it was when they said grace, when my grandfather told us to put our heads down and thank the lord. thank him for what though? i have nothing to be thankful for. i bleed and cry and drink and fill my lungs with toxins and stick needles in my veins to escape the world, to escape my life, because its not even just problematic anymore, it's not situational. my whole fucking life is the problem and no one seems to understand. so while they sat there, stuffing themselves and laughing and smiling, i sat in a corner, scratching at my arms and biting my lips and holding back tears and wishing you were next to me to tell me everything would be okay."