[ WP ] Memento mori - Remember , you will die .

This is going to be extremely raw and personal and I'm not reading while I type, nor am I ever reading this comment again. I hope it means something to someone, anyway. 
 
 I think from an early age, I used too look at my face and see nothing. I'd look at my hands, and my stomach, and my legs, and id see the verbal marks that my mother's sharp tongue etched into them. I'd look at my hair, because it's dark and curly and not like the other girls', or I'd look at my dark eyes and pale olive skin, and I'd see something different. My mother did n't like me, and my mother was my world, so I did n't like me either. 
 
 Then it got worse. Before it was only her who was very verbal about her disdain for me. But it grew, and the other girls started to notice. Those looks turned to whispers, whispers turned to cruel words. Fat. Ugly. Dumb. Worthless. Those words.. So vital was it to me to be something different that I lost sight of everything else. 
 
 I remember at first, drawing and painting. The palette knife, my canvas, my brush, they were my refuge. Then I remember the peace I used to get from art being replaced by anger at myself. `` My drawings are never good enough. They never will be.'' I gave up the palette knife opting instead for a knife to my wrist. The fingers I once used for beauty were nightly shoved down my throat. I may not be beautiful but my hands... My hands, with the skin bitten off from the sides of my fingers, my nails all but gone from anxiety, covered in cuts and scabs and bruises. My hands can create or destroy, such beautiful, morbid things. My hands have always been wondrous. Yet I was using them, tarnishing them in order to hurt myself. 
 
 At the age of 9 I was taken to a specialist. `` She shows signs of disordered eating and body dysmorphia,'' he said. Those words, like labels being printed for a product, nothing to do with me. His teeth were straight and white and his breath smelled like sanitizer. I hated him. I sat there and plaited my hair, swinging my legs. I hated him. 
 
 I had a friend in year 7 who was everything I aspired to be. She was thin and pretty and smart, and when she smiled the whole room lit up. Everyone followed her with bated breath, as if their breath would break her picture-like perfection. She broke down to me on the phone one time. `` I work so hard for everything,'' she told me. `` And he's still dead. Everyone always says'Oh, if he were alive, he'd be so proud of you.' But he is n't. I've worked for everything I have. And I'm still not happy.'' 
 
 When I replied to her, the words were so simple, and made so much sense. `` So why do n't you change your attitude? Work hard for you. He'll be waiting for you at the end, so why do n't you enjoy the journey.'' 
 
 Now, almost 8 years later, I've taken my advice. Everything I have, I've worked for. If I do n't have it, I have n't worked hard enough. When I look in the mirror, I still see someone not worth seeing on the outside, but on the inside I've shaped myself into so much more. This body is a vessel for my soul. I refuse to take medication; I refuse to blur my vision to my many imperfections. I do n't hate myself. I do n't love myself but I love the things I do. 
 
 Death. The thought of death brings me nothing but peace. But the thought of a journey is always more tedious than one of a holiday. I'm going to keep pedalling towards my destination. I do n't know where I'm going or how I'm going to get there but I'm going to be at peace with every step.
