I’m sincere in that I’m the happiest that I’ve ever been. But I’m starting to scare myself with my definition of happy. My idea of contentment. I’m fine with being single, not because I love myself or I’m independent, I’ve just come to terms with the fact that nobody will ever love me like that. (I’m happy…) I’m still dealing with self-harm, like I have been for the last two years, but it’s no longer out of depression. Just out of habit. (I’m happy…) I finally don’t have to go to a counselor every week. Only because I lied to her and everyone else and said there was absolutely nothing wrong. (I’m happy…) I’m no longer dieting! Only because I decided I’m hopeless, and even if my physical appearance changed, nobody would think any differently of me, so I gave up. (I’m happy, though.) Sometimes, I confuse myself.
