Three shots of vodka and a beer. Alone in my apartment. Throwing up whatever I eat. Maybe I shouldn't eat. Easier said than done. A study day entirely wasted. Staring into space. Battling the thoughts in my head. Battling the urge to die. Every time I don't kill myself seems like a success to people. To me, it seems like weakness. While I'm doing that, I can't concentrate. Can't work, can't study. Drinking to feel. If only that burn as the alcohol rushes down. Sometimes you need the pain to know that you're still alive. Most of the time, I can't tell anymore. I'm like a child, folded onto herself on the bed. I just want someone to hold and protect me. But I made sure that no one ever did. So now I'm alone. Self-medicating much? I think so.