I still have memories though. Of times before I was like this. Memories of friends and school, of stress and hobbies. I still have some stress. But it's built into me so I don't even know that I'm stressed.
One of my most vivid memories is of my 9th birthday. It's my happiest thought. My best friend at the time, Zoe, helped me set everything up with my parents. It was a really girly, pink, princess-y party. The complete opposite of how I am now, but still my favourite time. All my friends, about 7 in total, came round. We hired people to do our hair and makeup. There was party food and music. I was so, so happy.
Now, I have almost no friends, my family hate me, and I hate the colour pink.
The one other memory I revisit the most is not one I like. The day I was diagnosed and taken to a mental home. Temporarily, of course. I had to lie to get out.
It was a normal day for me, at the time. I was pretty happy, but quite annoyed at the teachers for giving us homework for the holidays. Typical. Last lesson was Citizenship. Basically learning about drugs, sex, drinking etc. One of the activities was trust. We had to be blindfolded and directed though an obstacle course. I only just managed to get through, my heart racing, palms sweating. I had so many different scenes running through my head, all of them pessimistic.
But the next exercise was acting a scene with props. Mine and my friend's prop was a lighter. We were doing well, but then she used it, for fun, not lighting anything up. The smell hit me and I took a grab for it. It burned the side of her thumb. Or should I say, I burned the side of the thumb. I took the lighter and went mad, trying to set things alight. The teacher stopped me before any harm could be done. After that, I got taken away.
I refuse to go any further. Every time. I stop there to prevent any more pain. I can't even remember the name of my disorder. I don't want to. Mainly in an attempt to stop what's happening. It's not working.