Wer bin ich?

I'm always telling depressive stuff in here. You sure must wonder, why I just didn't kill myself? That would save you and it would save me. Easy'easy. No. It's not that easy as it seems. If just it were. But it isn't. It kills me. It surely must want to kill me. Somehow.
I'm still wondering when will she will seek me. Does she honestly believe I would ever go to her? She has to be insane then. I told her last time, that I dwelt with my own problems myself. I cannot rely on anybody else to understand. Maybe that's why I'm telling myself I'm fat? Maybe that's why I'm writing depressive all the time? I'm screaming for help. A help that nobody hears. It could be killing me. Before I felt this way I couldn't imagine people calling secretly for help. I didn't understand people cutting and crying. I simply didn't understand psycological pain. It was a totally hidden place. And now it feels like home. That's rather funny. How I never knew anything and now suddenly knows everything. If I could return to the me that had never experienced this pain, I don't know if I wanted to. I have always been giving so much of myself for the sake of everybody else. To make sure they were happy. I've always been hiding. But it never felt like pain. It never felt like I had to cut myself. I remember a friend of mine telling me that she was cutting. It was an old knife, hardly sharp enough to make any scrath in her skin. But she found comfort in it. And my mind was really like 'cutting is gross. It's just something stupid people do'. Whether I'm stupid or not, I don't know - but I cut. My knife isn't sharp, though it's worse than her. I seek my neel, I seek my knife, I seek my scissor. I wonder if my parents haven't been wondering where that knife went, but I hide it. So they're never going to find out what I'm doing. Sometimes I long after taking one of the really knifes. One of those who can cut tomatoes like it was bananas. You know - a really sharp knife, that would cut me deep. But I'm afraid of doing it. When someone crashes something made of glass, I feel like hurrying so I make sure I get a piece of the broken glass. If anyone knew this. If anyone knew. It's punishment and it's comfort. I comfort myself when I feel like crying. I never bled because of my cutting, but I made visible scars, scars I'll never get rid off. Though they're only visible to me because I knew exactly where they are. I knew exactly what made them. It's so freaky. I cut as a punishment, when I've been eating way too much. My lunch is water. Simply water. I puke when I enter school, to make sure breakfast isn't down there anymore. Though breakfast isn't a lot. And when I'm home in the evening I cut to punish myself because I ate dinner. What kind of world am I living in?! A pro-anoretic, cutting, depressive world. And nobody sees me. I'm never wearing clothing that shows my body anymore. Because it's scares me that other people will see my fat. I'm so focused on getting no calories, I can't talk about everything. I calculate food into calories! Two of my classmates bought two different plates of food. First, I found both of them gross because there was SO many calories in that food! Second, I told one of them, she was better than the other because she had fewer calories in her food. C'mon - how low is that?! I don't know what's wrong with me. I never did that before.
To come back to the title. You see - I've lost myself in this world. Wer bin ich?