Freak.

Weirdo.

Loser.

I've been called this and much more. There have been a few that have tried to help. There have been professionals that have tried to see beyond the tears and the scars. They tried to look me in the eye, but they always failed. It's hard to find a soul hiding behind the mask that is my face. More often than not, I can't find it either. Probably because I've become so skilled at hiding that I can no longer find myself.

Which is why it's so easy to try to end it all.

I'm a coward. I would rather sit here in this hellhole that is my apartment than go out and try something new. There are weeks at a time where I don't even set foot outside. And there are days at a time where I don't bother showering.

When you live in constant hell and see no one, personal hygiene is not top on your list of things to do.

I can't explain why I live in hell or why I'm too scared to try new things. It's just who I am. It's who I've always been. Ever since I was a little kid my routines have remained basically the same. Yes, they've changed over the years due to a need for income but I change as little of my routine as I possibly can. The day I moved out of the orphanage and into this apartment was the first and only time I ever moved. The furniture is the same as it was the day I moved in, albeit a bit more worn. I keep my dishes in the same cabinets they were in on that first day eleven years ago. I've moved the couch that's against the wall in the living room twice. The first time I moved it to see if I liked it better on the other wall. The second time I moved it back to where it had been. At three in the morning, because the change had made it impossible to sleep.

I compartmentalize my life into three categories. Work, sleep, and eat. I do more of the second than either of the other two, and as little of the third as necessary. With my meager income it's easy to learn to exist on toast, a few canned vegetables and the occasional hamburger.

Work-wise all I have to do is open my laptop. I write stupid articles that I personally can't stand to read. The Five High-End Beauty Products No Woman Should Be Without, Three Tips to Beautiful Hair and Quick Fixes for a Fabulous Summer Bod are just a few. They're featured on websites filled with pictures of gorgeous models and the readers actually believe I look like them. I play to their beliefs and slip in details of a vacation to Cozumel or a weekend spent in a spa. I offer tips on relieving the burn of muscles after a strenuous workout. In other words, I lie my ass off. The most high-end beauty product I own is the three dollar hairbrush I bought at Wal-Mart. I'll never have a fabulous summer bod, not even if I had Jillian Michaels as a trainer. And we won't even talk about my hair.

Sleep is the easiest thing in my life.  It's easiest when I stay on my medication and am able to have happy, uplifting dreams. But even when my dreams are nothing but endless hours of torment that leave me breathless when I awake, sleep comes easily. All I do is turn on some music and close my eyes.

The men that stare back at me from the poster above my bed sing me to sleep every night.

For thirteen years they've been my stronghold, the one tangible thing I can still cling to when the demons threaten to overwhelm me. I've grown up listening to them and watching them and loving them. I know their lyrics; over the years the words have become mantras that I repeat to myself in the darkness. I've never told anyone how much they mean to me because no one would understand.

My name is Dawn Whitney. I'm a depressed lunatic that lies to her readers and hasn't had a real meal in years.

I'm also obsessed with the Backstreet Boys.