That´s me, I say to Paris.I´m the girl who is lost in space, the girl who is disappearing always, forever fading away and receiding farther and farther into the background. Just like the Chesire cat, someday I will suddenly leave but the artificial warmth of my smile, that phony, clownish curve, the kind you see on miserable sad people and villain in Disney movies , will remain behind as an ironic remnant. I am the girl you see in the photograph of some party someplace or some picnic in the park, the one who looks so vibrant and shimmery, but who does in fact soon going to be gone.
Oh Paris, I cry some more. No one is ever going to love me that way because I´m so awful and all I ever do is cry and get depressed.
If I were another person, I go on, I wouldn´t want to deal with me. I don´t want to deal with me. It´s so hopeless. I want out of this life. I really do. I keep thinking if I could just get a grip on myself, I could be allright again. I keep thinking that I´m driving myself crazy, but I swear, I swear to God, I have no control. It´s so awful. It´s like demons have taken over my mind. And nobody believes me. Everubody thinks I could be better if I wanted to. But I can´t be the old Lizzy anymore. I can´t be myself anymore. I mean, actually, I am being myself right now, and it´s so horible.
Wurtzel, Elizabeth. Prozac Nation.