I am a being, I can touch, I can smell, I can hear, I can feel. I have a heart which beats, invariably. I can always count on that slow steadfast rhythm. In nearly every physical way, I am no different than the average girl my age. I still have every body part and organ, excluding my tonsils, which happened to be removed at the immature age of five. I am completely healthy, or so my doctor says, though on many occasions I have yet to believe it. Is it just me? I suppose you could call me a hypochondriac. Name any disease, at some point in my life, the chances are good that I led myself to believe I had suffered from that particular ailment. By doing so, I feel awkward, because in the end, I know that such wasn't the case. I feel odd, why do I perceive myself to be a victim of such a situation? I know I am not alone, because if I were, there wouldn't be a name for it. I'm pretty sure that it isn't a normal predicament to be in, but if it isn't, than how come such a large portion of the population suffers from it? How do you perceive a normal state of being? Must you cease to suffer from even a single psychological disorder? Is that the way normal is defined now? I am, making sure to note that normal and average are two completely different circumstances and probably will never even come close to being similar in any way.

One of the few physical things which do set me apart from my peers, are my scars. Hundreds of them, covering my arms, my legs, my shoulders, my hands. No matter how hard I try to hide them, they will always show. Just screaming to all, pity me, or shy away. This I know is but normal nor average. I am constantly told I am not the only one, that there are others. But it seems that everywhere in which I turn, I am alone. I see no scars, I see no bandages, with one exception, and all others suffering from similar symptoms of which I have met, have all been acquainted in the psychiatric ward. The single exception, a person, of whom I met through extra-curricular activities. But, like most, soon after her downfall she seemed to shy away, and eventually drop out. Is that where they all are? The people like me? Do they all build a wall and separate themselves from society, seeking sanctuary in slumber? Surely, not everyone would do that. I have come out of hiding, and so will they, in due time, but why do I still not see? Why are there no scars? There must have been a least a small handful who have shown their faces, or their battle wounds, for that matter, but still, I cease to find.