My friends list has always seemed to lack like-minded people,

People with similar ideaologies, interests, and internalized conflicts,

So when it came time for Hell to rain down on my life,

For miniscule problems to inflate, condense, mercilessly congeal themselves into impregnable walls before my face,

I was lost.

The frequently thought-out scenes that included hanging, drowning, destroying my body,

Physically and emotionally,

Were my secret, and I was afraid that I might betray myself and tell those mirages--those people who presented themselves to me as true friends, but knew little of me and cared little to find out.

And I was right to fear my own betrayal because I told them, I confessed to them, in a fit of pent-up rage and angst and self-hatred that I could not contain for any longer, 

And they replied to me, in this distressed state of mind,

"It's not that bad," 

So I held onto that thought and said it aloud whenever a new problem would arise,

Whenever my childhood self was betrayed by my teenaged self with the simple act of shoving my finger down my throat, repeatedly and repeatedly, as a method to silence my past self's recitation of the promises I made that included never letting myself hate my body so vehemently, and to silence my present self's recitation of all of the people with better bodies than my own,

Whenever I stole my brother's pocket knife to cut my own flesh, but cowered at the idea and chose to resort to pinching, biting, and stabbing pencils into my skin,

Whenever I lost hope for the future and picked up the habit of becoming a pessimist, and, instead of dreaming of reality, warped my mind and forced myself into my own imagination for more hours of the day than I was able to spare,

Whenever I cried myself to sleep, my throat dry and quaking, my eyes swollen and red, and prayed desperately, urgently, to God for assistance,

Whenever my family made their own little betrayals against me, by spewing words made of poison at me and intensifying the detestation I felt for myself,

Whenever I used food instead of a therapist, ate until I could not physically move, until my breathing came in ragged and struggled spurts,

I whispered, I said, I screamed, to myself

"It's not that bad,"

Until I could not bother to pretend any longer, until I was forced into confession unless I preferred self-demolition, until I came to the conclusion that it was that bad,

Did I re-consult my dearest, truest friends.

And unto me they bore their gospel, their almighty words of redemption, their advice that was unmatched,

"It's not that bad."