Too

11.39 p.m.:

My family pulled me out of bed and into the sunshine. I was happy to be with them, but it scared me. I was happy the way people eat after a famine, the way someone wandering out of a desert would gorge on water if only they could. My happiness was manic and desperate, stocking up on smiles to see me through the night.
The sky was too blue and the music was too loud and I ate too, too much and even though I wasn't hungry I kept cutting and slicing and shoveling into my mouth. Because I wanted so badly to be full.
Time is marching past and I'm lying in my floral duvet, watching my sad row of Christmas socks hang their droopy heads because they, too, are out of season and full of holes and just can't be bothered anymore.
I'm convinced my friends hate me and that even my family are beginning to get bored of me. "When will she get better?" they must be thinking. "She can't be like this forever. When is she going to grow up, push past this, get over it?"
I can't be bothered to write. I'm getting no closer to the things I'm really trying to say.