You destroy yourself to gain the attention you wouldn't otherwise you had been deemed "ordinary".
I can tell you, right now, that before all of this, you had been extra "ordinary" and that's okay.
but you think being tagged with this descriptor is the end of the world for you, so you starve yourself and drink whatever you can get your hands on.
you travel the places you said you hate only to have a story to tell.
I can't count the times I've heard the sadness and anger in your voice each time you told these stories, not that you were angry,
and sad with the people that you were telling these tales of magnificent travels,
but that you were angry with yourself, and sad that you aren't who you are.
you've hurt yourself so that now you're broken and you've grown used to the anxiety and sadness that consumes you at night when you sleep in the bed that holds all your fears.
"I enjoy this," you tell yourself as your thoughts become mingled and frustrating. "I am who I am."