Second (Celena)
	I've always been one of those people, slightly sociopathical I thought, which of course means I'm anything but.  It's common knowledge that true sociopaths hardly think enough of such things to figure it out.  People like me, however, like to use words like sociopath simply because of the way it feels to have it roll off the tongue.  Sociopath, it's a large word, important. If you actually did fit that description, you'd have a built in title.  Something to be remembered by.  No, I've come across a more appropriate title for myself, psycho somatic, melodramatic, now there's a title.  The only problem being, it can't be said with the same grace and glorification.      When at first I thought of it, I smiled.  It sent a wave of some undistinguishable pleasure through me.  It was the same sensation I got from eating nothing for an entire day.  I did that a few times when I was younger, 12 perhaps.  I felt, special.  I was anorexic, another fine title.  But I couldn't keep it up.  After a while the prospect of being special would drift from my mind and I'd eat gain.  I never felt I was truely fat, nothing I was pre-occupied with anyway.  Funny how long it took me to admit to myself that while I half-heartedly, denied my eating disorder, sending out cleverly unhidden, camouflaged signals for help, that I was actually telling the truth.  I knew I wasn't sick, but not everyone needed to know that.  Being "anorexic" made me happy, not just anyone could accomplish such an aliment, it took self discipline, much more than I had.  Nevertheless it made me tingle, much like Psyco somatic.  But the feeling was out lived.      The difference between discovering you aren't something you wanted to be and finding out what you truly are, is simply, you can't step out of the role.      I didn't want to be anorexic anymore.  I liked food.  And people were getting sick of saying, "You're so naturally slim.  Eat a little more, you can do it."  They only do the sympathetic mother thing for so long.  My experience is about a month.  Without the attention, I was miraculously cured, how circumstantial.  But when I came to grips with my real problem, no body noticed.  There's no point in being special if no one is going to notice.  But one day while paranoia had me frantically diagnosing myself with breast cancer my best friend spat out, "That's all in your head!  Your perectly fine!"      She had noticed my dramatic spells of sickness.  And yet, she wasn't trying to help me, she wasn't cooing at my sensitive flaw.  "Eat a little more, I know you can do it."  she was sick of me.  I left, disgusted and hurt.  That night I tried to convince the illness away, like I had done to the anorexia, schizophrenia, and claustrophobia, before it.  But I couldn't.  I was sick.  After aimlessly searching I had finally found a title that wasn't disposable, one I couldn't rip from my skin, no matter how hard I scratched.  I began to find that with every quiver of uniqueness, every wave of pride, came two three, or as it is now, four surges of desolation much like a full body sob, leading to a bout of depression and a need to isolate.  So I guess if I think of it fully, I'm becoming a bit of an, anti-social, manic-depressive, psycho-somatic, melodramatic wannabe sociopath.      My mother worries about me.  I'm 16 and felling like a 40-year-old suffering from menopause, hot flashes of days when I was happier, younger, but when was that?  For once, the stress wrinkles imprisoning my mother's face don't comfort me.  I'm crying more than her now.  Pathetic, I actually feel the need to pray for myself.  I'm ashamed of the time I wanted to be suicidal.  Now I can't seem to find another way out of this character.
			Chapter 1
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