Girl in the Mirror

I could’ve sworn I was sitting in the middle of her murder scene. Her blood painted the marble bathroom tiles and the pills were scattered around like they were party confetti. I watched the cold blade run across her thighs like her skin was a sheet of ice and the blade was just skating along as it pleased. She promised that she was okay and that she had it under control, but her eyes told a different story. I could’ve taken one look at her and known that she wasn’t okay. Her makeup ran down her face, her hair looked like a tropical storm had plowed through it, her voice was raspy and shaky like she’d been crying and screaming all day. She was wearing a tank top and underwear – exposing the bruises that cover her body. I watched as her legs shake while she struggled to stand up off the tile. As she walked out of the bathroom, I caught a glimpse of her in the mirror. That is when I realized that I no longer knew the girl in the mirror.

“Why? Why me?” I asked my reflection, “What did I do to deserve this? Why am I even here anymore? Does anyone want me here anymore?” I began to question everything about my life, even my own existence. I begged my reflection for answers, but instead she stood there still as a statue, just staring at me with a blank and empty expression. She needed saving but I didn’t know how to save her. I slowly walked away from her to grab some band aids and the softest tissues I could find. I then walked back and sat myself down on the cold bathroom tile. As I dabbed the tissues on the fresh cuts, I allowed a few more tears to run down my face. I was no longer crying because of anger, or emotional hurt, or even physical pain. Instead, these tears ran because of guilt. I felt guilty because I had allowed myself to get this out of control. I allowed my demons to take over. The most devastating part of it all is I lost who I was. As I finished cleaning myself up, I stopped to one last look at the girl in the mirror. She was such a mess. I didn’t know how to stop blaming her for the night she drank too much and never reported her rapist to the police. I didn’t know how to stop blaming her for getting into a relationship shortly after and allowing him to abuse her for months on end. I didn’t know how to tell her that it was going to be okay, because I wasn’t sure that it ever would be. I didn’t know how I’d pull us through this, but I was determined to stop the pain I felt.

The next morning, I woke up feeling uneasy about the eternal fight that laid ahead of me. I knew that this would be the hardest, most important, and most emotional fight of my life. Forcing myself out of bed, I later found myself dragging my feet down the crowded hallways with my peers. None of them knew the pain I was feeling. None of them would’ve understood or believed what hell I was living. I was the junior who recently broke up with her boyfriend because he was cheating. To them, that’s the only trauma that I experienced. We were playing bumper cars with our bodies; just trying to get to our final class of the day. A few long minutes later the final bell rang to dismiss us. As I got home, I knew that I needed to start fresh and create a change. So, I grabbed all the blades, pills, his sweatshirts, pictures of us, and anything else that could possibly trigger another episode. I’d be lying if I said that I didn’t hesitate when the pills and blades laid still in my hands. I sat there, motionless, looking at the pills in one hand and the blades in the other. I thought about the long nights I spent in the hospitals due to the damage his fist caused, the nights I laid in bed staring at my ceiling, and the nights I allowed my inner demons to take over. I forced myself to walk to the trash and throw it all away. I sat there in silence as I watched it all fall into the trash.

As the days went on, I knew that I had to talk to someone. The only people I could trust were my family. Yet, I couldn’t explain how broken and shattered their baby girl was. I couldn’t look my brothers in their eyes and explain that a guy they once adored was the reason I came home with bruises. I couldn’t watch as a piece of my father’s heart broke while he stares off into a distance and then quickly become engulfed with rage. I was afraid of the judgment and stares from my peers when the news would break. I was mostly afraid of people telling me it was going to be okay, because for so long nothing had been okay, and nobody could truly knew if it ever would be.

There were days where I didn’t want to get out of bed; I wanted to run away from society. Some nights I’d stay up crying and begging God for answers. Begging Him to explain how being raped and abused could’ve been a part of this great plan He promises He has for me. I’d beg Him to do what I was too weak to do and just end it all. On the nights that I wasn’t crying, I was staring at my ceiling. I’d watch as the fan would endlessly spin around. My mind was so tired and overwhelmed on these nights that I wouldn’t be thinking about anything. I would just sit there and watch as the world continued to go on while I sat there motionless. My cat would be peacefully asleep, I’d watch as car lights beamed through my window as they drove by, my brothers could be heard playing their video games, and everything seemed so calm. It was so peaceful because, in my world, time was standing still. I wasn’t crying or thinking. I wasn’t being forced to learn or to work. For a few short hours, I felt freed and relaxed.

It all slowly got easier. Each day tended to be easier than the last, but some nights I felt like the girl sitting on that bathroom floor. To this day, I still blame myself for being raped 4 years ago. I still blame myself for loving a man who once abused me. I mostly blame myself for allowing my inner demons to swallow me whole. I realize that I cannot be held accountable for the actions of others. Yet, every night I’ll spend a few moments in bed thinking about the what ifs. What if I didn’t drink too much? What if I didn’t go to that party? What if I walked away the first time that his fist crashed into me? What if I went to the cops? What if I never allowed my demons to take control?

This mental health battle is a never-ending battle. Fighting for my sanity and recovery by myself has taught me some of the greatest lessons in my life. I’ve learned that it is okay to ask for help when you’re hurting and don’t think you can continue with life. I’ve also learned that it is okay to not be okay, I am more than my mental illness, and that all my emotions are valid. The most important lesson of them all is that I am not perfect, but I am worth fighting for.