The Monster

She is pacing steady and harmlessly along the perimeter of our manufactured pond just outside my home. The sky is so ominous with a deep winter hue. I can see her from the window. I hide behind my computer, pretending I have not seen her there. She distracts herself by throwing rocks along the frozen surface, keeping suspicions low and uneventful. Her movements are calculated and very intentional. I don't know if she is waiting to see if I will walk out the door or when to invite herself over. Her timing has always been at my worst conveniences, this time being no different.

She has always been with me since we were children. She has seen me in my best and worst. When we were younger, we were closer. We spent a lot of time with each other and got into dramatic and messy situations. As we grew older, I realized our relationship was ethically unhealthy. She did not respect my boundaries or even my happiness. Over many years I made slight changes to safely but effectively distance myself from her. We have talked about this, how she and I are better without one another. I have asked her kindly to not come back to see me. But it will always be her nature to disrespect me.

My husband is sitting in the dining room working on his projects. It makes me smile to see him so passionate about his works. He is content but absent. We are under financial stress again. That, too, is no stranger to my life. Our frustrations are building and compounding, faster within myself than him, I suppose. My poor management of stress is a catalyst for my labile behaviors. And now, with her outside, my patience is on borrowed time.

My mother is sitting in our living room, contemplating solutions to our problems. She starts asking about how my husband and I are doing, offering her unwanted advice. Her input and perspective on the matter aggravate my own negativity. I am guilty of putting up walls and blinders against her. Like a spectator to my own actions, I watch as I bury my emotions, reasoning, and sensibility into a grave inside my mind. This level of anxiety feels tangible and concrete and natural, like a rock in my hands. She comforts me and encourages me this is only temporary. But the secret I never tell is everything with our finances is my fault.

The doorbell rings. I know that I can and should ignore the chimes. Giving in is a mistake I always regret. But, I answer anyways, aggressively. My time for politeness and patience has now expired. Her behaviors are passive. I can see that her self-invitation will not end at a recorded Hello. Without my greeting, she pushes herself past my shoulders and into the entryway. My husband notices her and stands up. He is more than just acquaintances with her. With his voice stern and projected, he asks her to leave. Before she even replies, I exit the room. I find myself wanting no part in this, and I excuse myself to my bedroom.

Soon after I close my door and turn off the lights, I hear her voice get louder. Her words are unmuffled, precise, and clear like she is beside me. In a distinct echo, I hear glass breaking. My dog's feet click quickly as they run from the room. I recognize that I don't have my phone with me. I'm afraid if I leave, she will hurt me. I suddenly become terrified and upset. I am helpless to protect my mother and husband from her. I bury my face in my hands. I find that I am no longer consolable, and I become animated in tears and distraught. She starts yelling even louder; her words volatile and condescending.

I can hear her voice get even louder and piercing. She continues to scream at my family as she moves closer to my room. She picks the bedroom door open with the key kept at the top of the doorframe. She opens the door unexpectedly slow, and she stares at me. My eyes are glossy, red, and swollen. There is complete silence. She leans down to me, her breath at my cheeks, and she whispers, "Look at what you've done, you Monster." I clench my fist and scream with my eyes forceable closed. I beat my fist against my head, my arms, my chest. I unleash all of myself into myself until my skin begins to pulsate with pain.

I did it. Again. I stumble in a self-loathing stupor back into the living room. I feel empty, hollow, remorseful, guilty. My husband is standing in the corner of the room, fearful and disappointed. I can see there is no sympathy in his eyes. I don't expect that from him. My mother is speechless, her body secured and protected in the arms of my husband. Her maternal love is noticeable but is shadowed in fear. I pick up the candle and pieces of glass off the floor. The hot wax has cooled on the cabinet and floors. I don't speak a word to them or even myself. I move about my home cleaning up the physical remnants of the mess I had made. The only answer I can give is to leave, and I see myself to the door. I shake my head and begin to cry. "I need help," I beg myself.

I walk past the boundaries of my property to the pond. The air is crisp and frosted. The glass at the surface is perfect without error. It is nearly invisible and black. The garbage bag is beside me, untied. The breeze is sharp against my unprotected skin. I sit there at the shore, seeking punishment from my world. I don't feel her anymore, only her consequences. I can feel the lesions she left on my character. She repeatedly damages who I am and exploits the parts of me I never wanted to have. And here I am again, disarmed and weak, emotionally exposed.

In everything I feel and everything I never want to be, I look out onto the water. I take a rock and hold it in my hands. I speak onto it, transferring off me the self-destructive pain, my anger, anxieties, worries. I pray. I unfold every emotion. As I finish, I extend my arm back over my shoulder and throw the rock just as hard as my power be. As it ricochets off the surface of the water, I can hear the spiderweb cracks and ice cripple as it moves outward. It brings a subtle grin to my face, a new representation of hope and release from my own internal monster. I take this feeling with me, stepping forward and above this part of my life. I do not know how I will get better for myself and everyone in my life. Still, I know that neglecting any accountability in myself only hurts those I love. I am desperate for help. Mental illness will continue to destroy me without it until I am nothing left other than a potential gesture of who I know I could be. I cannot afford to allow this ice to get any thicker over me.