The Mirror
The Mirror mental illness stories
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katmonika
katmonikaInner Most Thoughts and Inspirations
Autoplay OFF  •  a year ago
Is it possible to love yourself, when your reflection is what you fear the most?

The Mirror

Everything is dark. I say that, but I can still see my outline reflected back at me, blacker than the emptiness surrounding me. I watch my face.

I trace it, its curves and dips, the way the flesh stretches across the bones underneath like taut plastic.

I follow the lines that lead down to my neck, my collarbone, my chest, all the way back up to my own piercing gaze.

I gently, slowly lift my hand through the darkness and touch the roots of my hair. I thread my fingers through the long curls until they flutter back down against my shoulders.

My fingers trace the bridge of my nose. They caress the bones of my cheek and trace the soft curves of my lips like a gentle lover.

I leave them resting there for a moment that turns into minutes.

Everything is silent. Everything is dark. It's the middle of the night. I am alone in the bathroom. The tiles are cold against my feet. The sink burns like ice against my palm.

The mirror mocks me.

I hate it.

I grit my teeth. The skin beneath my fingers becomes poisoned. Tainted. Ugly.

I grip my hair and pull it taut so that my scalp burns. The scissors move on their own, like a violinist running his bow across the strings.

The hair falls around my feet like a curtain revealing the truth to a false reality. Hot tears are streaming down my skin, blurring my reflection.

With each clip of the scissors, one thought repeats in time:

I hate it. I hate it. I hate it. I hate it.

I lay them down on the sink and grip the edge. I'm breathing heavily, panting in time to the cricket outside the window.

My eyes slowly lift to the mirror's cold surface.

Silence. Pain. So much pain.

I weakly lift my hand and rest it against the icy glass.

No.

My breath quickens. My knees give out and I slide to the floor. I can't move.

It was supposed to work. I thought it would work. Why didn't it work.

All my life, the mirror has hated me and I have hated it back. It has shown me what I fear the most. It has shown me myself. My face. My body. My disgustingly ugly self.

I thought if I cut my hair, it would change. I thought the mirror would love me. I thought I would finally love myself. I thought it would finally think I'm worth something.

But it didn't.

No.

Now, it's worse.

I'm worse.

Now, no one, not even myself, will ever love me.

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