I have never been so scared of myself in my entire life.
After a half hour or one hour or two hours or three hours of crying and drifting in and out of sleep with my face against the uncomfortable wet tears on my pillow, I knew I needed to get out sometime. What I always tell myself is that “the tears have to stop eventually.” And I’m right. Each time and every time.
I figured this aspect had to apply now, like it always does. I allowed myself to continue to cry, as I threw away my used tissues and folded my blankets. But I refused to sob anymore. A shower should’ve help.
It didn’t.
It was about fifteen or twenty or thirty minutes ago, but it feels like a blur.
This is all I remember.
Staring at my reflection. Although my sight was blurry from the tears in my eyes, I felt as though I was seeing a clear image of my true self. Bloodshot eyes with tears that never stopped. My hands grabbing my hair and tugging it hard, but the pain in my scalp was in the back of my mind. My cheeks wet and red. My mouth formed in the most disgusting frown with just as disgusting noises escaping from it, despite how hard I tried to restrain myself.
“How could anyone love you?” I thought as I stared at the pathetic girl who looked like a complete stranger to me, for I am used to seeing a big smile with eyes lit up with happiness.
I began to take my clothes off. I didn’t want to turn my head to look at the full body mirror. But I did.
I wanted to scream but I couldn’t. No, no one can know that I’m broken. Empty. Everyone needs to think that I’m just taking a shower. That’s it. Nothing more.
I screamed in my mind and my head started pounding. Then everything became blurry. My hands were moving on their own. They wanted – no, needed – to rip off the extra skin I shouldn’t have.
And then I stopped. I finally felt the burning on my thighs and stomach. The red marks on my skin are still tingling as I type this. They haven’t faded.
I didn’t go further than the scratches. No blood, none of that.
But here’s the terrifying part: I wanted to.
I felt as though I was consumed. Consumed by something dark. Something I had hidden so well, so damn well, for so long. Something that no one, not even myself, existed in my mind. Like doom.
I wiped my tears and stepped into the shower. It should’ve helped.
It didn’t.
The tears and sobs were back. But at least the noises of the shower concealed them.
I faced the shower head to wash away my tears. But it was difficult to breathe considering I was still sobbing.
I was drowning.
Drowning in my sorrow. Drowning in my tears. Drowning in the water. Drowning in my darkness.
At this point, I’m barely breathing. I can pull away, but I don’t.
I wanted to drown.
I vaguely heard a knock on the door, but it didn’t phase me. But something did make me stop and pull back.
It was my sister’s voice.
She was saying things, but I couldn’t hear her. But that was all I needed. It’s cliche, but memories with my family and friends flashed before my eyes in the span of a couple seconds.
What was I doing?
How lucky and blessed am I to have such a supportive family and group of friends. A particular thought crossed my mind. The thought was that the phrase, “Angel, why didn’t you just call me? Or even text?” was said by not one, but three or four or five of my friends when I had bluntly told them what had happened to me fifteen days ago.
That’s my problem. I can’t talk about it. I can’t bring myself to talk about it with anyone.
Because that means I’m accepting it’s over.
That this isn’t some rough patch we can fix like we always do. That this isn’t a nightmare that I so badly want to wake up from. That half of me is no longer there. That my everything has become nothing.
That he’s gone.
