Memoir by alarminglytired
CW: mentions of self-harm
I was twelve when the sterile shine of bathroom tiles became my reluctant canvas. I would crouch there, scrubbing furiously, the bristles of the brush scraping against the tiles as if I could erase the evidence of my internal struggles. Each stroke was a desperate attempt to cleanse not just the floor, but my soul—a futile effort to wash away the whispers of pain that echoed louder than any confession I could muster.
“I have to make it spotless,” I would mumble to myself, my voice barely rising above the sound of running water. “If it’s clean, maybe I can pretend everything is okay.” I could hear my mother’s soft footsteps in the hall, oblivious to the tempest that brewed within me. It was easier to hide, to craft a façade of normalcy than to let anyone in.
By thirteen, I became a master of deception, cloaking my scars under layers of feigned laughter and bright smiles. “Look at me!” I would shout, a little too loudly during lunch with my friends, their giggles like bubbles rising in the air, masking the heaviness in my chest. Inside, I felt like a marionette, strings pulled taut by secrets. I learned how to laugh without joy, how to nod at conversations while my mind drifted into darker territories, the shadows creeping ever closer.
One afternoon, while flicking through channels, I caught a glimpse of my reflection in the TV screen—eyes that seemed too old for my thirteen years, the corners of my mouth pulling upward when I wanted to cry. “What’s wrong with you?” I whispered, the question lingering like smoke in the air. It was a reminder that I was losing the battle, but even so, I hid it behind a mask of youthful exuberance.
Seventeen arrived with an undeniable weight, a heavy stone dropped into the pit of my stomach. I stood at the edge of my own existence, watching as those old habits slithered back, like shadows stalking me through the dimly lit hallways of my mind. “You think you’re free?” they seemed to taunt, whispering sweet nothings that felt all too familiar. I’d glance at my reflection in the mirror, the pale lines etched into my skin whispering tales of battles fought in silence. “You’re not broken; you’re just… healing,” I would repeat, though sometimes, I didn’t believe it.
Four years later, and the yearning flickered within me once again, like a candle’s flame flickering in a gust of wind. “You’re still alive,” I reminded myself as I traced the scars with trembling fingers, imagining reopening them, the rush of crimson staining my skin, a vivid splash against the monochrome of my existence. “But at what cost?” I questioned, feeling that old dread coil around my stomach, as if reminding me of the fear in strangers’ eyes when they glimpsed the truth beneath my skin.
“Just hold on,” I whispered to myself, the words barely escaping my lips as I stood there, caught between the past and the present. The pull of the blade was strong, an old friend hidden among forgotten books, gleaming with a pristine promise. “You know what relief feels like,” it seemed to say, seducing me with the illusion of escape. I could see it, beautiful and terrible, glinting like a siren’s call.
But at that moment, I knew what I had to do. “No,” I said firmly, shaking my head as if to dispel the dark thoughts. I walked towards the bathroom, every step heavy with resolve, my heart pounding in my chest.
With a swift motion, I threw it away, severing the thread that bound me to that dark past. A small victory, perhaps, but a powerful one. “Sometimes, the most genuine act of rebellion is choosing to be whole,” I reminded myself, feeling the weight begin to lift. Here, in this moment, I was not broken; I was healing. I stood before the mirror, and for the first time in a long while, I dared to smile, the reflection staring back at me filled with hope—a fragile but real thing. I am not broken, I am healing.
