There is a little girl that sits in the very darkest corner of my soul. She waits, eyes red and puffy with tears, heart breaking, she’s tattered, scarred, and broken. She’s waiting to be heard. She’s waiting to be rescued or to gain the strength to rescue herself. She refuses to give up, but she’s too exhausted to fight. So she sits. She cries. She even screams sometimes. She screams until her throat is raw. When that happens she just sits with her pain. In silence.
Her once beautiful, flowing, shining hair has lost it’s sheen and sits atop her head, brittle and lifeless. Her skin is pale and appears thin as paper. If you could see her you would wonder how she’s even alive. She’s neglected, abused, tortured, and broken. But her spirit, her true essence is not and will not be broken.
This girl is all my self loathing and hate put into one place. Whenever a friend betrays or hurts me, whenever someone pisses me off, whenever I am otherwise verbally/emotionally/mentally attacked or lashed out at I take out my hate and anger on her. I beat her, cut her, spit on her, kick her till she’s down then I kick her some more. I pour all of my hate into her. All of my frustrations and anger. The only problem is, this girl is me. When I treat her this way I feel good for the moment, but in the long run all it does is hurt me more. And it sits there, rotting, festering, oozing, and stinking until I can not ignore it anymore.
I’ve forgotten how to nurture her. It’s just so damn easy to kick her down. So easy to tell her how stupid she is. How she doesn’t deserve to live. It’s so easy to judge her. How she just sits there, doing nothing but sobbing. I watch her sob silently in the darkness and the longer I look the more horrified I become. I’m not watching someone else, I’m looking at my own sobbing face in the mirror. I want to run away so bad, but my legs won’t move. My entire body shakes with anger and sadness.
Realizing how I’ve treated myself has done little to help me change these old habits. I’ve been doing better at taking care of myself, but I’m not perfect. This battle is a lot harder to fight than I ever thought it would be. Who knew how difficult loving yourself could be?