A Girl in Pieces

This story may be triggering to those who have experienced self-harm or mental health issues. Read with caution. Thank you.

When I look at myself in the mirror I see a sad little girl, cut into pieces, and pasted back together with Elmer’s glue. I carved all my desires and wishes and wants out of myself and threw them out like trash. I see, and have always seen, wasted potential. I could have been beautiful, I could have been confident, I could have been whole and unbroken, and remained that way my entire life. But here I am. As I am. 

I step back and move to the left – mirror. I look around, all around – mirrors. A room of mirrors. Some large, some small, some oblong, some angular, some with trim, others bare. Each one of them reflects an image grotesque and ugly. Painted across the glassy surface is a paper mâché figure, a mosaic of skin and blood. If I stare too long, bile creeps up my throat.

I betrayed myself. Long ago, when my skin was undisturbed like snow freshly fallen, still yet untrodden. What I would do now, to touch her, me. A smooth canvas left unpainted. To glance across my room full of mirrors and see a girl with glass skin looking back at me.

Sometimes, in life, someone punishes you. Whether it is because you have done something or because you simply exist, it doesn’t matter. You are punished, and it leaves a blemish on your once-perfect, untouched surface. And you try to remove it. At first, you poke. Gentle, gentle, not to leave a trace. Then you scratch. Your once pretty nails become claws that rip through flesh. Before you are made aware, you have done more damage than the Punisher. You have dug into yourself and scraped away more than you thought. That moment – that is when you punish yourself. You find a mirror and you stare your creation in the face. Its revolting gore draws you in. You are obsessed with the destruction you have caused. You cannot look away. And at this point, you think:

I hate myself.

And those words ring, long and loud and shrill, through you. Your skin rises in bumps to meet its call. Your eyes water, angry and hot. Your stomach churns and turns and flips over. 

And you rinse and repeat. Over and over.

And then, you end up like me.

I try to think back sometimes, to when it all started. Finding a beginning to something that you have always known, I have found, is impossible. I don’t know exactly what or who turned me into this beast. Perhaps it is lost to time, or my constant sabotage muddled my mind. I only know that once, I wasn’t this way. I can picture it, I can picture me; young, effervescent, glorious, happy. But as soon as she materializes, just as soon does she dissolve into nothingness. 

I want to be content. I want to be content, but this hatred flows through my veins, and it nourishes me. If it was love that flowed through me instead, who would I be? 

Would it heal me? Would my pain and scars and suffering slowly coagulate and paste over and become a scab? Would I scratch it off when it begins to itch, revealing tender, pink skin underneath? 

What if I try to love myself and come to find that I will always look like this? That I will sit here in my mirror room, looking around, feeling hopeful and yet never changing. I know that I will not leave this room until I transform. Metamorphosize. The expectation of failure forms chains that hang heavy on my wrists. It is a hand wrapping around my throat, squeezing me like a tube of toothpaste. My hatred feeds me and keeps me sustained. So, I must stay.

I look into a mirror – a small rectangular mirror with golden trim – and utter the only words I know to be true.

“You’ll never be content,” I say.

The mirror stares back frigid and unfeeling. No sympathy, only truth. I will never be content. I will never be content. The words echo and ricochet off the reflective surfaces and return to pelt me over and over again. They sting me and I flinch. I realize the mirrors whisper those words to me. You’ll never be content, you’ll never be content, you’ll never be content.

I can hear them. Why can I hear them?

You’ll never be content, you’ll never be content, you’ll never –

They speak the words softly at first, gaining speed and strength and volume as they repeat the phrase again and again. The voices overlap, they rise in their off-beat chorus of sound, their punishing song resonating across the room. I whip around and stare them down, no longer noticing my reflection but instead trying to solve the mystery of the Voices. The sound seems to come from everywhere in the room. The mirrors chant and sing and shout, following no rhythm. Torture, this is torture. To have my inner thoughts yelled back at me, to have someone else speak my truth – it feels like a lie. Rage starts to boil inside me and I fear it may bubble over. I could say this to myself one hundred, one thousand, one million times and more, and accept it. Having the Voices tell me what I believe of myself lights a spark inside my heart. I want them to stop. 

“Stop!” I yell, but they continue the repetition.

You’ll never be content, you’ll never be content, you’ll never be content! You’ll never be content.

I breathe in as deep as I can, and scream until my lungs burn red, “Stop! Stop it! Shut UP! SHUT UP!” But still, they persist. My skin begins to itch, and I scratch and scratch. Nothing can distract me from the Voices, they are too loud. They permeate my very being until I am no longer anything but the phrase, you’ll never be content. They are so loud now that the mirrors begin to vibrate and even if I try, I can no longer see my reflection. 

I am now frozen in place. I cannot think, I cannot move. The Voices, unrelenting, scream on and on, stealing my words and using them as ammunition against me. I find myself so angry with them for doing this to me. I don’t deserve this. What have I done to warrant this excruciating agony? 

Nothing, I realize. I have done nothing to deserve this. This thought sparks another, and before I can grasp it, I scream it out loud.

“Yes, I will! I will be content! I will!”

Everything stops. There is a pause. The silence feels louder than the Voices were just a moment ago. 

Then.

The room erupts. The mirrors shatter and explode and fly all around. Reflective glass shards, everywhere. Time feels slower, and I gawk as shrapnel whizzes past me from every direction. I am scared it will hurt me, but every piece narrowly misses my skin before crashing into the adjacent wall. The broken glass glitters and sparkles around me as it is touched by the light. A moment, stretched out before me, forever. It is chaotic and frightening, but somehow it is deeply beautiful. 

With sharp clattering sounds, all the pieces fall to the floor. The room, no longer full of mirrors, finds its peace once more. 

As I glance around the now empty room, I notice there remains only one mirror. It is the one I spoke to – small and rectangular with golden trim. I acknowledge its beauty now that it is the only one left. I slowly step over to it, glass crunching under my shoes. 

As I approach, I get the idea to look at my reflection one last time. 

I reach the mirror, step into view, and look at myself.

And I am whole once again.