in Body Image, Fiction 883 Words

Enough

Stride by sivel120001 via DeviantArt.com
Stride by sivel120001 via DeviantArt.com

(Originally posted November 2014)

My fingers press against the cold glass causing the area just around them to fog from my warmth. I’d love to break this glass that tells me I’m not pretty enough, sexy enough, skinny enough… I’d love to break it and cut away this disgusting flesh that makes me feel like I’m not enough. I’d love to bleed away all these feelings of hatred and disgust. I’d like to feel the pain of that instead of the useless pain of self abhorrence.

I stare hard at that bitch who screams inside my head that I’m ugly and useless. I can’t stand her voice, it feels like a hammer breaking bones inside my skull. I can’t listen to her for another single minute.

I press harder on the glass and focus every ounce of my magic on those points of contact. I know I might break the mirror, but the sound of that might be welcome compared to the hurtful abuse going on inside my skull. I push harder and harder until I suddenly begin to feel my fingers permeating the membrane of this plane.

My reflection sees and laughs, taking on that awful voice. “Whatcha gonna do, baby doll? Do you think you can come through here and shut me up? God, you are dense.”

I wonder if I’m strong enough. Can I truly breech reality? Can I go through this glass? Is this possible?

Her abuse begins anew, from the other side of that force field, and I don’t even care if this is insane and I’ve had some sort of mental break. I am going to shut her up. I am going to make her stop or I’m going to kill her.

My arm slips in and she backs up, laughing harder until my grip finds her wrist and I pull, hard.

Her face slams into the glass, and I find this incredibly amusing, since my arm is literally reaching through this completely impermeable surface. I do it again twice, giggling at the shock in her expression. She tries to yank her hand from my grasp, but only succeeds in pulling me further in. I lift my other hand to brace myself from smacking my own face on the glass, but then those fingers begin to slip through the surface as well.

I yank her toward me again, and punch her hard in the face. She bounces back, but not out of my grip, and blood begins to gush from her nose. It was a surprisingly square hit, given the awkwardness of this fight, but I do it again before she recovers her wit and starts to fight me.

She captures both of my hands and yanks me into the glass, but it is not solid for me, and my upper body slips into the reflection as if it were another room.

At this point, I realize I am clearly crazy and decide to just pummel that wicked whore to death on the other side. As I lunge toward her, she lands a good punch to my throat, knocking the wind out of me, and I fall back into my own bathroom, wheezing and lifting my bloody hand to my throat. I can smell the acrid tinge and wonder for a moment if this might actually be real. Am I fighting the bitch in the mirror.

I stand and stare at her, blood pouring from her broken nose down her chin onto my favorite blouse. “You’re ruining my shirt.”

The shock in her eyes is disarming, as she stares at my chest, and when I look down, it is clear why. I am bleeding too, and I reach up to feel my own broken nose, even though she never landed a punch anywhere but my neck. Realization dawns on us both, as she too is holding her own throat and wheezing. If we fight each other long enough, I will rip apart.

I stand and wonder if I could do that. Kill myself to silence the hate. Cause myself the greatest pain in order to end all pain.

I lean down against the vanity on my elbows and revel in the silence of her contemplating my ability to end my own life in order to end her. My blood drips into the sink but then suddenly stops, and as I stand upright and look at my reflection again, I see that nothing has happened. It wasn’t real. But one tiny drop of blood remains, on the edge of the sink, daunting me.

A reminder? I can beat myself senseless over the reflection in the mirror. I can beat myself to death, if I’m not careful.

I look again at the girl in that glass. A sight that normally fills me with ‘not enoughs’. Because I will forever be not pretty enough or sexy enough or thin enough or smart enough or sweet enough or good enough… This time, the girl I see is just enough.

Enough to keep me from pummeling myself to death.

That girl in the reflection, that girl who plenty of people DO think is enough… Maybe it’s time she accepted that perfection is unattainable. And that today, at least today, I am enough.

34 thoughts on “Enough”

  4. So many people don’t realize that when you are a self-defeatist, you quit before you have given yourself an opportunity for success. Success breeds success. If you don’t allow yourself to go there — your car has just stalled. It’s an endless cycle, where no one wins.

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    1. This wasn’t about quitting, though, dievca. Though, I suppose that is the amazing thing about writing. Your words can mean different things to different people. Here’s to making sure the car keeps running.

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      1. I guess I took it as if you are too busy beating yourself up, you are defeating yourself and will never get anything done –I’m not pretty enough to do this, I’m not smart enough to do this, etc. and then it doesn’t get done. That is where I went. Hmmm, must have things on my mind. XO

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  5. Wow… Been here so many times.

    I read a book recently that talked about how thoughts become things… Negative thoughts will breed negative traits and reactions. The reverse and more importantly the same is true for positive thoughts and thinking.

    Acceptance is a positive start. 🙂

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  8. An intense post… and I was relieved at how you ended it. Perfection is completely unattainable. It may be outrageously corny to say, but I think we’re amazing in our own ways. I believe the problem comes in comparing ourselves to mass media “ideals.” It’s too bad more well-rounded people are considered as ideals. People who have reasonable things to say. People who don’t look like they go to the gym 10 hours every day.

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    1. Agreed, all of it. Unfortunately, even without media, we all still have bad days where the reflection in the mirror is just unacceptable. Often, those are the days we hate ourselves for other reasons, first.

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      1. Oh, I didn’t mean to presume that we don’t have bad days — for they certainly pop up. And those are days I just try to slog through until it’s time to read in bed 🙂

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  12. Okay… this is awesome… and I can see why Hastywords is drawn to you… but honestly, you two might actually spiral into a black hole that is hard to climb back out of… I will say the same thing I say to her… make sure you balance the darkness with some light… please…

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  18. It is amazing how a mirror can reflect what’s inside our heads. Wonderful description of what many of us struggle with. I still have trouble with photos as well. Great work!

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  19. I left your blog open for this post to “lay down” in my mind for a bit.

    You have no idea how amazing this writing is and how amazingly terrible is the fact that you can write this kind of stuff. Maybe you do. You probably do.
    I don’t know what else to say than come over to my place, I am all positive and stuff, I am going up and I would love company… Anyone who wishes to come with me. But the bitch is staying in the mirror, we don’t need bitches. 😉

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