Victoria Martin

Canada

Message from Writer

Everyone has a story to tell

FRAGILE: Handle with Care

February 22, 2020

FREE WRITING

1
It was a small thing, Tentative and growing. It started with a look, a glance and an unease for all that I’d known. I wanted to brush it off as nothing. I didn’t want to trust myself, I didn’t want to believe that I was letting myself fall again. It’d been only a couple weeks but I know that my resolve would fold again. It was my second week out of, well hell.More commonly known as rehab. 
I saw myself in my old home mirrors, in my old clothes and I was a ghost among everything I had known. I stuck into my clothes as a ball of glass, all angles and sharp edges, and completely empty. A person built only of reflection. I tried to avoid looking at myself, that was what started this all anyways. I would pinch away parts of myself, things I thought I didn’t need. 
    I had the incredible talent of turning myself into nothing. I could stay completely still and let the world absorb me into its everything. Its easier to ignore the screams downstairs than to find out what they are. I didn’t want those echoes in my head. If I heard them I would know, and knowing is a very dangerous thing.
    I guess I was obsessed with the idea of nothing. Soon my mind wasn’t the only thing slipping away. I started to vacate my body and that, thankfully, was easier. I was never a fan of masticating, of hearing myself digest and exert the effort to eat, to comply with all the conditions attached to it. Eating meant going downstairs and facing whatever shiny new boyfriend Mom had and avoiding his perverted gaze. Anything to remind me of Dad I guess. I would have to engage in combat as I unleashed my exquisite teenage attitude at Mom, or even worse I would make small talk and pretend everything was ok. Ok was all I needed.
Instead, I starved. It was more to prove to myself that I was in control of something. Too much had happened and we never talked about anything, so I chose absolutely nothing. That got me in a lot of trouble, and eventually an ambulance. The months after that was a haze of, I don’t even want to say. Slowly I got better, I guess. I think I just wasn’t as bad. 
Now I’m back in real life. No more birdhouses for me. Would it be odd to say I missed my chains, not actual chains, that's barbaric. I miss my straps and my sedation. I miss the gowns that I floated in as a ghost. The real world is worse, I have to live here. I hope that somehow I find a reason. I hope that it will someday be ok to lose myself again. Maybe I just want everything to be ok.
First peice i'm publishsing from my Writers Craft class <3

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