“My self-loathing and self-worthlessness, made my confused and adolescent self exceptionally easy prey for users and abusers. It took a whole lot of losing myself, to become who I am today. Who is simply not.” – Mi Zi
Fiction. Based on a true set of demons.
By Bry LeBerthon
This journal entry is inspired by true events. Some of the characters, names, businesses, incidents, and certain locations and events have been fictionalized for dramatic purposes. Any similarity to the name, character or history of any person is entirely coincidental and unintentional.
Trigger Warning: our program often motivates people to discuss their trauma. If you find yourself feeling overwhelmed, please, take a step back to address emotional flashbacks and trauma before continuing to push yourself. If you are experiencing a medical emergency, call 911 or the National Suicide Hotline at (1-800) 273-8255.
You would never say it aloud,
even in a emptiest of rooms at the lowest of whispers,
even only to yourself,
but you live every day- every waking hour- in fear of who you’ll see in the mirror next.
And you know it.
The weight of that fear bears down on you heavily.
Once, you looked at yourself in the mirror, and saw only you- someone beautiful, smart, imaginative, kind. Innocent. Someone you loved.
You wonder who you will see instead today.
Maybe today it will be a ghoul of mud and clay, melting and oozing over itself, molded by its creator’s stony hands. It is lazy, ignorant. A freeloader. Its genius is hidden by its anxieties, rendering unspoken and unrealized ideas worthless. Loathed by all, especially you.
Maybe it’ll be a whore. A succubus, a nobody. Sloppy seconds, passed around, lacking self respect. Lusting over lovers who cursed it to be what it is, yearning for that which condemned it to existence. Hedonistic, self-absorbed. Ugly, and aware of it. Just an object, really, not that it minds. As long as it is desired, it is satisfied.
Or maybe one of hundreds of others. Monsters, each and every one- you have seen them all.
At any one of their beastly roars, you are taken back to the moments they were stripped of what made them human. You are taken back to people and places you once knew. Some of them you hate, and the thought of them alone fills you with rage. Most of them you still love. You desire their acceptance and their compassion. You want them to see you for who you are.
You wonder, sometimes, what it would be like to let your demons wander in the sun instead of watching them always fighting viciously behind the mirror’s glassy surface. If they would bloom like flowers towards the sun, climbing towards the light despite thorns and gnarled roots. If they were capable of anything besides rotting with one another.
But you fear the expected. Your probable fate. You cower in the face of failure,
the possibility of being devoured,
and turn your back on the decrepit.
You find, to your disgust and perhaps relief, that you have too strong of a sense of self-preservation to smash the mirror.