One evening last week my daughter peeked into my bedroom just before bed to share that she's been participating in a creative writing lesson each day and would like to share her latest installment. As parents sometimes do, I agreed with a twinge of regret knowing this story could be quite lengthy and likely a little far-fetched. Hence...creative. My Lib...she takes creativity to a whole new level.
But as she began reading aloud, I realized this wasn't her typical fantasy-vampire-dragon-laden dreamscape. No...this was much more. Her words heightened all my senses and she instantly drew me in to the scene...the sounds, the colors, the textures. While the story was short, it left her dad and me speechless. Which doesn't happen often. When dad actually stops playing Madden because he's so overcome with the quality of his 11 year old daughter's writing, you know it's good stuff. I promise to post the first story she shared with us but today...today I must share her most recent tale.
I assure you, I've already talked at length with her about her emotional state...that this is not in fact a reflection of her own personal feelings. She's actually a quite healthy, social, involved kiddo who happens to have an amazing imagination:
I glared at myself in the mirror. I was weak, useless. I gave in too quickly. And I was going to die for it. It all started with that text, or that look, or even that word. And that last touch, it was bone chilling. But I'd never feel that touch again. Not as long as a miracle happened. My palms were shaky, but I looked down anyways. Though my vision was blurred from tears, I could see the sink covered with the stain of my pain. The red ghosts from my past seeping through the small gashes rather quickly. I did this, but why?
I gripped the polished stone counter and forced myself to stand up, even when my body told me to lie down and accept what I've brought on myself. But no, I chose to force my gaze through the mirror, looking at the pain I've felt for so long. My eyes were tired and weary from many nights of no sleep. My skin was many shades of blue and purple from the bruises I try to hide as my parents greet me from school. My stomach was small and tight from telling myself to resist the taste, the feel of having something to fill me. But my face, my face was the worst of all. My cheeks were always flushed from the embarrassment I felt just being myself. Being ashamed of by the only people that I had for comfort. My lashes were clumped from the tears that streaked my face everyday because of the sadness and regret that started when I made one small mistake. When no one forgave me. And my smile hid the pain and sorrow I've had deep inside since the day it started.
And my wrists, they felt it most. After every thought, after every song, after everything, they were opened, and I watched myself in disgust.
Everything was a blur now. If it was because of my tears or blood loss I wasn't sure. But I couldn't see very well. I hit the door with a thud and faintly heard my mom call my name. I slumped down against the wall and began to cry. I cried and cried waiting for the pain to be over. I-I just...I should've gotten help...