“Mirror, mirror on the wall…” I whispered, standing alone in front of the mirror in my room, dressed in nothing but my underwear. My eyes welled with tears and I started to sob. I was staring at the floor, too ashamed and scared to look up – afraid of what I’d see staring back at me through the glass. I slowly lifted my head to see ‘her’ in the mirror; everyday, without fail, ‘she’d’ be there to laugh at me through my reflection. For where others would see nothing but an emaciated youth I could see a smug creature, not unlike an elephant in size and so cruel as to take pleasure from every tear I cried. Everyday I went through this ritual, normally I would now withdraw to the bathroom to submit myself to the mocking and torture of the scales, but today was different. I was transfixed on my reflection. I stared into the mirror boldly opposing ‘her’, I was looking passed my skin, my bones, my fat, my body; I was staring into the mirrored world and my mind wandered into a daydream. A daydream I often had, of a young, skinny, happy woman- she had a beautiful face and was clean and well groomed, but looking at her closely you could see she had my eyes.
‘That’s not you!’ came a harsh whisper – it was my voice, ‘You’ll never be her or ever be like her, so get on those fucking scales you worthless piece of shit!’ It was ‘her’, ‘she’d’ woken up! Submissively I shook all thoughts of my daydream out of my head and tiptoed into the bathroom, stepping onto the scales. ‘7-4, that’s a pound over yesterday! I warned you what I’d do to you!’ Robotically I returned to my bedroom, only to carry out another all too familiar ritual.
I woke up 30 minutes later laying on the floor, there were red stained tissues scattered around and a smallish puddle of half dried blood soaked into the carpet. I started to clean up my room; this was certainly not the first time I’d found myself like this, with a memory of these deeds but no memory of committing them. This was ‘her’ work! The time was getting on for 6am, mum would be awake soon – so I showered, dried and dressed myself (and my wounds) and putting on my happy face, headed downstairs.

It was early June time and I was thrilled to finally see the sun, feeling its warmth fall on me, covering me like a blanket. I sat by the open back door and breathed in the fresh summer air, watching the leaves shudder in the light breeze. It was these sorts of moments that made me forget my depression and I smiled.
“What are you so happy about this morning?” said mum playfully walking in wearing her dressing gown. I just smiled and shrugged; my mind was quiet, still, peaceful. “What a gorgeous day! You’d better be doing something outside, instead of hiding away in your room!” She told me, coming over and giving me two friendly slaps on my upper thigh, I winched in pain and drew my legs up close to my chest. She didn’t notice anything was wrong. “Have you had breakfast yet sweetie?” She asked.
“Yeah, I had 2 pieces of toast and an apple” I lied. She raised an eyebrow at me but then announced she was going for a shower and sauntered out of the room. After she’d left the room I let out a tiny sob of pain and sighed as I felt the re-opened wounds start to bleed again. Tears began to roll heavily down my cheeks and I was starting to question why I’d even got out of bed… why I had to wake up. I had to get this sorted! I’d waited for so long, I needed help! I phoned my best friend Simon and asked him if he would come somewhere with me. he knew about her and was keen to help, so before I’d even said ‘Goodbye’ he was on his way round.

I had gotten myself into a real state waiting for him to come and when he finally got to mine he took one look at me and started straight for the hospital. We often did this; I would phone him, he would make for the hospital; I’d make him stop the car when we got to his house. But this time I said nothing! I was sitting in silence, shaking as tears poured from my eyes; I felt so very sad.
I was so scared in the hospital waiting room. My leg was throbbing and burning under my trousers; blood leaking as silently from the wound as the tears from my eyes; the dressing over it was sopping. Simon was squeezing my hand tightly as I was called into a side room; a tiny room with no windows. I pulled myself up onto the bed and the nurse, a young and very pretty lady, asked me what was wrong. Even though I knew she had been told I started to tell my story for her; cut short by the floods of tears,
“It’s ok, all right sweetheart” she said reassuringly, “Let’s have a look.” She rolled my trouser leg up and removed the dressing. Through my blurry eyes I noticed her wince as if she felt the pain. Simon squeezed my hand tight. My fingers were tingling and my toes were cold; all I could concentrate on was the ticking of the clock. It irritated me.
My wound had needed seven stitches and I had been persuaded to go and see a professional of sorts. I was made an emergency appointment with my GP and was told I was being referred to a Psychiatrist. By the end of that day I was on anti-depressants.

Weeks passed, everyday I fought an agonising battle myself, with my learned behaviour, with her! The more poison I would take to kill her, to get her voice out of my head, the angrier she got with me. She would come out later in the day but punish me more than usual for my attempt to kill her. Still I spent my days counting calories and my nights spent sobbing into the darkness, the time in between spent looking after self-inflicted wounds, each one showing anger, sorrow or her violence.
But although her retribution gets harsher day by day, she is fading! Dying! But if I lose her I will be alone, totally alone with my sorrow! That, perhaps, scares me more than anything else! So… death must be my only way… out…

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