On Her Own Terms

The little girl wanted to leave, to get out. And she didn't want to look back or regret her past. But she would leave on her own terms, so she settled on waiting until she could.

The house she grew up in was enormous. It didn't feel that way.

She said house because it was just that. A house. Not a home. Never will be one.

She couldn't wait until she was old enough to get away and go somewhere far from here. But she had no means to leave. She didn't have a penny to her name.

She thought university would provide the perfect chance for her escape.

Instead, she had to stay while she watched all her friends pack their bags and leave this hellhole of a town. A big enough town that no one knew everyone but small enough that word got around fast.

So she had to bide her time and keep her mouth shut.

Every day I wish I had ended my existence way back when. But I'm a coward.

I know people who hate my guts. I don't blame them. I hate my guts too.

I still remember that day even though years have passed.

There were two girls. She thought she stood a chance at being friends with them. They were out of her league. At least, she didn't sink to their level and bring others down.

We all like to think we're good human beings. The truth is, we aren't. I'm no exception.

The child cried so much at night. She cried herself to sleep, and even though she hoped the next night would be different, every night was the same.

She hated the school and everyone in it. The teachers said nothing and did even less. They minded their own business. All the adults huddled around, talking to each other. The teachers shared stories and jokes much like the students. Students and teachers alike smiled or laughed while a fat girl on the playground silently told herself not to cry. At least not in public.

Don't show weakness.

I'm not sure why I thought crying equated to weakness.

I'd blame society for it. But I can't blame anyone or anything more than myself for blindly accepting what people say. As if I couldn't see with my own two eyes. Like I can't think for myself.

I still don't know how she never let on that something was wrong. That girl who was me but isn't. I'm not that girl anymore. I tell myself this because if I didn't, I'd still live my life the way she did. In fear.

She was a great actress. She could wear many faces and fool just about everyone. But when she looked into the mirror, the eyes looking back saw through the façade.

I love that girl, but I hate her too.

She was so much stronger than I gave her credit for. She cried, but she fought every single day. She fought off their ugly words and fended off low blows.

I admire her. I don't know how she woke up each morning, got out of bed, and faced hell, knowing she'd have to do the same tomorrow and the day after and the day after that.

I wish she had someone. I wonder if she felt the same way back then and wanted a person to talk to. She was a lot of things, but dependent wasn't one of them. I know she took pride in being independent. She wanted people to need her more than she needed them. And eventually, she got her wish.

Careful what you wish for.

At times, people needed her, but when they realized they didn't anymore, she was expendable. Tossed to the side, kicked to the curb.

I hated that then, and I hate it now, maybe even more so. You don't get to use people like that. I wouldn't be taken advantage of again. I didn't want to be used all my life. Who does?

She was just a kid. Still, she took no prisoners. Not when she herself knew what it was like to feel trapped with four walls threatening to close in on you. If those walls in her room could talk, I wonder what they would say.

No one saw or heard what happened within those walls. But those walls witnessed nearly all of the girl's breakdowns and meltdowns.

There's a dent in the door from when her anger got the best of her and she rammed a chair leg at it.

A vanity stands next to the window. On top of it is a large mirror that faces her bed.

She stares into that mirror every day, multiple times a day. Her hair changes. Her face does too. But I doubt her feelings about her reflection do.

She obsessed over her flaws.

I don't blame her. It's not her fault.

If she had the choice, she would change just about everything. Her big nose. Her small brown eyes. Her faded scars.

Maybe she'd keep the scars as a reminder of her past. They could stay. Everything else would go.

The Chinese girl glancing into the mirror sees more than just her round face. She peers beneath the surface, below her pale skin. Buried underneath is a broken heart. And a tired soul.

Her heart beats. It continues to pump blood every minute. But the organ inside her body is incapable of love. At least when it comes to loving another human being.

She doesn't know what love is, hasn't experienced it.

This isn't love.

No one told her they loved her. She never heard the words "I love you" together in a sentence from anyone.

She didn't think twice of it until she heard someone else string those words together and say them out loud.

I love you.

She couldn't bring herself to say those words. Not even to herself.

Looking into the mirror, she saw empty eyes. She said a lot to her reflection. She never said those three words.

I hope one day she will say "I love you" and mean them too.

Until then, with each passing day, maybe she'll get closer and closer to being able to love herself.

But what's another day when she has gone nearly twenty years without uttering those three words in the same sentence? Twenty-four hours is nothing compared to almost twenty years.

She can afford to wait just a little bit longer.

The image that kept her going the night she slept on a cold, hard floor was one she imagined. An image of the future.

An older woman was reading to her child in bed. She would flip through a book and point at the pictures. She would emote and express and explain. The kid might not understand it all, but he or she would smile and laugh. Ask questions she'd have answers to.

I want that to be my future. But I need to stay alive long enough to see it happen first.

She didn't care enough back then to change what she didn't like.

Now I'm working every day, little by little. Progress adds up over time, right? The little steps I take today will seem like a lot in a few years. When I've walked for miles and covered large distances. Made ground I never thought I would. Traveled to places I didn't think I could.

She had goals, dreams.

Still, she couldn't see the end of the tunnel. She wanted to see, wanted to believe there was light when darkness surrounded her. She drowned in the darkness.

Maybe that's why growing up, she was so scared of the dark.

At night, she turned on all the lights and wanted to leave them on.

As a kid, she slept with a night light. It cast a dim, yellow glow and threw shadows against the white wall.

Somewhere along the way, she stopped avoiding the darkness.  She stepped into it. The shadows no longer frightened her.

Ever so slowly, she embraced the dark.

People say they don't bite. She can't make that claim. As a baby, she did. The little child would clamp her mouth and sink her teeth into the skin of his arm.

He bore the marks left behind by her bites.

Today, he no longer does.

Instead of biting others, she started to bite herself. Her teeth were fully grown in by then.

Her right hand grabbed her left arm. She brought it to her mouth. To stop her from screaming or crying, both even, she sank her teeth in. She didn't let go until the pain became unbearable.

Her dark eyes studied the marks left by yellow teeth. The fingers on her other arm grazed the wet skin, traced over the dark lines.

They faded, too quickly for her liking. She frowned when she looked down and saw they were gone. Her skin healed, returned to normal.

She lost track of how many times she did it. The number doesn't matter. The frequency doesn't either. What matters is that she did it. What makes matters worse is she never, not once, regretted the pain she inflicted upon herself.

After all, she created the pain on her own terms.