Mirror Mirror

November 28, 2012

I'm barricaded. I'm locked. I'm useless. I am in a continuing spiral, aiming down into the ground.

Flashbacks from the night corrupt my waking thoughts.

"...Every single thing you care about it is taken away from you...."

"..You will spend the rest of your life under our watch while under this roof..."

"..No electronics, no television, no telephone,, no bedroom..."

"..Mia will go to the bathroom with you..."

"..You will not go to school...you will be sent away to a rehab center..."

I blink my eyes rapidly, remembering where I am. I'm in Mia's room, sleeping beside her. That's right, I don't have my room anymore. I can't open my eyelids without feeling heaviness and slight stinging. I guess that's what you get for crying all night.

My mother appears in the doorway, not even acknowledging me. "Mia, it's time for school." My little sister gets up, zombified, and quietly dresses and exits the door. 

I remember that I'm not going to school either.

I want to fall back asleep, to forget, to not feel anything. But all I can hear is the shouting as the darkness fills my mind. I can't sleep with such noise.

I curl into a ball under the covers, digging my nails into my hips. I dig and I dig until I feel enough pain to bleed. I deserve this. 

I don't feel better by making myself feel pain, I make myself forget the emotional pain for just a moment. The raw sharp pain is a punishment, but also a distraction. 

I continue to dig as tears squeeze out of my already swollen vision. 

I didn't even hear my mother as she walks into the room. "Kenna, you're coming to work with me. You can sit in the staff room. I'm not letting you stay home so you can stick your fingers down your throat another time."

I guess I'm being watched 24/7 now. 

I walk out of my sister's room, and Mia is instructed to go downstairs with me to watch me change. Great.

As I walk back upstairs, my mom put slices of toast in front of the girls.

She gives nothing to me. Figures.

I dig inside the fridge, and find an apple. 

My step dad walks out from the hallway, freshly showered and dressed. He looks at me with anger. "Why eat when you're just going to throw it up?"

Maybe I won't. I ignore my stomach pains as I try to find a way to distract myself. A book is on the table. If I can't escape in reality, at least I can be another person. Another story. Another life.

...

By the time my mother drives my sisters to their elementary school, she pulls into her workplace parking lot. It is still very dark outside, and I feel the breeze on my shoulders as I step out of the car.

Wordlessly, I follow my mom up to the dementia unit, and plop myself inside the staff room. I sit there endlessly, as I pick up my book "Looking for Alaska". I try my best to get lost, like I usually do. But my stomach starts to growl. 

I am really really hungry. 

I set my book down onto the table, and I walk towards the fridge. I peer inside, and I take a glimpse at all the early worker's lunches. I can't steal from them.

I open the freezer. I see a bag of frozen strawberries, open and freezer burnt. I check the expiry date, and it seems to have been in there for quite a while. This will do. I empty the contents on a small plate I found in the cupboard from previous staff, and it is so frosted, that I can barely see the strawberries. It's just a giant lump.

I place it in the microwave for a minute. Hopefully it'll be easier to break apart then. The timer beeps, and I take the steaming plate of outdated strawberries and place it on the staff table. It is hot is some places and still frozen in the others. Gotta love the microwave.

I pick away, try to avoid burning or freezing my hands. I eat with such delicacy, as if each strawberry was a treasure. After the strawberries are gone, I feel a sense of ache. I am neither satisified or starving anymore. This will have to do.

I wash the plate, and throw out the strawberry bag to remove the evidence of me stealing the food. If anyone was ever going to eat those long past due strawberries, they will never know it was me.

...

I try to continue to read as the hours go by, but I can't seem to at all. I am lost in my thoughts. I need somebody to talk to. I am going to lose my mind. 

I pick up the work receiver, and go to line 1. I doubt anybody will be trying to use it, and if they do they will just switch the line to one that is unoccupied. 

I dial my Nana's number. I dial again. And again. She isn't answering. Shit.

I start to panic, I can barely breathe. I take rapid breaths as I start to sob. My throat is constricting. Is this what a panic attack feels like?

I cover my face in my hands, and I try to disappear. It doesn't work for long.

"Kenna, is that you?" I see a young brunette in the door way. It's my mother's friend Jenny. Jenny and my mother had met about a year ago, when they were introduced as co workers. Jenny is only twenty one, as my mother is thirty two. I guess age doesn't really matter when you become a part of the adult world. 

She wanders over, with concern in her eyes. She takes my hand from where I was standing at the phone receiver. She guides me to the table, where we sit in chairs opposed from each other. 

I tell her everything that happened in the previous night. 

She hugs me around my shoulders while sitting down and starts to cry. I've never seen this kind of sadness from a female adult before. My mother wears a mask of steel, and other adults have never gotten so emotional with me. This is foreign to me.

"Kenna, as my best friend's daughter, I have gotten to know you, and you are so beautiful. You don't have to go through this, you can get better. I know you can. When I was younger, in high school, about your age, I went through massive depression. I almost committed suicide a couple of times. I know how you feel. I want you to know that I'm there for you. Your parents shouldn't be taking stuff away like this, it will just make it worse. I will speak with your mom about loosening the hold and getting you some counseling."

I smile sadly. Could it really be that easy? But my mom will never accept me going to counseling..she's always seemed against that kind of stuff. Apparently, it doesn't help. But how should I know? 

She sits up, dabbing her eyes lightly on her sleeve. "I have to go to work. Will you be okay?"

No. "Yes, thank you."