HER MIND

Punishment

I longed for a way out, for a way to break free from this internal prison, but the more I struggled, the tighter the grip of my own self-loathing became. It was as if I were locked in a battle with myself, a battle I feared I could never win. The very essence of who I was felt tainted, and I couldn't imagine a future where I could ever come to terms with being me.

Every morning was a painful reminder that the peace and joy I sought were as distant as ever, leaving me to face yet another day of detesting my existence. The sight of people's eyes lingering on my scars filled me with an overwhelming sense of shame and loathing. It was as if their gaze could see straight through me, exposing all the pain and turmoil I had tried so hard to keep hidden.  

Each time someone noticed my scars, a wave of embarrassment washed over me, and I would quickly turn to excuses, desperately trying to mask the truth. I would come up with lies on the spot, claiming things like, "I scraped myself on a rock," or, "I fell and hurt myself," as if those words could somehow cover up the reality of what those scars represented. Deep down, I knew those marks were more than just physical injuries; The scars were real representations of the inner relief I desperately sought from the constant self-hatred that consumed me internally.                                           

Each scar was a reminder of the dark places my mind had taken me, of the moments when the pain inside became too much to bear and I felt driven to externalize it. My mind had twisted these acts of self-harm into something almost comforting, convincing me that I deserved the pain, that these scars were a fitting punishment for someone who felt so inherently flawed.

On most days the injuries I caused became my only comfort, it was the only thing that seemed to offer me a short break from the constant sadness that haunted me. After a day spent despising every aspect of my being, the act of creating those scars felt like a way to release some of the pressure building inside me, a way to make the internal pain visible and, in doing so, gain a fleeting sense of control over it. But this solace was always short-lived, followed by an even deeper loathing for what I had done to myself.

The scars, though intended to be a means of escape, only served to trap me further in a cycle of shame and self-punishment. They were a silent testament to the war I was waging within myself, a war that left me feeling more isolated and unworthy with each passing day. And yet, in those moments when the darkness seemed too overwhelming to endure, they were the only thing that made sense, the only thing that felt real in a world where I constantly questioned my existence.

Each morning greeted me with a wave of exhaustion and sorrow, rather than the happiness and contentment I so desperately sought. These overwhelming emotions dominated my every thought and action, leaving me feeling utterly consumed. Despite my genuine desire to improve myself and my situation, my mind made the task seem impossible and unreachable. I prayed fervently for change, clinging to the belief that I deserved a better existence. 

I didn't know how long I would have to keep trying to become someone I could admire, because all I saw in the mirror was someone broken, selfish, ungrateful, and desperate for attention. But I wasn't seeking attention, I was truly hurting. I felt betrayed by my mind for feeding me such cruel lies, yet I clung to the promise I made to become a better version of myself. I was falling apart, piece by piece. Despite thinking I had everything under control, I realized I didn't.

My mind had taken control, and I was struggling to wrest it back. The journey to self-improvement felt like a losing battle, and the more I fought, the more exhausted I became. Amid the pain, I held onto a sliver of hope, a tiny fragment of belief that I could one day wake up and feel worthy, joyful, and at peace.

I found myself in a profound state of emotional numbness, where it felt as though the vibrant spectrum of human emotion had been replaced by a dull, unfeeling void. It was more than just a passing phase of sadness or despair; it was a deep, pervasive sense of powerlessness that seemed to permeate every aspect of my existence. I felt as though I had been stripped of my identity, as if the core of who I was had somehow slipped away, leaving behind a hollow shell that merely went through the motions of daily life.  

This numbness was not just an absence of emotion, but also a disconnection from my sense of self. I no longer recognized the person I saw in the mirror; the passions, dreams, and values that once defined me felt distant and irrelevant. I was adrift, floating through life without a clear direction or purpose, unable to anchor myself to anything that resembled the person I thought I was. The familiar shape of who I am has become less clear.

I started questioning everything I used to believe about myself. Things I did every day, things that used to feel important, now seem unimportant and without a real purpose. I don't even know when these emotions started. It is like this feeling of being emotionally numb sneaked up on me and slowly changed how I see myself. The disconnection was so strong that I wondered if I ever really knew who I was, or if I was just living as someone others expected me to be. Feeling emotionally numb and losing my sense of self was unsettling. It felt like I was living a life that did not fit me, while the real me was lost in this feeling of emptiness.

I wanted to feel connected to myself, to others, to anything that could bring back the feeling of being alive again, but the more I looked for it, the harder it got to find it. The numbness was like a wall stopping me from getting to the things that could help me find the real me. My life was like an act, a made-up image to hide the struggles I faced internally.

I fooled myself into believing that if I decided to isolate myself it would spare others from the pain of my departure and make my suffering more bearable. Every day, I would return home and succumb to a torrent of tears, feeling an overwhelming sense of loneliness. I would stand in front of the mirror, hating every reflection, every flaw, every scar that was imprinted on my body.

The marks I left on my skin were more than just physical wounds; they were a reflection of the deep emotional pain I was carrying inside. Each mark was a way of expressing the hurt, the sadness, and the despair that I couldn't put into words. In those moments, it felt like the only way to cope with the overwhelming feelings was to transfer some of that inner pain to my body, hoping that maybe the physical pain would somehow lessen the emotional suffering.