Vacant
**Just a forewarning, this is why it has been so long since my last post, ‘thus I must caution that this isn’t very encouraging and/or positive. However, it is my sincere honesty.
I am the vacant image trapped within a broken mirror. I see the shards of glass in their fragmented disarray, yet a silhouette does not appear. The white-trimmed walls luster beneath a luminous light, highlighting the antique-gold frame in which the mirror is retained. The floors are swept clean of dirt, dust, and debris, whereas the windows boast boards beneath their obscure silk-drapes. Search as I may, though I know the ending all too well. Years have passed and seasons do change, but this picture remains as familiar as the cycle of a planet.
No self is there for me to find, no choice of happiness for which I can make—I am blank. I am weak against the overbearing opposition between living and already being too far disappeared. Where is this fine line drawn? How far is too much so? I know the difference between merely breathing and already being dead. When the image is the same at every glance, although ricochet it does from each slice of crystal, the relentless facts will remain the same. You may distort a reflection—photograph, emotion—any way that you please. One day you may fancy a pristine order, while the other you choose to keep multifarious disorder. Though, when the sun retires to its home within the sky and the moon comes out to play, everything is now anything but what you tried so hard to make it appear that day. Without the nosey onlookers and compassionate purchasers, the broken painting is just that—broken. It is said that in time, you will find a way to fit the pieces back together, like a one-thousand piece puzzle of a lighthouse you put together as a child with your father by the fireplace. However, this cannot simply hold true forever, can it? Is there a point when the pieces become too small, too fragmented that no amount of effort or determination could ever possibly put them together again? We all like to hope this is not the case. We all aspire to silage each other lines of hope, encouraging one another that in those ashes there are flints of magnificence—but do we truly know?
Five days. Five days, that is all that it took for the Voice to push me over the edge. I crossed the line. I fell off the path that which I had been so austerely following, slipping in and out of the lighted areas. I allowed the glimmer of hope, of faith that had begun to sprout within my heart and I allowed it to wilt away. Like nutrient deprived roses in the dead of winter, the light of my heart was put out like a candle. I have fallen, rolled, sunk into a place of what I feel is no return. I have traveled to the place that is lower than rock-bottom—the lowest of the low thrive here. I am living here, just merely breathing, only knowledgeable of my very existence by the presence of the muffled thump of my heart. The thump that I have felt slow over the past few days, due in part to my drastic weight loss and also to the pills I have used to slip into peaceful blackness every evening I return home. I now can see fresh cuts on my upper arms, hidden away from the watchful eyes of my therapist and doctors, as if their opinion on my medium of coping mattered to me anyhow.
As I sit perched before my laptop, I feel the immense guilt, shame, anger, and fear that my actions have caused me. I have let myself, and everyone I love down. I have given up. I have fostered the thoughts of my own demise, sweetly allowing my tongue to taste each one, attempting to determine which one should brace me with its poisonous kiss. But more than that, more than the sum of all those feelings, all of those masochistic, disgusting vultures nagging at my soul, I feel empty. Dark. I am frightened at not only my appearance, but by the degree of my deterioration on behalf of this week. I have felt the pain of watching loved ones pass, old friends slip away, and my own feelings of self-hatred tear me into shreds, so impeccably intricate that I can no longer feel my own presence. I cannot tell you what day that it is. I cannot tell you why I allowed myself to fall to here. I can say that I am okay. But most of all, most regrettably of all, I cannot say that I have the strength to make it through many more days.
Why don’t I just buckle up and think positively? I am the only one who can fix any of this. Stop being such a negative pessimist.
“How am I supposed to seize this day, when everything inside me has died..?”
Rediscovering a Stolen Life 
I’m really feeling the dejection and self acrimony here. You’re a very talented writer. As someone who’s had depression and eating disorder, maybe it will offer you a little hope (sorry to steal your mantra) that life really will come back. I wish you recovery and inner peace.
That truly means a lot to me that you can really feel the feelings behind my words. Thank you for reading it and for your compliment. I do hope you are correct in regard to my mantra, and thank you so much for your encouragement and support. I wish to you the very best.
Thank you for your honesty. Your writing is very beautiful, honest, heart wrenching. As someone else who struggles with an eating disorder, I also want to offer encouragement. Some days are still dark and seemingly hopeless. Some days, the Voice seems to win. But the voice doesn’t prevail in the end if you don’t let it–every day is a struggle, but struggling means we haven’t given up yet. And, it does get easier. Every day we choose to silence the voice, it gets a little quieter. Sometimes, though, we can’t silence it on our own without help.
Thank you so much, and I am very glad you enjoyed my honesty/writing. I am sorry to hear that you too struggle with an eating disorder. You are absolutely right, I do agre. Some days are harder than others, but the fact that we are experiancing the difficulties means that we have yet to give up.
You may have fallen off the path, but you can hop straight back on again. Start afresh. It’s not over when you have a bad day, or do something which is less than positive. You have to wipe the slate clean, dust yourself off and start again.
You haven’t given up, you’re far too young to write yourself off. I hope you’re able to pick yourself back up again x
It’s just so difficult to move forward when all my strength and faith has dissapated. I hold the fear of getting better, and falling directly back here again. I guess I am at the place of searching for something to hold on to. Something tangible. Something real. Because the way I live now is anything but. And thank you, for speaking the truth to me.
I’m so sorry you’re having such a horribly difficult time. I know how difficult it is to pick yourself up when you’re at rock bottom. As you said, you need to hold on to something. Anything. Even if it’s just holding on to the fact that you CAN get back on that path. Make baby steps, a tiny positive difference in your normal daily routine. The next day, make another. And so on.
It does sound stupid and ridiculous, I know that. My first baby step was adding a tiny tiny tiny bit more jam on my toast. Then a decent amount. Then peanut butter. And so on. Right now, my comments may seem completely useless and pointless to you but it’s just my experience. Food can lift your mood and the more you do it, the easier it becomes. You may start seeing things a bit more clearly.
And can I just add that you write beautifully.
I know that you are absolutely correct; I have to start somewhere. Tiny steps will eventually turn into something worthwhile. And thank you for the compliment. I am also very grateful for your encouragemnet and support. I admire your bravery and positivity.
Thank you, it’s taken a while but I’ve come to realise that there really isn’t a viable alternative to trying to be positive and recover which doesn’t leave me half-living and miserable.
Good luck and keep going x
You are very welcome. Yes, I think we all must reach that point where we realize that simply “coping” is not an option. Thank you. I wish to you the very best.