Monster

Sometimes, I feel like a monster.

When I stand in front of the mirror at the end of the day, and I see the white scars crisscrossing my shoulders, thin ones wrapping their spidery fingers around me, fat ones laying like leeches in the midst of pale skin, I am disgusted. Layers upon layers of scars. With each white slash, I can still feel the cold cement of the garage floor as it pressed into my feet as I gritted my teeth and dragged the blade across my skin, thinking I deserve this, I deserve this. I look at the mirror and see a scarred creature staring back at me, and I don’t recognize what I see. I see a monster.

When I wake up in the morning to find a Bad Day awaiting me, and my anxiety beats against the sides of my skull, screaming from its cage, begging for control. A tear slips down my cheek, the only evidence of the battle raging within. The demons claw at my skull, almost breaking free. I fight against myself in order to give myself freedom from myself. Who is myself? I feel like a monster.

When I know I am Not Okay as I sit on my bed staring out the window at the gray sky, feeling just as gray within. The depression surrounds me, a slow-creeping fog that swallows me whole. People ask me how I am and I say, “Tired.” How else am I supposed to describe the despair, the utter lack of care, the knowledge that nothing will be okay now or ever? I feel nothing and care for no one as I seek the comfort of my isolation. I am emotionless; I am a monster.

When I sit in a room full of people or share a conversation with one person, and my skin feels as if millions of beetles are crawling beneath it, fighting for air. My knee bounces, my hands fidget, I rip pieces of paper into tiny millionths. I need to run. Second-guessing every word I spoke in a conversation, feeling that each action was a misstep, worrying what the other person now thinks of me. Why can’t I interact like a normal person? Why am I a monster?

When I look down at my stomach and see a hill where there used to be a valley. I think back on the time when I weighed 92 pounds, when my body curled in on itself and tiny hairs grew all over it and it gave off a strange odor. I think about that 92 pounds and wish it could have been 90. Now, I stand before a mirror and look at the curves before me, fat fat fat echoing in my mind. I wish I had never gained weight. I wish I hadn’t created this monster.

When I hang up my tiny Pride flag in my bedroom and think of the disappointed family members back home, left in the wake of my announcement. I remember my dry-heaving and sleepless nights when they could not speak to me for a week after I told them who I really was. Deep down, I know I should never have told them. My heart howls in utter isolation. By becoming who I was meant to be, I drove away those there for me. What kind of monster does that?

But what is a monster, really?

“You know, my doctor used to say that the word ‘monster’ is not a noun, that to be a monster, you’ve first got to do something monstrous” (Legion).

Perhaps I have not done anything monstrous today. After all, I didn’t terrorize any villages or lurk in the forest for unsuspecting passersby or invite a guest to my secluded castle so they could become my next meal.

What did I do instead?

Though it was hard,

I smiled at a passerby.

I helped a coworker out.

I called my friend on the phone.

I brushed my teeth thoroughly.

I fed my cat her breakfast and dinner.

I ate a healthy amount.

I owned who I am.

I KEPT LIVING.

Maybe I’m not a monster after all.