Am I The Monster?
Written by: An Anonymous Heart
The tub filled with dusted pink water, a deteriorating bath bomb plunging into its final breaths. It had been in my closet for months, unused and forgotten; I’m not sure why it was so appealing to me now. An attempt, perhaps, to pretend as though I deserved such a luxury.
I sat on the edge and put my feet in. The heat hit my skin and summoned the rest of me to submerge within its depths. I answered the call. Razor in hand, I sat there, staring at my knees. Thoughtless. Motionless. Stunned. What had I done? Was any of this real?
I’m a monster. No, he’s making me into a monster. No, he can’t make me into anything. I’m in control. I stared at the razor. I wouldn’t. I could. But I won’t. He’s not worth it. Am I worth it?
I forgot to breathe. My lungs filled suddenly, the water around me becoming salty. I sank forward, sliding my guarded spine down the slope of the tub. I could feel my heart beating through my chest. I imagined it might be creating waves. I imagined they might swallow me whole.
Wine. I reached for the bottle. It tasted like nothing. And yet it tasted like freedom. It tasted like anger and betrayal. It tasted like sadness.
I stared at the razor.
He’s in my head. “Selfish.” He’s scraping at the surface of everything I thought to be true about myself. “Manipulated. Manipulator.” Is it true? “Abusive.” It couldn’t be. That’s not me. “Entitled.” But it didn’t feel right. None of this does. “Lack of respect.” All those days and nights my heart hurt for others…was I faking it? Did I manipulate my boyfriend into loving me? My friends into supporting me? Was I that profound of a liar and narcissist to produce an entire community of people who lived the facade I created?
I’m a monster.
He loves me, he says. But this isn’t love. What is this?
I’m starting to believe it’s all true. My mother’s love was just a ploy to gain my loyalty. No. False. But, what if?
My family thinks I’m selfish. Do they? Am I?
I would have preferred he abandoned us when I was young. Never. I would never say that. I’m not that person.
When I stop allowing her to speak through me, my feelings will be validated. But that will never happen, because all he sees is her. Even when I’m me, I’m her.
I’m invisible; I have been copied, pasted, and deleted. Any remnants of her that flows through my veins consumes me whole in his eyes. I’m not me, I’m just her. And she is a threat to him. So, who am I?
I’m not a monster. No. I’m not the monster.
You are.
I looked at the razor. I shaved my legs.
Get out of my head.
