Diary Entry

You know the feeling when you've written a work of fiction and you realise later it was really about you? Did you ever type it up then give it to a friend you've known honestly for only two months? I did. I wrote it on the night of Weds 15th November. Richard (the 2 month friend) was with me at creative writing club and wrote this really moving story, which displayed writing brilliance and it was so personal, so brilliant. And it inspired me. And I was depressed too and looking for a way to explain how I felt after I found I couldn't look into mirrors without hurting myself. I tried it in the reflection on the train. Didn't work. I ended up crying instead. At least I didn't slap myself, but I was it was public unconsciousness.Anyway, here's the 'short story'. The physical actions aren't all true but the feelings are.

Let Go

I knew something was wrong because I was listening to Avril Lavigne. I hadn’t taken her seriously for years. Then again, I also knew I was blowing off Richard for Ashton, who I was caring less and less for. Why else would I feel so angry, and undeterred within it?

Time and time again, I just pissed them off, pissing me off. I dunno-maybe I really am losing it. Maybe I am really going nuts. Maybe its time to be really honest with myself-I mean no puns, no metaphors, no fancy imagery about oil paintings and the theatre: who am I? Where do I belong?

I looked once again at the broken mirror, its cracks punctuated with my blood, and I grimaced. Smile? Make it worthwhile. I never meant to go that far. I never meant to let go at all, I just wanted to be perfect and I’m starting to realise it may never happen. Ha! I stare as hard as I can. Icky spots, crusty lips and rotting teeth. I try to look deeper. Maybe there’s something real in there-tap, tap. Anybody home? Try again…

Oh God.

Despair disgust, disgust despair, disgust despair, disgust despair –

Ow! I didn’t have to hit myself, did I? Hmm? Try again. Repress yourself. Forget the spots. Just remember that you’re perfect, yeah?

Oh God. Disgust despair! I can’t take it! I can’t hack it! I can’t fake it! How can I look when I’d rather fight myself than look in a mirror?

What’s so horrid to see? I’m not a reflection; I’m just me, myself-absolutely fucking useless. I’m still listening to Lavigne, aren’t I? I must be feeling…really…crap.

Well, the mirror is cleaned up and I’m picking up the pieces. The damn mirror only broke because I was trying to see. Maybe if I saw what everyone else did, I’d call myself beautiful, believe it and all my problems could-just-evapourate. Maybe someone who understands could stop and look at me right now. Yes. And he’d have this well of tears in his eyes and he’d be all sincere and tell me I’m lovely. It’s so hard to be sincere when you’re trying to be lovely. And he’d look all appraisingly at me despite me being all clumsy in my heels and my ill-chosen clothes in a desperate attempt to be all ‘studenty’; and he’d tell me to shut up, and that I’m beautiful, crazy for not knowing so.

Crazy/beautiful. Why does that sound so denied and so true?

The mirror is gone. I don’t have to try and see anymore. I just need to check my hair from time to time and mutter something or other about fixing it on the train, which never happens. It just doesn’t. Man, I wish I was beautiful.

And, maybe if I smiled more I would be able to trust; I could talk to people and look them in the eye when I’m singing and be the girl with the halo everyone loves so much. Now, I know I’m rambling, but before this ends, maybe someone could tell me the truth. Am I beautiful? Non? Sigh.
I can get over this. It’s a spontaneous epiphany-you breathe out and suddenly you’re feeling a whole lot better. You can tie up the plastic bag with the broken mirror. Cry a little. Warble a bit. Then go to bed and live your life as if this honest, dark night was all a dream.