When I look in the mirror all I see is a stranger.

Bright blue eyes, once my single pride in my appearance, stare back at me, leveling me with a tired glare. They say eyes are windows to the soul but the ones looking at me are empty. There’s no spark, no burning passion I once triumphed. When did everything change?

I know the answer but don’t want to voice it. Nothing changed. I had felt this hollow for as long as I could remember but learned long ago to hide it. Nothing good comes from showing it to other people.

I just kept putting one foot in front of the other, desperately throwing myself into my passions to distract myself from it. But I would push so hard and so far that I would burn up and fizzle out.

Never completely. Somehow I managed to keep some embers lit and over time I would stoke the fire until it is once again a raging inferno. But, almost like Icarus who flew too close to the sun, I would burn myself up. It’s like I never learn. I inevitably end up right back here at the starting line. Tired, hollow, and wishing I didn’t exist.

The weird thing is the person in the mirror is always a stranger. No matter where I am in this cycle I’ve stuck myself in. It’s like I’m watching a movie of my own life. A passenger to my own story.

The more desperately I push myself to try and wrestle back some semblance of control the faster I facilitate my own downfall.

The eyebrows of the reflection furrow, trying their hardest to meet in the middle. The tired glare becomes piercing as the ocean eyes harden. Why am I like this?

Something hot and fiery burns in my chest and I bite down on my tongue to prevent the scathing words from leaving my mouth. Red, hot anger flares up. Of course the first thing I’ve felt in months would be this bitter, hostile emotion. I can never process things like a normal person.

There’s the urge to slam my fist into the mirror, to yell and rage at the person on the other side, because they’re the one I hate the most. But I don’t. I hold it back.

An iron tang blooms in my mouth as my tongue starts to bleed. I clench my fists and dig my fingers into my palms. I wish for once that I didn’t regularly cut my nails so that the sharp edges could dig in and cut the callused flesh beneath them.

The pain is grounding. It eases the emotions bubbling right below the surface threatening to break free. But it doesn’t quite satisfy that part of me that wants to hurt. That wants the distraction.

The air in the room has become suffocating. My breathing becomes haggard. Desperation claws at my chest in a way that I never know how to stifle. One hand snakes into my hair and digs into my scalp, trying to ground me again with the pain. I go to squeeze my eyes shut like it will block out the thoughts rushing through my head but I catch one final glimpse of the person in the mirror who is more recognizable to me than ever in that moment.

There I am. The real me. The broken and fragile little kid that I hide. It’s not as comforting to see someone I recognize as I thought it would be. I squeeze my eyes completely shut and let the panic run its course. I don’t want to see that person in the mirror anymore.