Mirrors by Celeste Robin (17, California)

[Content Warning: self-harm]

Looking in the mirror, Anna stared at the reflection, a reflection that wasn't hers. It couldn't be her. At least, it wasn't a version of herself that she recognized or cared about. And honestly, she wasn't really staring at the person across from her. She was staring at everything she was insecure about. Her eyes traced up and around every bump, every freckle, every hair and nail, and scar. 

She spends her days trying to imagine herself as someone else, someone more attractive or more appealing to look at. She tries not to dwell on the things she hates, but sometimes she slips. Today was one of those days. 

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She always started with her face, spending minutes upon minutes ruthlessly picking apart her face, finding every blackhead and pimple and imperfection, and turning her face red. Hands shaking and tears rolling down her face from the pain once she's satisfied. It moves down slowly, picking at little bumps on her neck chest, and shoulders. Moving further and scratching hives on her arms and legs until they bleed. Looking at the scars she had gathered over her lifetime. Scars from accidents and violence, scars from others, and scars from herself. She would even try to cover them up with some kind of makeup as if it's not her fault that they appeared. As if she hadn't picked at some of the scabs for weeks on end, not allowing any of the cuts to heal properly and fade away. 

It's the compulsiveness of it all. She’ll get going somewhere and be incapable of stopping herself. Almost as if she disassociates and disconnects from her conscious self and just fully indulges in it. 

And of course, she knows that if she didn't do anything and just left it alone that she would be okay. If she chose not to raise her hands to her face and begin, she wouldn't end up looking worse than before. Is she didn't try to trick herself by saying ‘just this one. No more.’, because she knows she’ll never be able to stop when she starts. 

She just wishes she could be perfect, so she trys to control herself in every way possible because she feels out of control. She knows she can't control what people think about her, so she overanalyzes herself and sacrifices herself to try to fit the standard. Whatever the standard is. “I am simply controlling myself when things feel out of control, nothing wrong with that,” she tells herself. 

She assumes the things that other people think about her. She spends all day worrying, and questioning. She lets her thoughts and her mind consume her in ways that cripple her. But she could never confess this to anyone. All she ever gets back is ‘you shouldn't worry’ ‘you have nothing to worry about’ ‘you’re gorgeous so you don't have to worry’. Nobody really gets it. Everyone just tries to convince her she's crazy for thinking these things. For worrying, for assuming.

​But even in the rare moments when she loves the way she looks, she still feels out of control. She still stays in her bed, she still pulls away from parties before even walking inside, she still cancels plans last minute and blames it on her mother, and she still avoids mirrors.
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