“SHE PAINTS A PRETTY PICTURE, BUT THE STORY HAS A TWIST. HER PAINTBRUSH IS A RAZOR, THE CANVAS IS HER WRIST. SO, SHE PAINTS HER PRETTY PICTURE–IN A COLOR THAT’S BLOOD RED. AND USING HER SHARP PAINTBRUSH, SHE FINALLY ENDS UP DEAD. HER PRETTY PICTURE’S FADING, QUITE SLOWLY DOWN HER ARM…SHE PAINTED HER PRETTY PICTURE. BUT THAT PICTURE HAD A TWIST. YOU SEE, HER MIND WAS THE RAZOR. AND HER HEART WAS HER WRIST…”
STATISTICALLY SPEAKING: …Every two minutes, someone in the U.S. is sexually assaulted. It is estimated that 1 in 6 women will be sexually assaulted in their lifetime. Victims of sexual assault are 6 times more likely to develop an eating disorder and 4 times more likely to contemplate suicide…
–*– This is for the girl that couldn’t tell a soul. The girl that hides the secret horrors of a night so long ago. The girl who lay there and never said a word, there in the wet grass that caught her tears. Who watched the stars in that damp, dark night sky, as she begged God for mercy–begged him to please, just let her die. Who drifted away to someplace else, somewhere safe in her mind. This is for the silent tears that she cried. This is for the girl who did what she had to, just in order to survive. The girl who didn’t have a choice, who wasn’t strong enough to fight…who lost her voice that night. The girl to whom fate was so cruel to–though she never could quite figure out why. Why her? Why that night? Why did time have to stand still as he tore apart her world? This is for the girl that kept it all inside, afraid to feel pain, unable to feel anything. This is for the girl who learned how to lie and deceive so expertly…She was only sixteen.
STATISTICALLY SPEAKING: …There are approximately 8 million people in the U.S, who have an eating disorder, 20 percent of whom will die from complications associated with their disorder…
–*– This is for the girl that can’t breathe–whose shame of that night has become suffocating. This is for the girl that was scared and confused and didn’t know what to do. Who wasn’t prepared…who never knew a person could be so cruel. For the girl that ran away and cried. Who learned how to hide the pain inside, but not how to cope. The girl that found solace from putting her fingers down her throat… This is to the ones that don’t understand, who stand on the sidelines and judge what they don’t know. Those who don’t know what it’s like to have your body slowly destroy itself, from the inside out. This is to the ones who don’t have to hide the scars on their knuckles or feel sick and tired all the time…who never intended for it to be that bad or to go that far. To the ones who will never understand how it feels to look in the mirror and sees a stranger’s reflection staring back. To those who assume it’s about weight, when really, it’s not—rather it’s about reclaiming control…all the things that he stole. It’s about looking in and watching out–escaping to a safer place—away from the self-loathing and self-hate. This is to the ones who haven’t awoken to find themselves on a cold tiled floor, not knowing how long they’ve laid there unconscious for. To those who don’t have to carry the burden of shame, convinced that they themselves are to blame…
STATISTICALLY SPEAKING: …Every 18 minutes in the US, someone commits suicide, and every 43 seconds, someone attempts one…
–*– This is for the girl that found another way to cope with the shame. Who makes herself bleed just to forget the pain…to feel something…anything. This is for the girl they call crazy. Who “cuts” just to feel better. Not deep enough to sever the artery or a vein, but enough to bleed…enough to feel the pain. This is to those who think it’s so easy. Who say she can stop at any time, if that’s what she wants. If only it were that simple, but it’s not. This is to those who say she’s “doing it for attention”—that it’s all just a game. It’s not a cry for attention. It’s not a game. It’s about coping with shame and escaping the kind of pain that never really goes away, no matter what the experts say. She has no ulterior motive…nothing from this that she stands to gain. She does it because she feels she has to. She does it to survive. She does it to feel clean again, the way she was before that night. She does it to take back some of the control he stole. To not feel as weak as she knows she is. To keep what little is left of her sanity… This is for her–and all the others just like her–going through the same living hell as she–day in and day out. Who’ve been given no reprieve and no help. Girls like her that are just looking for an easier way out. A break from the cruel hand of fate and misfortune that they’ve been dealt… This is to the ones who think they have the right. Who think it’s okay to call her all those cruel names. She’s a whore. She’s a cutter. She’s crazy. Unstable. Watch her pretend to eat as she sits down at the table. Go ahead society. Give her a label. God forbid you lift a finger or do anything to try and save her… This is for that girl…and the many more just like her. This is for me. I am SHE. She is me. The brokenness, these scars—sadly, they are mine, all mine…
RELATIONSHIP WITH MIA (A POEM)
I’ve seen this girl named Mia.
She’s pretty, thin, and tall.
She has the smallest frame I’ve ever seen.
And not one single flaw.
I met this girl named Mia.
She introduced herself today.
She seems so very nice and kind.
She says she wants to stay.
I know this girl named Mia.
She’s so perfect, and it’s true.
She says she’ll make me skinny, too.
I’m friends with this girl named Mia.
I want her to always stay.
All my other friends have left.
But she will never stray.
The only one I listen to is Mia.
She’s so smart and full of advice.
I’m starting to get smaller.
My health being my last sacrifice.
I’m scared of this girl named Mia.
I can’t get her out of my head.
It’s finally occurred to me.
She won’t be satisfied until I’m dead.
I hate this girl named Mia.
She makes my life a living hell.
Someone please, hear my silent screams.
She won’t let me tell anyone anything.
My worst enemy is this girl named Mia.
She’s a demon in my head.
She seemed so very nice at first.
But I was so mislead.
I’m prisoner to this girl named Mia.
I’m captive to her will.
I have to do exactly what she says.
It’s the only way to ever make this end.
My murderer is this girl named Mia.
She starved me to my grave.
My heart finally stopped beating.
I couldn’t continue being brave.
But it’s okay. I’ll be okay.
I’m in a better place.
Mia–she is gone.
And now I’m finally safe.