Now to go visit my Lucia.......this is starting to resemble a frantic ping-pong game.
I've pretty much convinced her that any "bad" feelings she has are signs that she's imperfect. And of course, she's bound to feel such feelings. She, of course, is alone. She has taken to being alone. She finds it enjoyable. Easier to listen to me. I find her inside, watching the stars through the window. They flicker so hopefully, but she feels no hope.
I hate myself.
Oh you should sweetheart. You totally should. PLUS hating yourself is imperfect. See this glorious web I have caught you in? You will never be able to escape.
I hate YOU.
But dear, I AM YOU. I define you. You would be nothing without me. All you hate is yourself. See this pain? This hurt? This deep wound? Its never going to heal. Your always going to feel this way, and you are so imperfect, that keeping what you feel inside isn't going to help anymore. You need to be punished for thinking thoughts such as your's and feeling feelings such as your's.
Then what should I do. Because I DO need to be punished for feeling this.
Compliant. Emotionless. That's my girl. I draw her to the mirror. I do so love mirrors. Something about staring at one's reflection draws up the most inward hate. I begin chanting my tantalizing lines, knowing they will be with her for the rest of the night. For the rest of her miserable life.
You are worthless. You are unloved. You are stupid. You are to blame. You will never be forgiven. You are no good. You. Must. Be. Punished.
Tears well in her eyes. She hates the tears that so often come to surface. She stares into the mirror, totally buying all that I'm telling her. She is so contempable in her eyes, so despicable. The outside looks perfect enough, but she knows the inside is dirty. Filthy. She knows she's trash, that she isn't anything special.
I cling to her even tighter. I can tell I'm suffocating her. My words roll through her head repeatedly. She holds her head in her hands, trying to be rid of me. Struggling to breathe. Ignoring her reflection. She knows there is no escape. I see her eye her hands, then look back into the mirror. Glaring at her own face. The deep blue eyes that tell the story of her life. She scornfully whispers these words through unshed tears and trembling hands.
"Mirror mirror on the wall, who do I hate most of all?"