I thought I grew up but I still see the 12-year-old girl staring back at me in the mirror. The 12-year-old who wished she had swapped places with her dad. The 12-year-old that was in so much pain she couldn’t see past all the broken glass. The 12-year-old whose voice would not be heard over the deafening silence.
I thought that by the age of 21 the insecurities and sorrow residing in my shattered heart would slowly disappear so I could start putting my heart together, piece by piece. But I was wrong. They just got clouded by more imperfections, more broken glass. I was wrong to ever think I could finally heal. Finally not be the little girl I ended up hating.
So much pain, so much sadness. It overclouded me.
I thought after 9 years I’d finally be heard. I will finally exist in a place I could call my own. I could fix the pieces of my heart. I would heal. But sometimes I wake up in the middle of the night with my voice hoarse from screaming. My breath is labored, face wet with my tears as I relive my nightmares over and over again. The 12-year-old girl who was invisible.
I thought I had left her in my past. In between the ugly friends and the nasty notes. All I wanted to do was move on from the darkness. I wanted to find the light and leave the horrible behind. Instead, I got the missing pieces of a jigsaw and haunted dreams of a 12-year-old girl. I lay awake at night, praying. Wishing with all the torn pieces of my heart, that it was me in the box.
I wish it was me, not him.
The little girl