What Life Is

An Empty Glass

I live in a fishbowl. I reside under a magnifying glass in a town where very few sets of eyes are ignorant as to who I belong to. It is only because of this that I give all of myself to others with open and blood-soaked hands. I fall to my knees and offer every part of myself to a world that does not reciprocate my love and my sacrifice. I must have started off with a full glass, with a glass that was shiny and new, and did not care what the world thought. I do not remember much of that at all.
As soon as the scales fell from my eyes and I began to truly see the whirlwind of terror that surrounded my young and shallow mind, my glass began to empty. I began to lose the fire behind my eyes which burned in my soul, keeping me alive and willing to burn on. I lost more of that fire with every violent threat hurled at the little girl that I could no longer see in the mirror.    With every hand raised to me and every demeaning word that lashed my back, I faded even more. I could not go one moment without the fear that I was doing something so wrong that I would face the fury of the giant and violent man who smelled of cigarette smoke, alcohol, and the threat of abandonment.
I poured out my glass on the ground of my hell-soaked environment wetting the floor with my misery hoping that I would cool it down so that it would not kill my siblings as it was killing me. It worked; my siblings were safe, but I was gone. I perpetually trembled and jumped at the slightest movements that even hinted that they could hurt me. I operated in total fear. Each loud noise led my body to shake violently. Each raised voice sent me into a downward spiral.
I was afraid of the things that had already desecrated my glass happening again and leaving me shattered and abandoned. I knew that I was not ever going to be good enough to be a glass half full kind of person. I had already been convinced that I was nothing more than a brain in a body that no one could ever desire. I was only important if I contributed something extraordinary to bring a good reputation to my family name. I lived in a constant state of knowing that I would never be good enough. This led me to the conclusion that if I could quietly disappear, everything would be better for everyone.
Death was a concept that was never far from my mind. I desired the cold release of death and the peace that would come with it. The crimson rivers carved into my pale skin to this day prove that. The red lines that cover my wrists tell my story. Death was something that I ran to with open arms because it was the only thing that I could hope to control. I recall vividly that day. I was putting dishes away as a part of my chores and I grasped the handle of the largest knife we had in the house. I knew that I wanted to die. I knew that I did not want to live in hell any longer. I gazed into the shimmering blade and saw someone that I did not recognize anymore. I did not know this frightened little girl staring back at me, purple bags under her eyes, wishing for the comforting embrace of death because it was the only definite embrace I could hope to get. I held the tip of the knife to my chest and began to push feeling the blade begin to pierce me. It was terrifying and perfect. I pushed with the force of each of the instances where I had been called a "slut." With every bruise left on me and every trace of the abuse I had been through, I drove the knife into my skin. I was ready to leave the world behind when my mother entered the kitchen. I dropped the knife on the floor and she shrieked. She did not know what I was really doing. There was no blood for her to see, no river of life flowing from the child she thought was okay. She was only afraid that the knife might cut my feet, but the dull pain in my chest and the new indent there proved that there was something else that she should have been worried about.
That day, my glass shattered. I would never be the same nor would I ever be able to forget. I gave myself to the world in exhausting service and it drove me to the point of nearly spilling my blood for it. It has been nearly a decade since I attempted to take my life, and I can say that my glass is still empty and unrecognizable just as I am. I live my day to day with the knowledge that I am standing so close to the edge that one shift in the weight of life would send me off of it head first, but I am a warrior. I may be a warrior with an empty glass, but I continue to use the broken shards to fight my way through the battlefield of life.