An Autofictional story by Freja Gantzler Oschlak.
Disclaimer brought to you, because my mother who was worried, about misunderstandings. This text is work of fiction, about living with mental illness. The character is a personification of intrusive thoughts, I don’t have strong hallucinations.
There is a woman in my mirror. She is my reflection, but she does not reflect me. she does not reflect my ideals, belief, my thoughts. When I stand beside her, my mind and body changes, until I cannot recognize myself anymore.
She lures me in with sweet words and false promises. I fear her, but I love her all the same. I keep coming back to her. She has a hold over me. She takes me in her arms and strokes my hair. She whispers in my ear and tells me, that she knows what’s best for me; for us. She thinks she should be the one in control, I start to agree with her.
The longer she holds me, the weaker I get. I see my body change before my eyes. I am ugly. I am cruel. I look at myself and I hate what I see. I try to get away from her. She tightens her grip. I discover I no longer have the strength to escape her. I look at her. The other me. She is suddenly so beautiful. I stop struggling. Maybe she is right. Maybe she knows whats best for us.
Look at her, compared to me. I cannot compete with her. She cares about me, even though I know, I am not deserving of her love. I cannot lose her. I can’t imagine what I would do without her, by my side. She smiles down at me and softly kiss my cheek. She praises me. She tells me I have made the right decision. She is going to make everything alright.
She takes my hand and says “let us go home and kill you. When you die, you no longer feel. When you die, you are neither ugly nor beautiful. All you will be is a memory. For a second it all makes sense. For that second, I believe her. Why wouldn’t I? I look back at the mirror. The two of us standing side by side, and then I realize, that she is no longer my reflection. That is not me. I do not think like that. I am not in control.
As I look at her, her mask fall. Her skin is falling off, in flakes. She no longer resembles me. She has become a concept without form. Strangely enough, this is how I prefer to think off her. As a thing outside my own head. We are separate, yet alike. Now that I have seen her, for what she is, it is easier to resist her temptations. Still there are days where I look in the mirror, and all I see is her. In those moments I want nothing more than to believe her once again. I want nothing more than to embrace and let her take my troubles away.