this face is not my own

[purple_shadows]

I turned this in as an english assignment today. The assignment was to write a narrative about a force in your life that has made you what you are today. Anyways, enjoy the read and i really want to get good constructive criticism.

 

Every morning I wake up and wash my face over the bathroom sink. While drying my face I look up and stare into the eyes of a stranger. They are expressive eyes, brown, and green, and gold, always changing. Pale skin and rosy cheeks, chapped pink lips, and dark curly hair with hints of red and gold. I see long pale hands, and wrists no bigger than an average four year olds. A tiny torso is contrasted by hips that have rounded themselves out over the last year. All the way down to the tiny ankles and feet that are too long and thin for her body. On the top of her left forearm crisscross thin, pearly white scars. But these scars are not hers, they are my own. To touch upon the surface is not for what it seems however, and they barely begin to hint at the scars that lie hidden underneath.

 

When I look at them I can’t help but think “Gestalt,” art speak meaning the whole is greater than the sum of its parts. Each scar has its own separate meaning, and alone would be wholly unremarkable, but together they tell a story. However, the fact that they are only on the top of the forearm shows unimaginable restraint to most, but they don’t understand that even in the worst of times I never wanted to die. It is on this unmarred skin where the story truly is told of the strength of heart and will to survive that carried me through my darkest days, and made me who I am today.

 

Perhaps you are wondering where this all began, and I shall tell you. It is rather cliché actually; it all begins with a boy, a little over a year and a half ago. I was a sophomore in high school and he was my first real boyfriend. Up until that point every relationship has been one failed attempt after another, twelve total, never lasting over two weeks. Perhaps that is why I was so desperate to make this work. I needed to prove to myself, as well as everyone else that I could do it. He needed to prove how much he could get away with. That is where the problems start.

 

People always tell me I am too trusting, but they never had to tell me, I already knew. There is a point when you are too loyal, and even though you are kicking and screaming while he is holding you down, you still believe that he would never hurt you, and you would do anything if it would make him happy. Writers often refer to this as mental blindness; a blindness I believe is caused by pride. I couldn’t admit to myself that I was wrong, because that would mean I had failed, and I thought that everyone else would see it as such, so I pretended that it wasn’t happening. When one door closes another one opens, and I had slammed all of mine shut, allowing others to swing wide open so that he could get in and torment and twist to his hearts content, manipulating me however he saw fit.

 

At first, I had no idea that while he was confessing his love to me, and telling me of his hearts deepest desires, he was doing the same with at least five other girls. The only difference was that they knew and didn’t care, whereas I was left completely in the dark. Eventually his secret got around to me, and I made the mistake of running to him in tears. He sulked for days and accused me of not loving or trusting him enough. He told me that he had heard rumors that it was me who was being unfaithful. He called me every name in the book. I told him he was wrong, and he told me that we needed to break up. Everyday for four days I called him, begged his forgiveness, told him that I had been wrong to accuse him, and would he please come back. Eventually he said ok, and I let him do what he pleased with me without protest, besides, he’d have hit me if I didn’t. It wasn’t until later that I found out on this break he had been dating a girl who I thought had been my friend.

 

People tell me that I am too compassionate. They tell me that I can’t fix the worlds problems, but I thought that maybe I could fix his. His parents had died when he was twelve and he had to move in with his aunt and uncle, people who barely had enough money at the end of the day to put food on the table. I made him lunch almost everyday, and when I could afford it, we would have pizza from The Pub across the street. If it weren’t for this, I might have had money to spend on myself every now and then, but I never did. It seemed that most of my paycheck went to support feeding him or taking him places. I think that it made me feel like I was in control, but like most things in our relationship, it had only been an illusion, and a thinly veiled one at that. One that everyone saw through, even I saw through it, but I could never admit to myself that I was wrong.

 

My grades were slipping. I spent night after night on the phone with him for hours at a time, more often than not, I was crying. He’d tell me that he was going to kill himself, that he just couldn’t take it anymore, he was a failure. As his girlfriend, it was my job to tell him how amazing he was and how much potential he had, even when he ended up in jail for a night and expelled from school for a month. Conversations like these often left me emotionally drained, and I would go to bed without so much as touching my homework.

 

I started having dreams, dreams of rape and violence so vivid that I would wake up in the morning, bruised and sore, or in the middle of the night shaking and drenched in a cold sweat. I stopped sleeping, instead I occupied my time by reading or writing, or simply sitting, drifting in and out of consciousness until it was finally time to dress and get ready for school.

 

My parents hated him of course, and I could see no wrong, add that to the fact that I was on the verge of failing almost every subject that I was currently in. With the pressure coming from both sides, I had to find an outlet, and so I grabbed a safety pin and began to cut. Wasn’t the blood that did it for me, instead it was the rhythmic scratch, scratch, scratch, that calmed me down. I needed something simple, something I could control, and cutting gave me this. I would feel about ready to explode and all I had to do was find a safety pin and begin to scratch. It brought upon me an instant content and blissful peace, but it also made me feel hollow, and ashamed. I could not bear what I had done, and knew what everyone would think, and so even on the hottest spring days I wore long sleeves or a light sweatshirt. By the end of spring I had stopped, but not because things had gotten better. On the contrary, it was because it was getting too hot. I needed to be able to wear tank tops, but I didn’t want people to see scabs on my arms.

 

Soon summer came and he and I went on a fourth break. By this time, I was in too deep to let go, and so I would do what he asked when he asked regardless of if we were going out or not. I wanted to be with him, and I wanted his approval, to me that was all that mattered. By the end of summer we were dating secretly. Little did I know that he was also dating my best friend. But then she let it slip, and I went into hysterics. He told me that she was just spreading rumors, and again accused me of cheating on him, like every time before. Of course she had had no idea that he and I were together, so it wasn’t entirely her fault. I however, placed the blame on her, and not on him like I should have.

 

School started and this was still going on. I dated him openly to rub it in her face, and she dated him secretly to shove it in mine. We had been best friends but a boy was tearing us apart. I had finally begun to understand what he was doing and refused to let it happen. But by that point it was too late, we had played perfectly into his hands. It took me a week of breaking up and getting back together with him, hours and hours of crying and screaming on the phone (52 hours exactly). He used every trick in the book, including the threat of suicide, but I knew that I had to hold my ground, and I finally managed to break up with him for good, two weeks shy of a year from the day he asked me out.

 

I’d allowed myself to be manipulated for so long, that I no longer knew how to function without him. I had lost my friends, I had lost my parents trust, I had lost my own identity. The only way I knew how to live was through him. You’d think that breaking away would be liberating. On the contrary, I was left as nothing but a shell. I couldn’t even feel triumph. At that point, all I felt was sapped. I felt hollow. I couldn’t even form coherent speech, I’d flinch if someone said my name, I’d sit rocking in a corner, muttering to myself for hours on end, I wouldn’t sleep, and when I did, I’d dream dreams more terrible than those previous. I had snapped, and recovery would be long and hard, but I refused to waste my life.

 

The first thing I had to do was get out of the drama, and the best excuse I had was to join running start. I joined a quarter late, and while at first I was only there because I needed an escape, I soon found a future. Not only that, but I did better in college than I ever had in high school.

 

The second thing I did was join Art Honor Society. I immersed myself in art, expanding on my previous knowledge by learning new techniques and mediums, applying them to work that I’d been doing on my own.

 

I stopped living life in the past and began looking towards the future. I packed up anything in my room that reminded me of my past relationship, and gave it all back. This gave me room for other things, like shelving for art supplies, books, even clothes. I changed everything about myself. Started filling my closet with bright colors, as opposed to my previous black. I dyed my hair in all colors of the rainbow, and then cut off over a foot of it. I started wearing makeup again (he had hated it), and I enrolled myself in Tai Chi. I now have a more playful outlook on life, and live everyday as if it were my last. I voice my opinions, which was something I could never do before. I do things that are good for me, good for the soul, like dancing in the rain, and running with sheet trailing behind me in the wind. I use my past constructively in my art, my writing, and my acting. I can sleep at night.

 

While my experience left me bent and bitter, and deeply wounded, it never broke me. The wounds are still healing, and no matter what, I will always bear the scars. They are a reminder of my darker days, and how far I have come from the year I refer to as the time when I was sleeping with the devil. But they are much more than that, because when I look in the mirror, stranger though I seem, I still see that opposite these scars is pale unmarred flesh, and that is where my strength truly lies. To say that I didn’t receive some guidance along the way would be a lie, but that would involve writing a completely different story, so instead I will say this: There were many times I could have easily slit my wrists but I didn’t. Instead, I chose to live.

Edited May 11, 2004 by purple_shadows

[Katzaniel]

I'm not sure if I have as much to say as you'd like to hear, but since no one else has commented I will try.

 

I felt strong, raw emotion throughout the piece. I wanted to read it right through to the end, but I did find that it was a little slow starting out. I've never focussed much on physical descriptions in my writing, so it could just be my own uncaring attitude toward description, but I didn't get sucked in until the second paragraph. I personally think it would be stronger if it started right in with "On the top of my left forearm crisscross thin, pearly white scars. When I look at them..."

 

I like the style, with you giving statements like, "People always tell me I am too trusting..." and then expanding with your own opinions.

 

I found the sentence "...the best excuse I had was to join running start." confusing. I'm not sure what you meant. Is "running start" a club?

 

Anyway, that's about all I can think of. I did like it. And I hope this is helpful.

[Ayshela]

i'll answer that one, if i may..

Running Start is a program which allows and encourages high school students to take college classes. High school classes are generally scheduled in one half of the day to leave the other half open for scheduling classes at the community college. There are lists of classes at the college which fulfill high school graduation requirements, so that you can be earning college credit while completing your high school requirements - and usually without the high school drama. Additionally, depending on your class load and willingness/ability to stretch yourself, you can earn credits much *faster* at the college, potentially completing two years' high school requirements in one year.

 

For those who are ready to work at an adult level, it's an excellent program.

[Ayshela]

*will post other feedback on the story once i've found a bit of emotional distance from it.*

[purple_shadows]

couldn't have said it better myself Ayshela

[Ayshela]

*smiles and bows*

thank you. i'm glad you didn't mind my jumping in on that one.

[purple_shadows]

Of course not.

 

And I forgot to thank you for comment katzaniel. and while I appreciate your criticism on the first paragraph, you will find that this discription is quite neccisary as it tells how i feel about myself today and that as far as I have come, I still don't feel that I have found myself, which was also part of the assignment.

But thank you and I'm glad that you took the time to read through it and comment, because I know it is rather long, at least for me.

[Ayshela]

okay.. technical stuff first.

You have a *lot* of comma splices here. Yes, i realize this is rather a pot-and-kettle situation, i'm prone to them myself, but it is something to watch for. There are a lot of places here where you've kept running along as one sentence because the thoughts are very closely tied, but it should be split into two separate sentences. If you want to improve this, i'd look closely at that.

 

Next to that would be apostrophes - "his heart's" and similar things.

 

Then, going through in order:

When one door closes another one opens, and I had slammed all of mine shut, allowing others to swing wide open so that he could get in and torment and twist to his hearts content, manipulating me however he saw fit.

This is confusing. You had slammed all of yours shut, but still others were allowed to swing wide? How's that work if you slammed them all shut?

 

Wasn’t the blood that did it for me, instead it was the rhythmic scratch, scratch, scratch, that calmed me down.

It wasn't the blood, to complete the sentence?

 

It brought upon me an instant content and blissful peace, but it also made me feel hollow, and ashamed.

contentment?

 

Started filling my closet with bright colors, as opposed to my previous black.

Own this one, hon.. "I started" =)

 

and running with sheet trailing behind me in the wind.

with sheet.. with a sheet? with sheeting material? this one catches me when i read through because it's a little unclear specifically what you mean, though it's a truly delightful image. =)

 

 

And now to the hard part.

i recognize that this is probably lengthy writing for you. Nonetheless, it is compelling and well narrated. Part of what makes this so difficult for me is that i want to stop at various points and say "yupyup, been there, done that". If i point out that your upper arm is more readily hidden than your lower, it would degenerate into a discussion of cutting, which is hardly the point because that's merely a means to an end and you'd get much the same effect repeatedly slamming your hand into a wall. The point is the control which you gained, for even a few short moments - and which you went on to regain over yourself and your life.

 

When i reached the point of your sitting there staring blankly, unable even to speak, i found myself nodding and wanting to cry with remembered pain. That is the *hardest* point to get through, and you've my admiration for being able to do so without finding someone else to give you orders. All too few have your strength.

 

An excellent piece, hon. A well crafted slice of life (if you'll pardon the awful and unintentional pun). Be good to yourself. You deserve it. And keep that sense of watchful caution against anyone who won't be good to you.

*hugs*

[purple_shadows]

ok, first, I'll start by explaining the doors. "when one door shuts, another one opens" I probably could have phrased the rest of that better, but basically what i am trying to say is that I shut all the doors that I needed, and that meant he got through the bad ones that opened in their place.

 

as for all the little run ons and stuff, well, yeah kind of expected that. Same with the whole forgetting of the 'I" bit. too late to change it for the assignment obviously, but I will deffinately pay attention to it in later works.

 

Not quite sure what you are trying to say with the blood one. end the scentence after it and capitalize instead? *Noted*

 

Content and blissful peace too me are two similar ideas, but not the same thing. i played with that one for awhile, but it didn't feel right choosing one or the other, again, i will keep this in mind.

 

and the with a sheet is as in "with a bed sheet" but I just call them sheets.

 

 

*hugs* and thank you

[Ayshela]

with the blood thing.. you're missing the "It" at the beginning of the sentence. It would read more smoothly and accurately "It wasn't the blood that did it for me"

 

and i quite agree that contentment and blissful peace would be different things, but you had it stated as "content" not "contentment" which it would, more properly, be.

 

Small, technical stuff for a piece already submitted. Things to note for future writing, though, and should you decide to polish this for another purpose.

 

*hugs*

[purple_shadows]

Ahhh..ok then. Jeeze, i've read over this thig over and over again and never noticed this stuff. probablt because since it is my own story, as i read it, i tell it, and thus add words in in my mind that should be there but aren't. blargh. i hate it when that happens.

 

*hugs*

[Ayshela]

*nods* thus the necessity for proofreaders. we all tend to read what we *mean* it to say, instead of what it actually says.