Out of control, I sink into myself. I look at my hands and see someone else’s flesh. I singe my pinky finger on the frying pan, yelp and step backward, alarmed at the pain. Downward, swirling downward. Gazing into the mirror, I glimpse black under green, my eyes tired and searching. Who have I become?

When I speak, words that aren’t of my choosing, I panic inside. What have I said that will injure the listener? Downward, spiralling downward. Logic evades me- I cannot think clearly. Clouded by thoughts of confusion, of anger, of self-hatred. I scare you, I scare myself. I cannot escape. Who have I become?

The floor, solid beneath my sinewy backbone, cold in the November evening. I could get up from its unyielding support if I could only push the thoughts away. Downward, sliding downward. Out of control, I’m floating in a dreamworld of some creature’s creation. Snap out of it, girl. Who have I become?

It isn’t me, pounding to the ground onto both knees. It isn’t me, paralyzed by irrationality. It isn’t me, shouting hatred into the hallway. Who have I become? I haven’t.

I haven’t become a monster, I have not given in. Downward, I fall. Inhaling, I rise. Shake off the pain. Push away the fear. Reach for the future. Who will I become?

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