Hi there! Click here to read the first part of this series. While this piece can be enjoyed as a standalone, reading the first part adds deeper context.
The last time I hated myself was in 2017, after I lost 8 pounds in three days from a stomach virus I contracted during my time studying abroad in Spain.
Now it’s 2022, and I hate myself again.
I’ve stopped eating and I’m back to being hauntingly skinny. “Open up,” my cousin says, guiding a spoonful of eggs into my mouth.
I close my eyes and swallow, focusing all my energy on keeping them down. “I’m full,” I mutter, turning my head away.
“That was your first bite. Here, eat one more,” she urges, pushing another spoonful towards me. I turn my head to avoid it, too drained and nauseated at the thought of food.
I never imagined I’d end up like this, being spoon-fed like a helpless infant. I take a swig from a glass of water, trying to wash down the guilt of being a burden.
Living alone wasn’t an option for me after what happened in Oklahoma—partly because I’d already moved out of my apartment a month earlier due to rising rent costs, but mostly because I couldn’t be left alone for long periods of time.
I still remember how I felt flying home, the trauma trailing me to Texas and consuming me completely.
The flight from Oklahoma was miserable, but thankfully, my mom was with me. She had flown to Oklahoma just before my ER visit and stayed with me for a week until it was time to head back home to Texas.
She made sure I ate, got out of bed, and held me together while I fell apart, reminding me that I was still human and not an empty shell.
On the plane, I spent the entire time with my head on her shoulder, eyes closed, and taking slow, deep breaths.
After my stress-induced anxiety attack at work, it felt like my body had learned how to spiral into an episode on demand, making me more susceptible to triggers. Being alone was the worst trigger of all.
When it was time for my mom and me to part ways in Dallas, I was in worse shape than when we’d arrived.
My mom had to stay with me in the boarding line until she couldn’t go any further. I don’t remember the flight back— I think I was so traumatized my brain blocked out the rest of that memory. When I landed, I vaguely remember deplaning and making my way to baggage claim to pick up my luggage.
As I walked to the arrivals curb, I almost passed out in relief after seeing my cousins black Toyota Camry pull up in front of me.
Just a little bit longer, I told myself as she leaned over and smiled at me through the passenger window. I returned a curt smile, tightening my grip on my luggage, anxious to get inside.
Just a couple more steps, then you can break.
As I collapsed into the car and fumbled with the seat belt, a wave of everything I’d been holding back rushed in.
Before she could even get a word out, I broke.
A month’s worth of fear, pain, and anxiety erupted into a guttural wail that seemed to shake the air.
It wasn’t crying— it was raw, unrestrained agony ripping out of me like it had been clawing at my chest for some time, desperate to be released.
My trembling lips turned into uncontrollable sobs, and my fists, clenched so tight they felt like stone, loosened into useless, trembling hands.
It wasn’t crying— it was a kind of release that left me hollow and gasping, like grief itself has seized me by the throat and refused to let go.
I’m safe.
I repeated those words to myself over and over again in my head as my soul shattered, its jagged pieces splintering across the car floor like glass smashing against cold tile.
Each sob tore through me, pulling me apart thread by thread until there was nothing left.
At the time, I didn’t think about my cousin’s heart, or the helplessness and fear she must have felt watching me break so violently. But I was home, I was safe, and all I could do was surrender to the overwhelming relief of finally finding shelter from the storm.
It’s been one month since I left Oklahoma, a month since I moved in with my cousin in her tiny 690-square-foot, one-bedroom apartment, and I feel suffocated. My Boxes are piled everywhere and crowding the space, making it feel like I’m living inside a furnished bell jar.
My cousin and I sleep in the same bed—me drifting off to the rhythm of my heart thumping against the Bible clutched tightly in my arms, and her to the sound of my sniffles, my eyes still raw from tears. It takes me hours to fall asleep every night because I’m afraid to close my eyes. Every time I do, I feel like I’m falling.
I wonder what I look like to her, as I lay in bed all day, crying and staring at the ceiling, frozen, and incapable of living like I used to — a hollow echo of the vibrant, energetic, and hopeful person I used to be.
I wonder what it’s like for my parents, seeing me cry on the other end of the screen with no answers and solutions to offer, just encouraging words and affirmations that taste stale after a while.
I wonder what it’s like for my long-distance boyfriend (of just three months) to see me falling apart while he’s too far away to do anything about it. I wonder how much longer he can take it, and if he’ll change his mind about us. There’s a good chance that, if I somehow make it through this, I will end up alone.
I wonder what it’s like for my friends and co-workers, who don’t know how bad it is, but can tell something isn’t quite right with me.
To see someone who’s always happy looking like they’re disappearing into thin air, like it takes so much effort to get through the day. To see a smile that no longer reaches tear-filled eyes.
It must be hard for all of them, and I wish, with what little is left in me, that I had enough energy to care — but I’m so consumed by own darkness that I can’t afford to think about it.
I roll onto my side, the bed creaking beneath me and the room blurring as a single hot tear slips down my cheek.
k.a
to be continued…
For no one is abandoned by the Lord forever. Though he brings grief, he also shows compassion because of the greatness of his unfailing love. For he does not enjoy hurting people or causing them sorrow.
Lamentations 3:31-33, NLT
Authors Note:
This story is based on true events, and it’s amazing to share it now because there’s so many good things that came from it, things I didn’t see at the time. I’m returning to Oklahoma soon to visit my cousin because, ironically, she moved there. It will be my first time back since everything happened, but I refuse to let a place and its traumatic memories keep me in rooted in fear. I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t a little nervous, but I’m not the same person I was back then—I’m stronger now. And no matter how it goes, there’s one truth that I can’t deny: God is still good.
kiana
Quotes That Make Me Feel Something:
Sweetheart thank you for your continued transparency. Your heartfelt openness is helping others. May God bless you as you share your story. You are such a treasure and I’m thanking God for giving back to you all that was lost. Beauty for ashes. I love you.
-Auntie W.
Thank you for sharing this it meant a lot to me reading it.