“The Enchantress,” Amy Gastright ‘21

out of. Self-care did not exist; I simply did not have that type of mental capacity. Sleep came when I had time, which was seldom. I often lacked the energy or motivation to even shower or put on clean clothes in the morning. School was a task that seemed impossible, much less completing my school work on time or at all. I faked a smile and a high-pitched laugh while my body was trapped inside the jail cell that was school. I wanted the world to know I was fine. As far as I was concerned, I was fine - and that was life.

I remember I had a big history paper due that Monday. I wasn’t necessarily behind, but I certainly had a good amount still to do. I woke up with the mindset that I would get a quick breakfast and lock myself in my room for the rest of the day to force myself to do something that really did not need to be that big of a deal. I never changed out of my pajamas, something I had been finding myself doing more and more lately. My computer awaited me, sitting propped open on my bed, prepared to scold me for any attempt at further procrastination. I had no choice - today was the day, and it had to be done. Sitting down with a pocket full of notes and resources and everything in between, I could feel the pit in my stomach begin to dig deeper and deeper. I first started chewing on my nails. I picked at the old gel manicure until all that was left was dry, white nail bed and a pile of bright red polish in my trashcan. Then, I started to chew on the inner gum of my right lip. I chewed and chewed until I could feel raw flesh and taste blood inside my mouth. I dug my fingernails deep into the dry skin on my thighs. I pressed and pressed, and when it started to hurt, I pressed some more. I clenched my teeth and closed my eyes and truly felt. I finally released my sweaty palms from their locked position on my thighs. I felt a tingle shoot through that spot as I removed my hand and lightly placed it atop the heavy white duvet comforter that was spread across my bed. I peered down at the dark-red, even purple, crescent moons that were left scowling back at me. They laughed in my face, reminding me that I had fallen to their mousetrap once more. I stood up and felt the weight of my feet and my body on the floor for the first time since breakfast that morning. I felt the stinging in my legs - but it was more of a surface stinging. It didn’t hurt me. I couldn’t let it hurt me. I walked into the bathroom and felt the cold tile on my bare feet. White walls and white sinks and white granite countertops blinded me. Everything seemed so clean. I could not detect a single piece of dirt, a loose strand of hair or water droplets on the ground. Almost like it had never been used before, my bathroom shone clean under the fluorescent lighting. I looked down at my legs and then back up at the wall. The crescent moons had expanded and darkened, and for a moment I pictured my bathroom stained the color of my weak legs. For one second of my life, I saw the red scars stamped onto the perfectly clean walls and granite and sink of my bathroom. They dripped with dark-red ink and stained the new granite counters. For one moment I pictured the worst. I opened my eyes and saw that the walls remained perfectly intact. Before I could do anything to stop it, the warm tears came flooding down my face, bringing with them large chunks of dark eye makeup. They ran down the sides of my nose and into the creases of my lips and I could taste the warm saltiness that was my sorrow. They ran down the far sides of my face and lined my cheeks until my skin was satisfactorily moist. I turned on the faucet with a shaky hand and let the water run. Something about that made my tears seem lesser. I stood, and I leaned against the mirror, and I saw myself, and I cried - I cried for the way things were. I cried because things aren’t as bad as they could be, and I knew that, but I still cried. I cried because that day I had broken my own heart, and I knew it would never fully heal. That day I cried for myself because in a world of seven billion people I still somehow managed to feel more alone than ever. I cried for the people who felt alone, and I cried for the people who didn’t feel alone - because in this hell of a world sometimes that can be just as bad. I cried for everything that day. When the tears slowed and my lungs found it easier to work on their own once more, I wiped my eyes softly and turned off the faucet. I looked away from the mirror for the first time since my eyes were dry, and it came to my attention that there was a world outside of my white, granite bathroom. I’m not sure if this brought me pain or relief or anything in between - all I know is that I walked out of my bathroom that day on my own two feet and found a way to wake up the next morning, which is more than some people can say.

— Eva Balistreri ‘21