How does one change so much that she doesn’t even know who she is anymore?

A month ago she was a different person. A month ago she was noticeably happier. More importantly a month ago she was her. Now she wakes up, looks in the mirror and she does not recognize the reflection staring back at her. This is not her skin, nor her smile. Those are not her eyes, nor her tears. That’s just not her. She wishes she could tell you who it was but she can not. But what she can tell you is how she feels.

She’s scared. Scared of who she’s become. Scared that she’s going to hurt herself. Scared that everyone who was by her side before is going to disappear if she doesn’t push them away first. She’s scared because she does not know what everyone is saying about her. Weather she’s a loser, a bitch, a slut, or she’s just a liar. She’s scared. She likes to push people away. I would never do that. She insists though. I know that there are people there for me. People who are trying to help me. She doesn’t know that, nor does she see it. So what does she do? Continue to wander further and further from those who are there. She’s running from them and everything that they are offering. She’s running further away from me and I can not stop her. She’s too fast.

She’s depressed. I did not know that. She says “did you know safety scissors suck when you want to hurt yourself.” I guess that’s why they have the word “safety” in it. She’d rather jump off a roof, or wander into the street hoping for the worst. That wouldn’t be the worst. The worst would be if she lived. The worst would be her attempt failing and her having to deal with that everyday. But then she also believes the worst is living everyday knowing she can never go through with her suicidal thoughts because why? She’s scared. That only means she lost in the end, no matter how much she thinks she won. She does not realize that you should never give up no matter how hard things may seem.

She does not know how not to get attached. Me on the other hand it was kind of easy to not let myself attach to anything or anyone for that matter. She fucked around and got dropped. She gave someone else a part of her and in return she’s now hurting. She’s the one crying at night because she thought it was something else but she knew. It kills me to say she knew, but she did. She knew it was nothing and still insisted it was something. Who is she fooling? Only herself.

I have friends. I have a close circle of them too. She does not. She pushed everyone away, but eventually they started leaving on their own. Eventually she tried to look for me, but I was no longer there. I was on the other side of the glass watching as she tried to scratch through the surface to reach me. I watched as she made all of her mistakes. I watched as she stumbled to find a bed after a night of partying. I watched as she didn’t make it back to her friends apartment that one night. I watched as she took her 16th shot and fell to the floor. I watched as she tried to kill herself and I did nothing about it. I watched as she let everyone around her go. I just watched. I didn’t try to help. I didn’t try and save her. Why? Because that’s not me. I don’t know who she is.

I’m trying to let her in. I’m not sure if I trust her. For if I let her take over me completely there’s no turning back. I as everyone knows me will be gone and she’d be the one to blame. Better yet I’d be the one to blame because I let her in. I let her emotions, and actions control me and make me someone that I am not. I refuse to let her in. I refuse to break the glass that separates me from her. I am I. She is she. We might look the same but we are absolutely not the same person. I guess you could say I’m the angel and, she’s the devil. She likes bad, and not knowing what’s going to happen. I like good, and I’d rather have a plan for What’s going to happen. I need a way to let her go. I just do not know how. I need to find a way to say goodbye.

As I lay my head down to hopefully get some rest, I see her all alone on the other side of the glass. Staring at me, asking for help. “ Don’t help her.” I say. If she wanted to be herself again she should have never shedded her skin. Once you come out it’s hard to go back in. Change is good sometimes. When you start changing for the worst though, that’s a different story. That is when the clouds turn darker, and the trees begin to die, and the rain doesn’t seem to end. That is the worst kind of change.