Broken mirrors

Sometimes it is difficult to look at myself in the mirror.  Something as simple as trying to take a photo of myself can send me into full blown panic.

Let me tell you why…

I met Jason when I was 23 and he was 36.  He had tattoos and could play guitar.  We bonded over AC/DC and Metallica.  I had been interested in BDSM since I was a teenager but he was the first one to ever bring out the submissive in me.  I would have done anything for him.

Jason had a love affair with Jack Daniels.  There is nothing more to say about that.

He thought I hated myself.  I didn’t.  I was borderline cocky.

One night after a few two many swigs from the bottle he got a genius idea.  (I’m going to fix you.  I’m going to make you love yourself.)  That was it, the first crack.  He pulled me into the bedroom and pushed me in front of the mirror so I could tell him all the things I hated about myself.

When I said I hated nothing, he got angry and called me a liar.  So I lied.  I made up every flaw I could think of until he was satisfied.  I was so enamored with him that I believed I was just being a ‘good girl.’

And then I shattered at his feet.  Those lies became my truths.  It’s still a struggle, four years later.

When I look in the mirror: I smell the whiskey, hear his voice screaming in my ear (Don’t you dare fucking lie to me, Stella), feel his hand twisted in my hair.  I see those flaws.  Sometimes I can get past them, sometimes I can’t.

I would have done anything for him.  The first man to bring out my submission and the first man to shatter me into pieces.



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