Confrontation

“We need to talk.”
“Me? Why?”
“I have some things to say to you.”
“Um... Do we have to do this right now? This isn’t really a good time.”
“I need to say this now.”
“It can’t wait?”
“No. It can’t.”
“Whatever. Anything you say won’t matter anyway.”
“That’s what I need to talk to you about. I need you to stop talking to me like that.”
“Like what?”
“Like I’m worthless. Like I’m a bad person, or not worthy of love, or whatever mean thought you come up with that day.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Yes you do. Don’t deny it. Every day, you’re attacking me with these horrible ideas that I’m not good enough.”
“Um...”
“You find imperfection after imperfection to critique, quirks to make fun of, and it seems like all you do is examine me and make me feel bad about what hurts me the most.”
“If I’m doing that, it’s unintentional.”
“Maybe it is, but you do it constantly. And it needs to stop. I’m actually starting to believe it.”
“What do you mean?”
“All your nasty comments about me are getting to my head. When I look in the mirror now, I see what you’ve said. I see the extra weight I’ve gained lately. I see my big, bulbous nose and the acne dotting my face. I see my not-white teeth and the hair on my upper lip and between my eyebrows that I can’t seem to pluck away. I see the extra fat on my cheeks and I see how my chin sticks out too far, and the stretch marks on my thighs, and the-“
“You know if I sai-“
“Don’t interrupt me. I’m sick of you interrupting me every day when I’m just trying to live my life. You’re constantly interrupting me, whatever I’m doing, with something negative to say about me. I can’t handle it anymore! Just stop it!”
“But y-“
“And you know what? It’s not just when I look at myself. I hear what you say and I feel what you say wherever I go. I’ll be talking to a boy and I hear my annoyingly high-pitched voice and I can feel the ugliness on my face like it’s all anyone can look at. I’ll be sitting in class and I feel how fat I am, because you told me. How bad I look in those jeans or that dress that I used to love, but now whenever I wear it you make fun of my weight and my size and how I look. It’s all your fault. You made me hate myself.”
“I-“
“You made me hate myself! Why? Why? Why did you do that to me? Why did you decide I was so much worse than everyone else? Why do you think I deserve to feel bad about myself? Why do you have to compare me to every other girl and tell me all the reasons why I’m not as good as her? Why do you think I’m so disgusting and ugly that I deserve to feel this way? Why won’t you leave me alone? Why do you hate me?”

“Do you have anything to say for yourself?”

“Nothing to say? Do you not have an answer? Can you not tell me why?”

“That’s what I thought. Leave me alone. Let me live my life.”

And with that, I dropped the mirror, letting the glass shatter as it hit the ground. Hopefully, I thought, the bully I had confronted inside of it had shattered too.