For three years, I thrust myself head-first into hell.
The gateway was the porcelain toilet bowl in my bathroom.
The tremendous torture of being unsatisfactory ripped at my esophagus and stabbed my self-esteem.
Man-made misery, drowned in hues of red and gray and violent emotions.
The torment was addictive: I injected razor blades and shot fingers up my throat.
Purging all life from my luscious body.
Sweet voices in my head softly serenaded me with the encores of fat, ugly, and stupid.
Words swirled in the sink of my subconscious, washed away by the stream of innocence flowing from me.
Hades loomed over me as I sank deeper into despair that I could not rid myself of.
Soon pill bottles ended up in my backpack, begging to be used. I refused.
The strength it took to lift my head out of the depths of death was tremendous.
Weeks and months of dates with therapists and nutritionists, kissing me back to life.
I slowly awoke from the slumber of spellbound self-hate.
Fairy dust and depression mixed in a cocktail glass; I was the drunk Sleeping Beauty.
Seeing myself clearly was a confusion; tears wept and weeks lost in torment.
But the gateway to hell slowly sealed shut, and the toilet lid was locked up. Freedom was found in my soul.