“This mirror is not broken, no it’s not broken. It’s me who is broken. It’s me that is imperfect. It’s me who’s flawed. Oh look. My crooked nose. It’s not that jagged shard. It’s just my nose. I hate my nose. Seriously, I even hate my face. Screw it. I hate my whole self. That scar. Wait. Where did I get that scar? Oh this one. I got this from that blade. Yeah. Now I remember. When I drew that sharp edged blade through my own skin as if pain was nothing. As if pain didn’t exist. I remember how reluctant I was initially. I was a coward, really. See how brave I became in the very next few moments. The resultant cut didn’t feel like anything. It was just a straight line filled with red blood. Red blood that dripped as my unfelt tears dripped from my eyes. Did it hurt? No. May be it did hurt, I just didn’t feel it. I shouldn’t have made that mistake of self-harming. See how bad this scar looks. Another addition to my imperfections. Do bullets hurt? Probably not. I would have tried shooting myself in the head for all the mistakes that I have made in the past if I had enough courage to pull the trigger. But then, courage isn’t an issue in my case. But wait. Would it have been easy feeling a hole in my skull, seeing blood all over my pupils and watching darkness fall in front of my vision? Perhaps not. But then I don’t feel and I am constantly living in darkness anyway, I just need a gun. Damn it I don’t even have enough money to buy one. What have I ever done in my entire life? Didn’t make people happy. Didn’t make myself happy. Didn’t make enough money. Didn’t make a good life. I should be dead by now. I belong to a cemetery. I should try poison now. Yeah. That might help.”
She was a self-critic suffering from self-criticism. She had imprisoned herself in a cell of auto-critique where nobody could save her from herself.