Educated

into the mirror at the girl clutching her wrist. Her eyes were glassy and drops
slid down her cheeks. I hated her for her weakness, for having a heart to
break. That he could hurt her, that anyone could hurt her like that, was
inexcusable.
I’m only crying from the pain, I told myself. From the pain in my wrist.
Not from anything else.
This moment would define my memory of that night, and of the many
nights like it, for a decade. In it I saw myself as unbreakable, as tender as
stone. At first I merely believed this, until one day it became the truth. Then I
was able to tell myself, without lying, that it didn’t affect me, that he didn’t
affect me, because nothing affected me. I didn’t understand how morbidly
right I was. How I had hollowed myself out. For all my obsessing over the
consequences of that night, I had misunderstood the vital truth: that its not
affecting me, that was its effect.