Drawn to Life (4 page)

Chapter 4
½

Mia—Bits and Pieces of My Life

Graz, September 2011

I didn’t know what to do with myself. Day in and day out, I paced through a big, empty house. Most of the week, my parents were at work, and my little sister was at school. Anna was leading the good life: A happy life with friends, free from gnawing pain and crushing worries. Nothing serious, no life-threatening changes weighed her down.

My own life consisted of little except hospitalizations, nausea, and devastating, existential fears.

My soul suffered. Emptiness and rage consumed me.

I hated everything. I didn’t understand why fate had been so cruel. Fury made me do things I’d never thought I was capable of.

One day, I’d been particularly angry. In the morning, I’d talked on the phone with Christoph. I despised myself for still answering his calls, but I couldn’t seem to stop. I was still attached to him. I hated him because he had broken up with me, but at the same time, I still loved him. And Christoph? Well, apparently, he couldn’t let go, either. He probably had a guilty conscience prompting him to call me every day. He said he wanted to make sure I was doing OK.

Those conversations never failed to stir up my emotions. I’d end up furious at myself for not staying strong, not ignoring his calls. Every time my cell rang, I checked the name on the display, and when it was his, I answered. And then questioned my sanity. I had to be out of my mind in order to still put up with him. In his sweetest voice, he’d call me Mimi, and then I’d fall for him all over. It was especially ridiculous because Julia hadn’t broken up with Markus after all, and her affair with Christoph had remained just that, an affair. But Christoph couldn’t win me back, ever, even if I often felt on the verge of returning to him.

That day, I was livid I’d once again not managed to tell him to go to hell.

I wanted to rid myself of everything. Of hospitalizations, of infuriating ex-boyfriends. All I’d cared about had gone down the drain. Nothing had worked out. Whatever I’d started had ended in chaos.

I wanted to die. Why did fate keep me alive? To wake up to the same torture and self-doubt every morning? That was not life.

I wanted to escape my thoughts. Was there no way of silencing them?

Why me? Nobody likes me now. I don’t like myself. Look at me. Look at what I’ve become. No hair, only skin and bones. I look sick. Nobody wants to deal with sick people. Everyone has disappeared from my life. Maybe I should disappear, as well.

Moving to the bathroom, then standing in front of the large mirror, I examined myself from head to toe. Ugly. It was the only word that sprang to mind.

Suddenly I broke. Over and over again, I pounded against my reflected image while tears streamed down my face. I screamed, “Get out of my face! Get out of my life! I hate you. Go away!”

I punched the mirror so fiercely that it shattered. Shards scattered around my feet. Blood dripped from slashes along my fingers and knuckles. I stared at my hands, turning them back and forth, then focused on the crimson droplets dotting the mirror fragments on the floor.

I sat down and listened to the steady rhythm of my heartbeat. I picked up the biggest chunk of glass and inspected it carefully. It was razor-sharp, sharp enough to terminate this misery, to bring the end I so desperately wanted.

I sucked in a deep breath and placed the jagged edge on my lower left arm. I pressed it deep into my skin until the pain grew nearly unbearable. Until the pain overwhelmed every other hurt.

Riveted by what I’d done, I stared at the blood running down my wrist, dripping onto the floor. My right hand clasped the shard tighter as I guided it once again to my flesh. Slowly, I drew it upward. The open wound grew.

My pulse was slow and steady. I wasn’t afraid anymore. This was what I wanted. The end.

“Mia, no! Stop!”

At the boom of my father’s voice, I dropped the shard.

Terrified, I looked first at him, then at the huge gash I’d self-inflicted. A puddle of blood had formed around my feet. My clothes were streaked crimson. And there I was: an impassive and motionless observer.

“Mia, press this against the cut!” My dad shoved a towel at me and lifted me from the floor.

“Bear down!” he ordered, grabbing my right hand to guide it to the towel. He hoisted me in his arms, then carried me through the door, down the stairs, and into his car. “You keep pressing down on the wound. You understand me?” As we sped through the late-afternoon rush hour, he whispered, “Why?”

I didn’t answer. All I could do was stare out the window and then at my arm. The white towel grew redder with every minute. It fascinated me, watching each fiber of the fabric turn scarlet.

Some drops fell onto my jeans. I didn’t press on the wound. Nothing hurt. And I wanted this injury to end it all.

The car stopped. My dad ran around the car, dragging me from the passenger seat into the ER. After he screamed for help, far too many people surrounded me. An orderly—a nurse?—hustled me into a small room, placed me on a gurney, and inspected my arm, turning it to look at one side, then the other while compressing the wound.

I felt so light and free as I observed the turmoil from a distance. A doctor entered. He cleaned the wound and stitched it, and while he labored over me, he asked why. I didn’t answer. Before I left the hospital, it would seem everyone there had asked me that same stupid question. Wasn’t it obvious? Who needed an answer?

I lay motionless on the gurney, like a stone, and stared at the white neon lights on the ceiling. I asked myself again,
Why me?
If my father hadn’t returned home earlier than usual, my misery would be over.

Chapter 5

Mia—My Sunshine

Graz, June 2012

“Mia, is everything all right?” My mother’s voice brought me back to the present. I was still alive. And I was feeling better. A year ago, all I could think about was that one question: Why me? Now I wasn’t as obsessed with it anymore. Suppressing things was supposed to help, wasn’t it?

“Yes, Mom. I just . . . Whatever. Let’s just keep going.” I touched the long scar on my arm and turned back to my backpack.

My pack was spacious, but I really had chosen too many things to take.

My mother stared at the pile on my bed. “We’ll never find room for all these clothes. What do you need these shoes for?” She dangled a pair of beloved high heels between her fingers. “You haven’t worn them in a year, and now you want to take them on a train trip? I must have done something terribly wrong when I raised you.” She sighed loudly.

“Mom . . .” I scolded her and grabbed my shoes.

“Come on, Mia. It was just a joke.” She smiled at me. “Though, seriously, you should leave them here.” She circled an arm around my waist and rested her head on my shoulder. It was only a light caress. I didn’t really like her touch, but this was my mom, and I knew she needed this closeness now.

She pressed a little closer, and I let her. She was the only person whose presence I could stand for longer than a few minutes. Not only was she my mother, she was also my best friend and one of the most beautiful women I knew. She really didn’t show her fifty years. Maybe it was because of her long blond hair and big green eyes or her high cheekbones and full lips. She was so pretty.

I could understand why my father had fallen in love with her so many years ago. She simply made you smile. Her cheerfulness was contagious. She was my sun, the center of our small family.

“I will miss you, my big girl.” She drew me even closer.

Slowly, I rubbed her back and then whispered, “I’ll miss you, too. I really will . . .” I felt the shoulder of my shirt growing damp. Mom was crying.

Seeing her hurt was painful. Knowing I was the reason pained me even more. In moments like this, I considered abandoning my plan in order to make her feel better. But that was not an option.

“Mom, everything will be OK. I will be in touch.” A sigh escaped my throat. “Maybe I’ll be back soon,” I added so quietly it was almost inaudible. I loosened my grip to look her in the eyes. When I kissed her cheek, I tasted the salt from her tears. “Also, I remember someone saying she was looking forward to having less women fighting over the bathroom.”

She smiled as a few last tears trailed down her face. “I will miss you anyway,” she said softly and stroked my cheek with the back of her hand. “Please take good care of yourself, will you, Mia? Promise you will come home if anything happens. Please.”

So as not to cry, I nodded and bit my lower lip so hard that I tasted blood. The pain distracted me. For the sake of my family, I had to be strong. And I had to be strong for my own sake, as well.

“My beautiful girl.” She smiled at me.

She always insisted that, with my green eyes and blond hair, I’d inherited her looks. But I’d never thought I matched her beauty, and right now, I clearly didn’t.

My eyes were still green, but they looked dead, bruised from all the sleepless nights. My cheeks were hollow.

Not to mention my hair . . .

Chapter 5 ½

Mia—So Who am I?

Graz, June 2011

For the first time in a long time I’d gotten a good night’s sleep. A night without tossing and turning. I wasn’t awake at dawn to listen to the twittering birds. I’d slept straight through their morning chorus.

I yawned and stretched my aching limbs, then massaged my face and rubbed my eyes. As I sat up slowly, I ran my fingers through my long blond hair.

I froze. I must be dreaming.
Please don’t let this be true.
My heart began to race, and my hands shook. I closed my eyes and lowered my hands to my lap.

Chewing my lower lip, I inhaled deeply and evenly through my nose. Hesitantly, I opened my eyes.

“No!” I let out a loud scream. Tears shot to my eyes.

Someone shouted my name. My sister rushed into my room and stopped, a panicked look on her face. I stared back at her with a blank expression.

“Mia, what’s the matter?”

I continued to stare at her, my eyes wide. I could hardly breathe.

“Mia?” she asked gently.

I only shook my head.

Anna came closer.

“Anna? Am I dreaming? Please tell me I’m dreaming,” I moaned.

Anna kneeled beside my bed and took the clump of hair I was holding. “No, Mia. I’m sorry, but this isn’t a dream.” I could hear the effort she made to keep her voice calm.

From that day on, I discovered hair on my pillow each morning. I suffered panic attacks. I screamed when I woke up. Whoever came into the room—whether my mother, my father, or my sister—had to calm me down and remind me to breathe.

I didn’t want to comb my hair anymore or run my fingers through what once had been a great, thick mane. I was afraid I’d find more strands in the brush than were left on my head. Every day, my mother tried to soothe me when I went to her in tears, to show her yet another clump.

“My big girl, it’s only hair. It will grow back again,” she promised.

That was easily said, but nobody could imagine how I felt, losing it all.

I’d loved my long hair. Ever since I was a little girl, I’d let it grow. Hair is part of our personality, giving us confidence, defining who we are. It was a part of me.

And as my hair grew thinner, so did my self-worth.

Eventually, I was incapable of witnessing the gradual loss. Once I had only feathers left on my head, I shaved off what remained with my father’s razor. All done, I was bald.

I stared for hours into the mirror at the stranger staring back, the empty shell of who I’d been. I was chalk white, with dark circles under my eyes. Each day, I’d grown thinner. Pricks and bruises from needle insertions covered my arms.

I couldn’t stand to look at myself. I didn’t know the person reflected back at me. She was a stranger. A stranger with my face. She looked like me, but she wasn’t me.

Where was I supposed to search for the woman I’d once been? Did she still even exist?

How could I accept me when I hated myself?

Everything I saw in the mirror appalled me.

Chapter 6

Mia—A Long Good-bye

Graz, June 2012

The day of my departure finally arrived. I was nervous but still determined to go.

The train station was packed. People yelled from all directions, kissed loved ones good-bye, shed a few tears.

Standing on the platform, my mother and I hugged for a long time. The harried crowd swirled around us. Trains arrived and departed. But for mom and me, time stood still, and we savored this moment as best as we could.

I would miss her terribly. Throughout the past year, she had always been there for me, had worked to build up my shattered confidence.

I was so very grateful for all the support she’d given me while I’d undergone chemo and the unceasing onslaught of exams and checkups. For each appointment, she’d driven me to the hospital, waited half the day, then taken me home. She’d been my rock. She’d never complained, not even when I’d yelled at her out of rage at having to continue on. I’d wanted her to leave me alone and let me rot. Sometimes I’d even drummed my fists against her. She’d only waited until I’d calmed down, until I’d collapse, sobbing in her arms.

She was everything to me. And I hadn’t once thanked her.

She slowly released me from her embrace but didn’t let go of my hands. She sucked in air, then gradually blew it out, her eyes shimmering. A faint smile played on her lips.

I glanced at my father; he’d been watching us and now gave me a sad nod. He wasn’t one to display his emotions and preferred to keep a distance.

I took a deep breath and locked gazes with my mother. I bit my lower lip. It was hard for me, as well, to show my feelings or talk about them. In that way, I was like my father.

By now, Mom’s eyes brimmed with tears. One lonely drop escaped, ran down her cheek, and fell to the ground. With both her hands, she caressed my upper arms. She wanted to make me feel relaxed, but I couldn’t bear to see the pain in her eyes any longer and looked down.

“Thank you,” I murmured, my eyes on the ground.

With an index finger, my mother tilted up my chin. “Look at me, Mia.” She smiled and waited.

“Thank you, Mom. You’ve been there for me the whole year. Thank you for everything you did.”

Another tear trailed down her cheek.

“I know I haven’t been easy to deal with,” I said very quietly. “But you never complained. Not once.”

I lowered my gaze again. The sight of my mother, overwhelmed by her feelings and with tears coursing down her face, was too much for me to bear. But I needed her to know how much I loved her.

“I’m so grateful for you, for how you supported me in every situation. You’ve been the best mother, and the very best friend, anyone could ever have through an ordeal like this.” Slowly I raised my eyes. “Thank you.”

Mom threw her arms around me, and I had to make an effort to tolerate the sudden, intense physical contact.

Pressing her wet cheek against my neck, she sighed, “Ah, Mia, I’ll always be here for you . . . always.” She loosened her grip to better look at me. Across her tear-streaked face, I saw smudgy traces of her black mascara. She stood on tiptoe and whispered in my ear, “Take good care of yourself. Give us a call once you get there.”

She hesitated but finally let go of me, smiling through her tears. I reached into my purse for a handkerchief, then handed it to her.

Clearing his throat, my father moved closer, patted my shoulder, and gave me a smile.

“You’ll do this thing, Mia.” He fought to keep his voice neutral, but in this situation like this, even my dad seemed to be finding it impossible to control his feelings.

“All I ask is for you to get back home safe and sound. Everything will be all right,” he murmured.

My heart grew heavy when he mentioned my eventual return, but I didn’t want to ruin the moment and remained silent.

My father took a step closer and did something I’d never have expected of him. He gave me a hug. A real hug. It felt weird and clumsy, but I liked it. It took me back to a time when I was ten and had hurt my knee. Crying, I had run to my dad and sobbed into the crook of his arm. He’d wiped my tears with his thumb, kissed my cheeks, and whispered that everything would be OK.

“Thank you, Dad . . .” I smiled and blinked rapidly. “Thank you for everything,” I whispered, leaning my head against his chest. I felt so sheltered, I didn’t even mind the physical contact.

“Be careful, my girl.”

To hold back the tears, all I could do was nod. If I cried, I might have decided to stay, just to remain in the safe presence of my parents and my sister.

No. Under no circumstances. I had to be strong and stick to my plan.

Then Anna kissed me good-bye, and I boarded the train. There was no going back. This was supposed to be the
trip of my life
.

Slowly, the train began to move. I looked out the window one last time. My father was holding my mother, who was weeping against his shoulder. Dad’s fingers caressed her arm. It hurt so much to see them like this.

I closed my eyes to compose myself. Then I looked back, feeling a bittersweet nostalgia. I forced a smile and waved good-bye to my parents and my sister.

I waved good-bye to my past.

I had to let go. I would miss them, although not my former life. Except for my family, I hated everything about it, including myself. Why should I hold on to an existence that had been destroyed in a single blow?