Restore Me (Shatter Me, #4)

by Tahereh Mafi

I am racked with doubt in every moment about the decisions I have made.

I just wish it were that simple. Right now, my biggest problem is also the most confusing:

The truth is I’ve not been myself for what feels like a long time, so much so that I’ve begun to wonder whether I ever really knew.

“You’re not a robot.”

it’s just that right now I’m desperate for solitude and I don’t know how else to find it. So I shower. I take baths. I go for long walks. I tend to do this a lot.

So I lie here, marinating in a sorrow I can never speak of, while regret consumes my heart.

I’m having breakfast by myself this morning—alone, but not lonely.

We’ve finally left the worst of winter behind, but even these early weeks of March feel inhumanly frosty.

It’s been over two weeks and I still feel lost. Half paralyzed. I’m not proud of my inability to get it together, not proud of the revelation that, as it turns out, I’m not smart enough, fast enough, or shrewd enough to rule the world.

I’m not proud that, at my lowest moments, I look around at all that I have to do in a single day and wonder,

I said I was up for the task. Me, a seventeen-year-old nobody with very little life experience; I volunteered for this position. And now—basically overnight—I have to keep up. And I have no idea what I’m doing.

Ow

I take a deep breath and enjoy the rush of crisp, icy air as it burns through my lungs. Wind wraps around me, pulling and pushing and dancing, whipping my hair into a frenzy, and I lean into it, get lost in it, open my mouth to inhale it.

There’s so much left to learn about the people I care about.

I have a great fear of drowning in the ocean of my own silence. In the steady thrum that accompanies quiet, my mind is unkind to me. I think too much. I feel, perhaps, far more than I should. It would be only a slight exaggeration to say that my goal in life is to outrun my mind, my memories. So I have to keep moving.

real

“You know what? Who cares what you’re wearing?” Kenji says. “It’s all in the attitude, anyway. It’s about how you carry yourself.”

Preach

They are forgetting where you started, what you’ve overcome, how quickly you found the courage to fight when they could hardly stand.”

You can never forget the enormity of what you’ve done,” I say. “Don’t allow anyone to take that away from you.”

“The world tried to crush you,” I say, gently now, “and you refused to be shattered.

You’ve recovered from every setback a stronger person, rising from the ashes only to astonish everyone around you. And you will continue to surprise and confuse those who underestimate you. It is an inevitability,” I say. “A foregone conclusion.

“You will be made to feel lonely. Lost. You will long for validation from those you once admired, agonizing between pleasing old friends and doing what is right.” I look up. I feel my heart swell with pride as I stare at her. “But you must never, ever let the idiots into your head. They will only lead you astray.”

“But how?” she says, her voice breaking on the word. “How do I get them out of my head?” “Set them on fire.” Her eyes go wide.

“Those who do not understand you,” I say softly, “will always doubt you.”

I hate how easily I fade in and out of confidence, how I waver between who I was and who I could be. My past still clings to me, skeleton hands holding me back even as I push forward into the light. And I can’t help but wonder how different I’d be today if I’d ever had someone to encourage me when I was growing up.

get out

I’ve struggled with occasional anxiety over the course of my life, but I’ve generally been able to manage it.

I found ways to manage my triggers; I found the safe spaces in my mind; I educated myself in cognitive behavioral therapies; and with time, I learned to cope. The anxiety came on with far less weight and frequency. But very rarely, it morphs into something else. Sometimes it spirals entirely out of my control.

She cried, even with her eyes closed.

It’s past three in the morning and I feel as though I’ve not slept in days. I can hardly bear to close my eyes; I can’t be left alone with my mind or the many frailties of my person. I feel shattered, held together by nothing but necessity.

for the first time—I find my own face interesting. Like I’ve stepped out of the shadows of my own self; like the curtain I used to hide behind has been, finally, pushed back. I’m here. Right here. Look at me, I seem to scream without speaking. Steam fills the room in slow, careful exhalations that cloud my reflection and eventually, I’m forced to look away. But when I do, I’m smiling. Because for the first time in my life, I actually like the way I look.