What do you see when you look in the mirror? Do you see past, present, future? Do you see a portal to the other realm? Do you see a magical tool? Do you see, merely, your own reflection?
Do you know what I see? There’s… a lot there. I have to look past the mess… and find forgiveness, recognition, love.
I see the little girl I failed to protect. I want to gather her in my arms and say, “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.” I don’t know how she can still smile at me, with the stars glued on her cheeks, her silly pink lipstick, her frilly socks that are torn up by sand-burrs and hungry tree branches. I love that she can still dance to The Spice Girls in her dresses and flannel, and daydream about unicorns and boys with warm brown eyes. I adore her capacity for love… and forgiveness.
I see the teenage girl that I exploited. The one who learned about love; the Olympian heights and the Underworld lows. The one who learned about the men that didn’t love her, but were all too willing to cut her while she screamed into the silence, begging someone, anyone, to come and save her. The one who learned that sometimes, no one will. The one who drank away the pain. The one who drank to be “fun” (now, we know, it was fawn, rather than fun). The one who disappeared into a cloud of smoke. The one who learned to make herself bleed, before anyone else could. The one who hurt the people around her with her carelessness and her drunk nights and her disappearances. The one who didn’t care. Or, pretended like she didn’t. Or, drank to forget that she did. Or, was so caught up in her own ego-centric bullshit that she didn’t spend nearly enough time with her real friends and family, hunting down the highs that would make it all fade into the background…
I see the woman I became after my father died. The old and faded crone looking to inject love into her veins. Because how the fuck can you go on without Tall John? How can anyone? How can the world keep turning? And she doesn’t turn to the bottle. She turns to an even more dangerous elixir.
It’s taken me a while but, I forgive her for that, too.
I see the woman I am now. This woman who has been working her fucking ass off to become better. This woman who has been peeling at every layer, a birch tree peeling my own skin until my fingers are slick with decaying bark. I see a woman who has been too harsh, too angry, too quiet, too small, too unknowable. I see a woman who has been shattering the mirrors over and over and over again to find another, and yet another, reflection of self. I see a woman who has been taking out the slivers of glass and trying again. I see a woman who has hurt people, who mourns the loss of friends and lovers, and who straightens her shoulders and says: fuck it, today I’m going to try harder. I see a woman who sometimes fails at that endeavor. I see a woman who fell in love with a city and let it eviscerate her, so she could walk into the fire, and become.
Yea. I see me. And the longer I look… the more I’m starting to like her.
Elisabeth Writing 
One response to “Mirror, mirror, on the wall…”
I thought I had a shot at that kind of reflection a while back. Again, so many different reflections to make peace with, so many different versions of who, or what…
Looks like your spirit found the stars in the glass… as I always suspected it would. Your stars are stronger and deeper than you know.
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