Shadows of the Mind

Fragments of Me

Fragments of Me

I've always been scared of mirrors. Not because of what they reflect but because of the questions they raise. I stand in front of the glass and search for a face I recognize, but instead find a stranger staring back at me. It's just that I don't really know what I look like. I am aware of the curve of my smile, the mole inches beside my left eye, and the way my hair never seems to stay the way I want it to. However, other than being those physical features, I've seen a gaping void, so full of emptiness that leaves me wondering who I am.

Each morning when I wake up, I find myself asking this very question: Who am I today? Shall I be the version of me to satisfy others, fitting neatly into roles assigned—daughter, friend, colleague? Or maybe another one, which will not quite fit and be similar to a jigsaw puzzle with missing pieces?

It terrifies me, this not knowing. I have read about people who lose their memories, forget who they are entirely. I wonder if that's what's happening to me, but it's not memories that elude me. It's the sense of self, an understanding of my own mind and soul. I can remember my past, but I don't know how those experiences have shaped me, how they have contributed to the person I'm supposed to be.

Those moments where something real, something that feels like me, catches my attention; I am inside a book, or walking alone at dusk, when the world is painted shades of orange and pink. I feel a connection to something deeper. But it's fleeting, like trying to hold water in my hands. It slips through my fingers, and once more I am cold, confused.

I envy people who seem so sure of themselves, who walk through life with confidence and a sense of purpose. How do they do that? How can they wake up in the morning knowing exactly who they are without the fear of getting lost within? I want to ask them, but I'm scared that they won't understand. How do you explain to someone that you're scared you might not know yourself, that you're scared of being a stranger in your own skin?

I sometimes feel that I am too reflective, that I spend much more time questioning and analyzing than I should when I should just be living. But how am I to live when I am not even sure who is doing the living? How do I make decisions, have relationships, and even form some dreams when I am not certain about the person behind those things?

I think that is scariest of all—not not knowing but the thought of maybe never knowing. That I shall be searching my whole life for something that doesn't exist: a phantom version of myself I can never get quite close to. What if this is it? What if the pieces are all I'm going to get?

Yet, I keep looking, keep piecing these fragments together in the hope that someday they will come together to complete the picture. Maybe that is the journey, the process of becoming, even when it appears as an endless circle of question and doubt. Maybe all the not knowing is part of knowing, itself a paradox I will never understand.

I stand in front of the mirror, rummaging for answers, wishing maybe one day the reflection will offer me more than what is seen: a face. Maybe one day I will have the balls to look deep inside and find out who is staring at me. And then, maybe, I'll find this self I've been searching for.

-Lady_Perrila