Shadows of the Mind

Reflection of the Mirror

Reflection of the Mirror

I have always been afraid of mirrors, not for any ghostly fear or childish superstitions, but because they show me, in fact, something that I would like to forget. When I look at myself in a mirror, I see everything I've struggled so hard to bury: the flaws, the insecurities, the doubts twisting and coiling around my thoughts like unyielding vines; they glare with cruel honesty at the mask that I wear every day.

The certainty of the world around me is convinced by the well-worn persona I don. Smiles and laughter treat me as if I am no different from them—happy, confident, whole. But each interaction is tinged with terror that one day, someone will see beyond the facade so artfully built. They will look beyond the pleasantries, the jokes prepared to perfection, the smiles that are delivered with such ease, and they shall see the truth. They will perceive me just as I perceive myself, and then it all comes tumbling down.

I remember the first time this fear really took root. It was one of those cold, gray afternoons, and I was sitting with a friend—somebody I thought knew me well. We were sitting in a quiet place talking about life—about the little things that weigh us down. They watched me with their eyes, soft with concern, and told me how sometimes they feel inadequate, ugly even, when people compliment them. I nodded along, my heart pounding hard in my chest as a stinging dread crept into my bones.

"What about you?" they asked in that voice so small, it was like a knife through me. "Do you ever feel that way?

Panic swelled in my chest. What to say? The truth? That every day I felt just like an imposter? That this person which they think they knew was all just a lie, a construct pieced together from fragments of who I actually wished I could be? I couldn't. I couldn't show them the hesitation in my eyes or the way my voice could show a quiver when speaking about myself. I lied.

"Not really," I said, forcing a smile. "I guess I'm just lucky that way."

Lucky. The word tasted bitter in my mouth. If only they knew. How every morning, when I looked in the mirror, I felt like I had to psyche myself against that strong wave of self—loathing awaiting me, ready to drown me in its waters. If only they knew how hard it was to keep up this charade—to act as though everything was all right when inside I was falling apart.

But they didn't. Nobody did. And I was set on keeping it that way. The idea of anyone seeing me—seeing me, cracks and flaws that define me-was too terrifying to bear. What if they don't understand? What if they pity me? Worse, what if they agreed with the image I see in the mirror? What if they look at me and confirm all ugly thoughts that haunt me?

I continued to live behind my mask, day in and day out, portraying a person I wasn't. I smiled at all those times when I wanted to cry, laughed at moments that touched my heart, and played the role of the confident, put—together person that everyone expected me to be. It was like trying to breathe through an impermeable sheet of plastic, exhausting, yet the alternative couldn't bear thinking about.

Yet, as time passed, the burden of my secret grew unbearable. The moment that somebody would find out my mask, living with such a crushing sense of isolation was the prime growing fear. I couldn't let anyone get close, couldn't risk them finding out the real me. I started to withdraw, pulling away from friends—from anyone who might see past the surface. I built walls around myself, higher and thicker with each passing day, until I was alone.

One evening, after another day of faking, I stood in front of the mirror. The same face stared back, but this time, I could not turn my face away. Now I could see everything: the flaws, doubts, and all that ugliness I had hidden so long. And in that instant, something within just snapped.

In that moment, I knew it wasn't just a reflection staring back at me, but it was me. The real me—the one I had been so afraid of and desperate to hide—was the only person I was ever capable of being. And if I couldn't accept it, how could I ever expect anyone else to?

It was more than I could bear. I sank to the floor, the weight of it all crushing me, and cried and cried. The mask I'd been wearing for so long was gone, shattered by this truth I could no longer avoid. Alone, absolutely and completely, with nobody to see or understand the depth of my pain.

In the silence of that moment, I realized something far more damaging. It was time I had spent in such a long metamorphasis of fear about the world and its judgment—what it would see when it looked at me—so I had never stopped to consider what it would be like if they didn't. What if they never saw me at all? What if I had pushed everyone so far away that no one ever cared enough to look further than the surface?

As I lay in bed that night, the bitter irony of my life finally clicked into place: in attempting desperately to keep the truth hidden, I had lost everything. All I had sacrificed in order to maintain a lie. And now, all I had left standing was the person in the mirror, the one I had always feared.

And I was right to be afraid, after all. Because the one staring back at me in the mirror was shattered beyond fixing. The saddest part was that I had done it myself.

—Lady_Perrila