My bedroom mirror, obscured with the vines and butterflies applied in childhood, has seen more of my tears than any peer or parent.
Surrounded by a collage of papyrus-colored papers, it holds every whisper of doubt and fear that bubbles over my tongue into the reflection in which I perceive every imperfection that exists on my face and just beyond; I see the storm of solicitude that has settled to take permanent residence in the furrow of my brows and the slight frown that is more constant in the confidence of my mirror than a smile has ever been.
For years, I’ve sat in front of the same mirror every morning to apply my makeup, do my hair, and ensure that my outfit meets the requirements outlined in my personal, inescapable rubric of “good enough.” I balance and weigh each decision from the day prior. Even when the morning prior checked every box, there was always a new whisper from the alcoves of the maze in my mind. It told me every mistake and misdeed that the mirror saw the day before; it listed the mistakes that I have made each day since the mirror first went up on my wall all of those years ago.
At first, the mirror revealed the beauties of life: the gentle curls that my hair falls in, the blue in my eyes that matches the sky at dusk, and the freckles that pepper my face like stars in the night sky. These are the things that were striking, the simplicities that enveloped me and created the storm in the furrow of my brows.
The lightning used to crack joyfully, even when the rain caused floods of anxiety that washed away the vines on the mirror. They would leave behind only my reflection and the papyrus-colored collage.
I once again find myself staring in the mirror, but this time with tears rolling down my face, over the freckled constellations, and down onto my lap. The tears carry the storm down and away with them as my brows finally unfurrow.
Now, I cry in anger and frustration. I cry when I’m exhausted—when life feels like it’s going too fast for me to keep up. I cry when I’m so happy that my smile can’t project all of my joy. I cry so that I can keep going. With each tear that I shed, a little bit of the unease settles back into the river of emotions that I carry.
As a kid, I was told that I was too sensitive—that I cried too often over too little. I suppose that’s true, for I do cry over the little things; the beautiful and ugly things in life bring me to tears. Despite my puffy red face and smudged makeup, the mirror once again reveals the beauties of life as my eyes turn as cerulean as the sea.
