No 2: SHE WHO LINGERS

PHOTO BY LUCY BIRTWISTLE

LUCY BIRTWISTLE

I look at his face. Sweet, caring. Eyes fixed on me but glazed over. 

His eyes on my skin confront our disparities. I am now so aware of how he doesn’t understand the painful itch, the sting of craving the release from others’ eyes. From perception. He can’t understand the necessary preoccupation with every hair on one’s own head, every fiber of clothing on one’s own body. 

And I am now so acutely aware of how he must interact with mirrors. How light and fleeting these interactions must be. He looks in the mirror only whenever one naturally appears in his path and is, I’m sure, pleasantly surprised by the reminder of his own appearance. Oh yeah, that’s what I look like. 

And his appearance, his engagement with it, I know, disintegrates as he moves past the mirror. His reflection ceases to exist, won’t occupy any space, will wait patiently to reappear until the next time their paths happen to cross. 

Mine’s a bitch. My reflection isn’t like his—docile, subservient, recognizable. Mine slaps me when I see her. I didn’t forget about her, but alas, here she is in the flesh to remind me of the various ways in which my appearance is currently burdening others. My hair looks horrible today, she informs me in a public restroom. My stomach contracts as I consider how many people have seen me already—how many people I’ve plagued with the mere sight of me. I restyle my matted bun to the best of my ability but since it’s one of those bad hair days, I must leave the mirror and my godforsaken reflection with the understanding that I will continue to exist as a visual hindrance. I am a blight on the vision of the public, the vision of all those who will inevitably interact with me. How unsettling that I will soon be accosting others with this very sight, I think as I exit the privacy of the restroom. I will her to stay inside as I close the door, knowing she won’t. 

But I also pity her. I pity myself when I see her, and I also pity her, my poor reflection. I have empathy, because I recognize that she’s trying to be kind but simply cannot. Trying to be neutral, at least. I should see her and feel loved—supported. A familiar face. Her being should catalyze a warm spread of comfort within me. And yet she seems to epitomize the worst of me. Not only that, but she seems so deeply unfamiliar I often find myself reckoning with the notion of us being one and the same. How can she be me? How can I be her? Her presence evokes stress, then discipline. Then acceptance. Recognition. 

She can’t help but show me the worst parts of myself. And yet, due to some greater stroke of misfortune, I seem to have a chronic duty (to me, to her) to find a mirror every so often and check in. Interact with her on a regular basis. Not because there’s anything I can do about her, or anything she can do about me, but because it is my duty to understand to an excruciating extent all the ways in which I am flawed. That’s her job, to elucidate these imperfections for me, and she has long accepted it. As have I.  

She does this job well, to my chagrin.

I am thrust back into the present, suddenly conscious once again of this man sitting across from me. He smiles at me now, teeth accompanying his eyes in conveying a stale joy that he clearly wants to share with me. He’s dopily happy to just be around me. It’s sweet and I wish I could appreciate it, but alas, she’s all I can think about.