The Mirror

She stood in front of me, I towered over her. I could swallow her whole and she wouldn’t even notice. Her hands aggressively pulled on her skin, squeezing the flesh between her fingers. Her pale skin left the imprint of her red fingertips, glaring at me for giving her such a monstrous body. I tried to apologize for the way I made her feel but she wouldn’t have it and went on struggling to make herself presentable for the day.

I watched her smile fade as she grew older. She started spending more time looking in me than seeing what the world had to offer. I repeatedly saw her confidence rise when she saw herself skinny but fall just a moment later when her eyes deceived her of having the worst body imaginable. One that small girls would tug on the mothers’ sleeves, exclaiming that they hope they wouldn’t grow into a body like hers. One that boys would whisper to their friends about the good and bad things of what it had to offer. This pattern was a daily occurrence. She grew older, outgrowing old styles and trying new. She bought things she never took the tags off of. It looked better in the store. She yelled at me for letting her believe she could wear a sleeveless shirt or a tight dress. I brought her close to me, caressing her. She cried while I told her that her mind warped the image I desperately wanted to show. I told her she wasn’t ugly or fat or a disgrace to humanity. She ignored this. Instead, she told me how much weight she needed to lose and how many surgeries she needed done. I hugged her tightly as she marked my skin with her tears.

I watched her frantically try on half of her closet, muffling a scream after each outfit she attempted to make work. Her body wasn’t skinny enough to wear that shirt. Her butt was too small to wear those jeans. She was too disproportionate to wear something tight. I tried telling her the clothes she wore didn’t reflect her character. She told me she was fat, ugly, imperfect. After each item she’d try on, she’d pulled her hair by the scalp with frustration for not having a flat stomach or a face that spawned envious stares from others. She broke down with rage, insecurity, and regret. Hours upon hours were wasted by her dissecting herself in me that she forgot the world will carry on without her. She shouldn’t have eaten that cookie. She should start working out for two hours a day instead of one. She fell to the floor, letting some tears coat her cheeks before pulling herself up to try again. She was a fighter, I’ll give her that. She headed back to her closet.

I enforced her insecurities but they were long present before she had met me. Maybe she was born with the thought she was insignificant. Maybe her blood was tainted with self-hate. Maybe she was born with a heart too whole to hate on anyone else but herself. Or perhaps she started feeling this way when the world lost its vivid color from her adolescent youth. Perhaps it started when every kid on TV was skinnier than her. Perhaps it started when candy stopped tasting so sweet. Perhaps it was when people insulted her through a quick passing in a busy school hall. She told me all the mean things anyone has ever said to her. She informs me she can see everyone's point of view from her own eyes. She can see how her side profile disgusted others or how her belly rolls made others pity her.

Whatever it was, as soon as she hit puberty I saw her start turning her head to me whenever she passed a reflection. When passing by a store, I watched her stop looking at what was inside but instead stare at her body in the glass. I soon saw how when she first entered a dressing room, she left me with a heavy heart and insults embedded into our minds. I’m confused as to why she cares so much about what people think but she tells me she doesn’t know either. Perhaps she likes to be told her worth, perhaps she feels more human to be so aware of her own body. Perhaps she insults herself so she won’t get so full of herself. Maybe one day she’ll leave her reflection behind and maybe she’ll come running back for reassurance after a new insult. Maybe she’s just preparing for the real world. I hope she’s prepared because the world is a cruel place. It stomps on you if your smile is too bright, it stomps on you if you don’t smile enough. It laughs at you if you don’t have much cushion on your bones, it laughs at you if you have too much. Maybe I want to stomp and laugh over your crippling self. Maybe I’ll join in on the fun. Maybe I want to be a part of something too. Maybe I want to be prettier than you.

“They see ugly. I know they see ugly,” she says.

Then she’ll fix herself until what they see is acceptable. She’ll tilt her head down to hide her face, she’ll play with her clothes to cover more skin, she’ll pull on her loser clothes if they suddenly form to her body shape. She couldn’t focus in school because she’d go through everyone’s perspective, the desk behind her and the one in front. She’d check all angles, her backside was as repulsive as the front. She finally could tune in to the teacher once Aaron saw she was sitting upright and Isabell behind her saw how nice her hair looked. She fixed herself to look best from all around, anxiously picking at her fingernails from underneath the table. She was proud to be found presentable. She won’t get anywhere in life if she was ugly.

She spent a few hours gawking at herself in me. She had started getting ready for the day hours before a perfect person needed to. She was running late but time didn’t matter if she looked bad. Her friends could wait. She told me they would expect her to look her best.

Idiots tell her she’s the beauty standard. They tell her they wished they looked like her. She was tall, blonde, a perfect size. She told me these things weren’t good enough. She was too tall for an average-sized man to love. She believes she looks better with even lighter hair. She told me she still wasn’t skinny enough. She grinned at me, giving the room light whenever she took her advice. So, she never wore heels, dyed her hair blonder, and never missed a day of cardio.

She started typing out a text to her friends saying she couldn’t come but knew if she got out of the house, she’d burn more calories. She deleted the draft but every time she looked at me, she’d pick up her phone again. She vigorously rubbed her stressed temples, wet with sweat and tears.

On days she felt beautiful, her light blinded me. She sang throughout the house and I hoped I wouldn’t shatter from her happiness. It set the tone for her day and she’d come back to bed, smiling as she fell asleep. She barely looked at me but when she did, she was joyful and strong. She’d sleep and wake, jumping up to view her reflection. It was one of the first things she’d do in the morning and I always showed her the true reflection. Those happy days she would believe me. Today, she didn’t.

She chose to wear some baggy jeans and a sweatshirt. She put on makeup and brushed out her hair. I rewarded her with a compliment, “you look great”. She ignored my compliment and did a quick scroll through Instagram, looking up from her phone ever so often to see if the distorted image of herself had changed. I watched her tears dry and she told her friends she was almost ready.

She was fully aware that her mind held more strength than her reflection. She knew the universe was bigger than her body. She knew she shouldn’t waste time worrying about the silly shield that protects her organs. Fat was there to keep her warm on days she would make snow angels. Fat was there to protect her heart from a man with bad intentions. Fat was there to make her laugh rich with belly jiggles. Fat was there to love her, to support her, and to protect her.

She told me she will appreciate her fat once she loses 15 pounds of it. Once she did the tasks she set for herself, she’d learn to love the way she looked. One day, she could walk down the street without folding her arms to cover her body. One day, she could throw her head back and laugh, forgetting how ugly she thought she looked in the moment. One day, she could stand in the sand without sucking in her stomach. One day, she wouldn’t have to look at me for validation of her worth.

Her friends sent a text saying they were outside her house. I tried my best to show her a true, beautiful body. The horrific sight she saw made her quickly turn her head away from me. I watched her hold in the anger and shame she had for looking like this. She ran downstairs to get away from me, desperate to get away from the stretched, disproportionate, hideous image of herself. She opened the front door, throwing on a smile. I always told her a smile would make her look better. She told me I was wrong; her smile was bad and it made her face masculine.

She met her friends outside, they’d been waiting for her for several minutes now. I overheard her get into the car and shut the door. She sighed, letting go of trying to see how she was viewed in their eyes. She relaxed her shoulders.

They smiled and greeted her, “You look so pretty!”