I cover all the mirrors.
Not “cover” like the way a car might be “covered” against a fender-bender. And not how one might take charge of planning an event by saying they’ve got it “covered.” Just – cover. The way you conceal something.
My closet has sliding doors that are just two big mirrors. And I keep them covered. Plastered over every inch of reflective surface is an image of something that I find beautiful, inspiring, appealing. A super-evolved human from a film series based on a video game (Alice, Resident Evil). A young woman who always wanted to be the Avatar (Korra, Legend of Korra). A traumatized man who grew up to avenge his family and mentor an order (Ezio, Assassin’s Creed). A wary teen who never wanted to be the key to anything (Buffy, Buffy the Vampire Slayer). These and many more adorn the mirrors and afford me the comfort of breathing while passing by.
Despite their media origins, there’s something in common with all of them: I envy them. There’s a token of their identity that I wish I could find in myself.
And I couldn’t stand / the person inside me / I turned all the mirrors / around
Control - Halsey
Cause and effect. Cause.
And effect. Something happens and then something happens. I must have experienced some truly emotional event that cemented my belief that I was ugly, undesirable, valueless. Yes, many of these events occurred later in life. But the self-hatred has been my shadow since my inception. And try as I might, I can’t find the start of it all. I (foolishly?) believe that if I can just find the seed that grew into this grotesque Hanging Tree, I might find a measure of peace.
But then there’s the chilling possibility that I simply chose this life wherein I suffer from Major Depressive Disorder and Body Dysmorphia (but thumbs up, I’m high-functioning), where I can’t even change my clothes in the same room as my wife because I don’t want her to see my body, where I’ll swelter under layers on a hot day because are you kidding me you want me to wear something that might show my bare arms.
There’s crying yourself to sleep, when you cry so hard that your body eventually shuts down. It’s a protection measure. But do you ever cry yourself awake? I do that. Because when I’m asleep, the monster is generally quiet. I mean She has spent all day torturing me; She needs a good night’s rest. So we both close our eyes. And it’s all TV-static black and white until I feel a jolt and my eyes spring open and I taste salt and realize that I’m awake and have to be a Functioning Person. I think I’d rather cry myself to sleep. At least there’s something to look forward to.
I’m going to be starting a wellness program next week. I’m terrified that I’m going to rig the game against my favor. That She’s going to slip in and destroy yet another chance at happiness. I’ve tried these programs before, but they’ve only ever addressed the physical aspect of weight-loss. This will be the first time I tackle both the mind and the body. I’m expecting carnage.
So… sinew by sinew… here we go. Let’s see what kind of portrait I’ll make.
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