Lilas Chaouche
My parents died. I know my therapist told me not to introduce myself with that line, but holding my tongue makes me fragile. You taught me that. If I’m not strong willed, I’m nothing more than a coward. I taught myself that.
As I make my way to my childhood bedroom, the hairs on my arms stand up and I freeze. I’m meant to clean it out and take all my belongings, or at least that’s what I think I’m supposed to do. Everyone feels sorry for me – losing both parents to a fatal illness – but, what is there to lose? A broken family that ate breakfast, lunch, and dinner in their own rooms? A failed marriage between two people who were both too stubborn to get divorced? Sure, I feel sorry for myself too, but that’s where my remorse ends. If I’m being honest, I don’t feel much of anything anymore. You’ve taken that away from me.
I take 31 deep breaths before placing one foot in front of the other and forcing my legs in. 31 steps to the end of the room. My limbs scream, as if telling me to turn back. Still a coward. I can already hear your voice.
My eyes dart around the room, though they avoid one place out of memory. If my bones weren’t on fire before, they certainly are now. A thin white sheet – now turned gray – is glued onto the mirror, hinting at its curvy gold outline. My breath hitches. My skin clings onto my bones even tighter than before. The heavy bags under my eyes swell even larger, narrowing my vision. My therapist would be scared to see me right now. I was told to eat and sleep more, or else I would be so weak that even the wind could carry me. My therapist’s words, not mine. Though, I now wish I listened. I can feel my fragility as the air easily leaves my lungs and my slender hands begin to shake uncontrollably. I’m no longer in control of my body. You always knew how to do this to me. I count 31 steps to the mirror. Closing my eyes, I pull the sheet down with a little too much force and it whips the wooden flooring. My eyes remain shut. It’s as if a weight has been added to my eyelids. I pry my eyes open, though my vision is blurry. Am I-? I haven’t cried in years; not even when I found out my parents’ diagnosis, or when I watched them get buried. This is your fault.
“I’m okay,”… “I’m okay.”
I repeat this to myself 31 times, letting it sink in. The tears are gone now. My eyes burn into the sides of the mirror, refusing to look at the reflection waiting for me. The smooth edges of the mirror are adorned with gold-coloured crystals and beautiful white swirls, inviting those who are oblivious closer. I keep my distance, reminding myself of the torture you put me through. It started with me admiring how I grew into my hips and chest. Admiring the light that shone from my eyes, and the beaming aurora that would seep out of my pores. You noticed my admiration for my reflection; you became obsessed with it. Though, to this day I still wasn’t able to figure out why that changed you so much. Where your soft smile and compassion went. Why you suddenly turned cold and stern.
You would make me stare into the mirror for hours, reminding me I’m nothing more than a face and usable body. Nothing more, nothing more, you would say. You forced me to say it too. 31 times. And I did.
You reduced me to nothing more than a pretty face that soon turned rotten in my eyes and a body that was meant for anyone to toy with. I was nothing more, after all. You taught me how to take all the best pictures and how to capture the angles that made my nose look smaller and made my cleavage pop. Soon, the light faded from my eyes and my aurora turned dark. My therapist told me I was lucky you never hit or cut me. Though if I’m being honest, I think you’ve thought about it before.
Looking at the mirror I remember all the torture you put me through. I remember how I let a few months of this torture pass before I finally mustered the courage to cover the mirror during my meals. Preventing you from making me look into it as I ate. You’ve gained weight. Who will want to be around you now? You’re nothing more than useless and overweight. Your voice became more prominent than my own. I stopped eating altogether.
I then covered the mirror at night, scared of my reflection watching me as I slept. If you were here, you would call me lazy for sleeping. For not even putting in effort into my appearance as I slept. For not sleeping in a silk pajama set consisting of a tight tank top that exposed the shape of my breasts and shorts that hung just above my upper thigh. For not looking dainty and beautiful as I dreamt. Though, how could I look dainty when I only dreamt of you? Nothing more than a lazy waste of space. Your voice haunted me even in my dreams. Or rather, nightmares. I stopped sleeping altogether.
A few weeks passed before I decided to cover the mirror for years, afraid of what my reflection would now think of me. I was nothing more than a pathetic coward anyways. I knew everyone was thinking it, even if they didn’t say it. I would hear people’s hushed whispers, calling me psychotic as I walked into a room. I felt their lingering eyes burning into my skull. Nothing more than a psychotic coward, I reminded myself. I stopped going out altogether.
It took a few years of isolation to convince myself to search for help. My parents didn’t give a damn about me or my absence from their lives. They were too fixed on each other. I found myself a therapist who served more purpose in my life than both my parents combined. I started going to sessions everyday, though I was still filled with self doubt. That’s when my therapist told me to reassure myself out loud. To use lines like “I’m okay,” and “I’m worthy.” That if I repeat something 30 times, I’ll start to believe it. I didn’t realize you also knew this. To make sure it worked, you always made me repeat your wicked lines back to myself.
31 times.
Looking back, I always thought mirrors were nothing more than inanimate objects, holding the sole purpose of fixing up your makeup, tidying your clothes, or fluffing your hair, until I realized these mirrors had more life than I did. Their gold and white edges spoke riches, their borders told tales only the maker knows of, and their glass listened to everything and anything you had to say. I never thought mirrors were full of life. Nor did I think they had the capability of speaking back to you. It wasn’t until I uncovered the mirror and peered into it that I found you staring right back at me, mouthing:
Nothing more.
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The author, Lilas Chaouche is an 18 year old young woman from Alberta, Canada who will be attending the University of Alberta in the fall!
Diamond Gazette 