Reflections

An open letter to my mirror

Story and photos by Stella Harvey

Dear mirror,

You rest on the mantle of my childhood home, hang on the wall of a changing room and lean against my dresser. You’ve had stickers and expo markers and toothpaste all over you, and haven’t been cleaned enough. A pane of glass reflecting Christmas lights, family photos, changing wall colors, breakups and proposals; you’ve seen so much.

In the early 2000s, you hung on a thick chain above my parent’s bed. Your chartreuse trim framed my sister and I playing hide and seek, making pillow forts and playing with our dog Dudley.

I’ve seen my mom stand in front of you as I zip up her dress. After her most recent diet, she would gaze into you with her hands on her waist, sucking in her stomach and pulling her shoulders back.

“The mirrors here are so flattering.”

You took new forms as I grew up, changing and rearranging so I could always see myself. I remember sitting on the hardwood floor of my room, crouching over a plastic make-up kit. Light bounced off the tangerine walls as I dipped my fingers in chalky, pastel eye shadows and gazed at my own reflection. Next was lip gloss. Maybe some glitter. I leaned back to stare at my creation, turned my head side to side, and stared.

I knew looking into you meant something, but I wasn’t sure what. The more I stared, the more I fixated on the features of my face and the size and shape of my body — my green eyes and blonde hair reflecting back at me.

We packed your new delicate, turquoise frame carefully into a moving van and took you to Seattle. We hung you on my new bedroom wall, where I forgot about you for a while. Sweaters and jeans replaced tank tops and skirts as I left you lonely, finding a warm, safe home in a new place.

Spaghetti straps and skinny jeans encroached on my safe-haven as middle school approached. We moved from backyard play-dates to days at the mall. My friends giggled through Forever 21, pulling glittery dresses off the rack. I nervously looked at the sizes, afraid to be seen with a size bigger than my friends. I tried to balance pulling smaller sizes with picking things out that would fit me correctly.

As my friends merrily flooded into cramped dressing rooms, I would drag my feet. With fluorescent lights beating down on me, I’d turn my back on you and slip on whatever I had picked ‘please fit, please fit, please fit,’ ran through my head. As I struggled with the zipper, I turned to you, feeling a queasy sense of discomfort rise up in me as I looked at myself up and down.

“Stella come out! We want to see,” my friends would call.

“I’ll be right out,” I would say back with a smile, disguising the insecurity in my voice.

It’s a slippery, slimy feeling, not wanting to look at my body’s reflection in you. I can’t grab onto it long enough to keep it from swallowing me whole. I shuffled on my feet, running my hands down the cheap material before taking it off and trying on something else.

When I found a decent option, I would step out of the stall, make a smile or a funny face and quickly change the subject to how the others looked.

Later, when I was alone in my room, I learned to stare into you, to pose and pout. I put my hands on my waist, turning my head side to side, waiting for confidence to rush over me. I pushed down on my hips and bit my lip, staring — waiting.

Despite feeling disconnected and out of sorts in front of you, my love for dressing up in colorful patterns, swirling skirts and vintage dresses pressed on. I looked at magazines and ransacked my mom’s closet, looking for new silhouettes to signal my self-esteem. I dyed my hair red and asked my mom to teach me how to do winged eyeliner. We stood in front of you, and I practiced painting on my delicate lash line, every stroke adding a centimeter to my smile.

From then on, you and I were on speaking terms as long as I was dressed up. I still turned away from you when I was changing, afraid to lose my grip on the confidence I had steadily built.

Frenemies all through high school, you would boost me up and then break me down just as easily. When I found my prom dress, we were besties, but when I had my first real break-up, you were back in the dog house.

I remember the first time I made myself look at you again, not wanting to avoid your gaze every time I entered a room. So, I decided to practice something a friend had suggested: to stand in front of you and repeat things like “my body is beautiful,” and “I don’t need to change anything.” Even writing these now, I feel a wave of nervousness wash over me, but the moment I said them aloud you lost whatever power you had over me.

Today, you rest on top of my bookshelf, reflecting me getting ready, watching YouTube videos and eating cake in bed. When we lock eyes, I smile, pose and do a dance. I tell myself things like ‘you’re a f*cking rockstar.’ Some days are harder than others and I still avoid you when I’m feeling low. When I catch myself slipping, instead of walking away disappointed, I take a selfie and remind myself that the only power you have over me is the power I give you.

Love always,

Stella