Reflected

Rock-hard and fragile, cool to the touch and painful to the eyes; ironically, The Mirror bends and twists—it deforms to alter the truth. 

Most people don’t remember when they experienced the first Deformation. They might have been ten when a classmate made fun of their nose, thirteen when their body felt like a burden, fifteen when they were the butt of a cruel joke. But The Mirror’s reflection goes beyond a representation of someone's physical, outward appearance; it manifests all insecurities. When I feel stupid, The Mirror contorts to make everything I’ve done feel like an underachievement. When I feel unfunny, annoying, or subpar, The Mirror bends, twists, and Deforms. The Mirror is characterized by a constant self-consciousness.

Unsurprisingly, I have a complicated relationship with The Mirror. I often forget that I owe my growth to it. Eternal insecurity begets eternal ambition: fear of The Mirror is my eternal virtue and existential vice. 

Most of the time, my life feels like one of those House of Mirrors rooms we used to go to as kids at the carnival, where every turn is met with a reflection, where self-awareness is inescapable. It was always fun at first; we would laugh at our deformed faces. After a few minutes, however, The Mirrors would become overwhelming. We’d tug on our parent's arms to leave, overstimulated by the constant reminder of ourselves. 

I live my life trapped in that House of Mirrors, unable to escape self-perception. I’m not intrinsically insecure—I think—just intrinsically cautious of my every move. The omnipresence of The Mirror turns that cautiousness into insecurity. At my core, I am a girl reflected. My reflection interrupts every thought. The Mirror occupies my consciousness. 

Why is everyone else in this room smarter than me? Was that joke stupid? Why do I look like this? The Mirror follows me far beyond the confines of my bathroom. My words slip from my throat in strands that strangle me, ropes that I trip over, and bitter words I can’t get out. I am so exhaustingly aware of myself. 

As a result of my parasitic relationship with the Mirror, I spend my life between the already achieved ‘good’ and the much grayer world of ‘good enough’. As I approach good enough, good enough approaches infinity. If I am always hyper-aware of myself, then I will always find a new flaw. I live in a House of Deforming Mirrors. Every achievement is measured against a ruler just a little too long, every goal is just a little bit further; it keeps me on my toes, I tell myself, you will never regret trying too hard. 

So, I try too hard. The Mirror leads me to insecurity; insecurity makes me resort to overcompensation. As a result, I’m always trying too hard. I depend on the way The Mirror keeps me on a leash; puppeteers my every action. It gives me a mission and purpose. In some dystopian, pessimistic way, it keeps me trying. Insecurity makes me ambitious. I resent the Mirror for controlling me in this way. I also thrive on it. Self awareness is complicated. 

I use insecurity to fuel my personal growth. Everyone who knows me well could tell you that I’m not the same person I was a couple of months ago. Everyone who knew me well a couple of months ago knows I was not the same person last year. By running towards the elusive good enough, I run away from any past version of myself. Of all people, I’m self-aware enough to know that I am still flawed. However, I’ve grown so much as a person as a result of all my trying too hard. I owe who I am and who I will be to my ambition. As such, I owe it to my insecurity. And through the transitive property, I owe it to the Mirror. 

I have Deformed into an evolved version of myself; my eternal virtue is a product of my existential vice. I’m reflected.