Mortified

There is a time when we realize who we are, and often that's met with a realization of

who we want to be. Too often, there is a discordance between these things. The reflection we

face in the mirror isn’t as beautifully obscured as the face we see in a crystalline pool of water.

We can move closer to the mirror, pull at our eyebrow hairs, toy with our dry spots, and neatly

arrange the hairs into place. We can dust the stray lint from our shirts and practice our best

smiles. Yet, I find that the face who looks at me from the mirror and who I try to perfect is not

one I recognize.

Everyone is defined differently by the world around them. Our defining features depend

on the beholder, changing with the seasons and the mood. I find my nose to be my most distinct

feature, but I am frequently told that “blonde” is the best descriptor. I despise this, namely

because I am a bottle blonde and find myself to be too inauthentic to be “the blonde,” but also

because what I see as important or notable is not blonde. In fact, I despise the descriptor so

deeply that when the man who would tell me he loved my long, blonde hair and had once crowed

that it made me “so unique” told me he no longer could be there for me, I cut it off and dyed it

pink.

My adverse reaction to being defined, to being seen, is not out of character. There is still

steam rising from my scalp after a dear friend described me as possessing a god complex. They

brushed off my immediate protests and told me that it was time to acknowledge it was a part of

who I am. God Complex? I wanted to wring their neck and ask if they even knew me. How dare

they assess my character so poorly, so disastrously wrong? I curtly excused myself and retreated

to the space where I feel most myself, yet where I also know myself the least; I escaped to where

I could experience the comfort of my own company and mine alone. I was reminded, then, when
I returned to my room, that they do not see what ripples under the surface. They only could see

just a fragment of the outward expression. I stripped down in the dark and turned on the hot

water, stepping into the shower with the words in my head. God Complex. God Complex. God

Complex. Through brittle tears, I wondered if they had any idea that I always shower in the dark

because I can’t bear to see the form that contains me. What would they say if they saw that I

despise the parts of myself that are visible, and still loathe the parts that aren’t? Would they

accept me more if they knew I shrank myself for them?

A man named Tim Kreider once wrote in the New York Times, “If we want the rewards

of being loved, we have to submit to the mortifying ordeal of being known.” While Kreider was

notoriously lamenting having been cc’d on an email criticizing his goats, it reminds me that we

must expose the softest parts of ourselves to be loved. My dear friend has given me insight and

companionship, and while their words cut indescribably deep, I cannot reap the pleasure of their

company without being known by them in some way. I must accept that their knowledge of me

cannot ever be as deep as the knowledge of myself that I possess; I must accept that I will never

know them in the same way. And GOD Kreider was right, it is a mortifying thought. Our biases

of self and of others obscure the mirror through cracks and the fallen shattered pieces. We see

what we want to see through the glimpse of what is available. Unfortunately, the mirror of

myself is cracked and its frame is warped with age. Can I define what I’m seeing if I so brazenly

criticize the judgements leveled by others?

I try to pen what I see in my reflection and describe the delicate mush of my existence,

but I cannot speak in absolutes about myself. I cannot say that I have depression and I cannot say

that I am pretty and I cannot say that I am smart. I am only kind of funny, or kind of clever. I am

just a little sad, just all the time. I find myself undeserving of any proper title, of owning any
proper identity. I ask myself what I love about myself, what my interests are, who I want to be

when I grow up, and I am met with no answers. I look at the girl, (if I feel deserving of defining

myself with femineity that day,) obscured in the shards, and I find pieces that I think once were

meant to fit together, mashing them against each other in an attempt to answer what some see as

life’s simplest question: Who are you?

Definitively, I was shy as a child, pre-teen, and young adult. Somewhere along the way,

this piece of self was tattered and broken down. I instead squeezed in pieces of myself that

allowed me to mimic conversation, to raise my hand in class to speak, to say hi when I passed

someone I knew only distantly on the sidewalk. The part that tells me I am doing poorly at this

mimicry still fits, but the new pieces shroud it. Instead, the mirror I hang of myself in the wall of

our world shows an outgoing person who is not afraid to open her mouth. My eyes, however,

always fall to that small piece, the fraction of what I once defined myself entirely as. I

desperately reach for it. No one sees it anymore. The conglomeration of introversion I hid inside

has been shattered and I mourn the empty space left behind, cut deeply as I claw at the shards left

by the insecurity that are still lodged inside as they scrape the walls of my being, forming deep

scars that still ache to the touch, completely unbeknownst to others. These expectations of myself

have been formed by others who are unable to see who I once was, who are unable to understand

that I can hold a conversation with someone and laugh at the right times and nod along and still

critique every word that escapes my lips. The thoughts are contradictory: I am faking it and they

all know; they do not know I am faking it and they think I am just terribly awkward and hate me;

they think I have a God Complex. It’s all the same. I am never fully myself, but I have no idea

what the self is.

 My perception of self, then, is paradoxical; it lies within my own mirror and the mirror of

others. I know enough to protest the assessments of others, but I know too little to assess myself.

I cling at the words of peers and loved ones for any sense of identity, perhaps a trait that can be

traced to the etchings in report cards. Those were the days of my own identity being limited to,

“A pleasure to have in class.” I so fearfully hope and pray that the kindness shown to me by

others has at least some semblance of truth. I firmly reject proclamations that I am proud,

confident, or popular, but I can’t help but ponder if other characteristics are true. Do I really

stand up for my peers, as a professor noted one day? Do I fight “the man,” as a classmate put it?

And if I were to accept such observations as truth, my initial instinct is to subvert any further

implications. Perhaps I could accept that I stand up for others, but that trait is unremarkable when

I cannot stand up for myself. Maybe I stick it to the man, but surely only when it is convenient

for me to do so. Often I find myself critical of the woman in the mirror for letting the man get too

much of me. The mirror of self and the mirror of self presented to others fails to account for the

rippling under the surface, known only to the reflection. Bless the poor souls who have gotten

too close to the water, those who I shoved into the dirt lest they see what lies underneath.

Insecurity. The word leaves a cold, metallic taste on my tongue, but its sense is inviting

and warm. It is an enemy and a familiar lover, a nemesis who I have wrestled too long with to

not honor. Insecurity caws like a parrot on my shoulder, making a mimicry of everything I do

and say. It sneaks into my bed and crawls into my ears while I sleep, nestling itself into the inner

corners of my mind. At times, it is visible to the well-trained eye. Insecurity looks like a baggy

shirt or oversized sweater. It looks like a fake glimpse at a photograph with a nod of approval; its

owner knows far better than to actually look at the image before approving of its use. Insecurity

looks like worn skin on the thumbs and overly picked at acne. It looks like sweat stains after
even imagining a conversation with that certain someone. Insecurity’s words are familiar and

comforting. You are not good enough. You don’t deserve this. You’re repulsive. They think

you’re weird. You’re so embarrassing. Over and over. Its damage is beyond estimation; its roots

are firmly planted in the depths of my soul. Who am I? I don’t know, but I know I am not good

enough.

Ironically, a piece of myself despises the rest of me that so vehemently believes I am

unworthy of love, attention, and affection. How dare I hate myself when I have spent so long

being myself and nurturing myself? How dare I despise the woman my parents are proud of?

How dare I loathe the body I fight so hard to love? This piece, the ideal self, is entrenched in the

recesses of my mind. I envision it as a tiny gnat that only comes into focus if I strain my eyes for

long enough. It is easily swatted at and its buzzing overlooked. Every step I take toward allowing

this gnat to take the wheel is overshadowed by its much larger counterpart, the parrot formed

from years of criticism from parents, friends, teachers, and failed, desperate attempts to meet

cultural standards. How can a little gnat fueled by one positive affirmation a day override all of

the years I have spent allowing the parrot to squawk as it pleases? I am spiteful of those who

have such well-trained, gargantuan gnats and a pocket-sized parrot. And I hate that I am spiteful.

All too often, the most insecure people are the most critical of others. I like to think that I

am far too insecure about others seeing that I am insecure to be overtly critical. I flinch when I

feel a twinge of jealousy knowing that a friend has won the affection of a boy who thought I was

far too overweight for him; I hate her for being so thin and beautiful, I hate myself for not being

thin and beautiful, I hate myself for hating her, and I hate myself for holding myself to that

standard when I know it is such bullshit and for letting it allow me to hate myself. My instinct is

always to hate them, the others, the beautiful, the confident; which, in turn, makes me hate
myself. It is an abusive cycle. The jealousy stems from self-hate, and the presence of jealousy

further fuels self-hate. But I can’t let those cracks show. This world has a way of kicking you

when you’re down, and I have enough missing pieces as it is. I cover them with things I can

control and keep the jealousy and hate deeply tucked away, known only by the rippled face I

stare at. Somehow, she finds a way to reach through the surface and show me the reality of who I

am.

I was sorting through finished projects at work, neatly bundled into piles of 25. Stack

after stack was perfectly sorted and alternated by counts of five so they laid gently against each

other, completely flat. Upon further inspection, one stack, perfect in every other way, had been

ruined by the very thing that held it together. The rubber band had snapped. I shrugged and

replaced the rubber band... and snapped the new one. And the one after that. And the one after

that. After burning through five new rubber bands, I let out a tear. The poet in me saw it as a

moment of weakness, a representation of my fragile mental state; I was perfect in every way on

the outside, neatly ordered, but putting too much strain on the fragile band that held everything I

contained so well together. The menstruating part of my brain took it as a sign that God and

everything holy had turned their back so coldly away from me and that I was a disgusting,

undignified creature unworthy of even completing one simple task. What can I say? I contain

multitudes.

Those multitudes exhaust me. I am so tired of hating myself. I cut my hands on the glass

as I pick up the broken pieces of myself every night, foolishly depending on affirmations and

journals to mend the chronic emptiness. It is getting better, I think. I like that I snort when I

laugh, even if the boy at the amusement park laughed at me for it. I like to think that I am clever,

even after that silly high school boyfriend told me I was a dumb bitch over and over again. I
appreciate my sense of humor, even if my friends roll their eyes at the fourth joke in a row I've

leveled at their innocent mothers. These small idiosyncrasies that I have learned to embrace

within myself do not make up for the years of self-flagellation that my parrot has put me through.

But, perhaps, they humble the cocky bastard a bit.

I think of these things I love about myself in spite of the world telling me not to, and I

imagine looking in the pool of water. I see a gentle, sad face looking back at me. She is so tired

of me splashing in the pool, trying to obscure her. It's not her fault I cannot look within. Like a

hermit crab, I hide the softest parts of myself within the toughest shell, choosing a new one

depending on the company. She is the piece I tuck away as I curl in from false home to false

home. In the corner, I see the sun rising in the background and raise my eyes to meet it. I am

reminded of Taylor Swift’s “Anti-Hero,” humming the words that made me wonder if she had

seen past the shards and ripples of myself, knowing I’d stare directly at the sun but never in the

unaltered mirror. And boy, she was onto something; it is exhausting. I know that I am the

problem, that the parrot has my permission to perch on my shoulder, and that I ignore that little

gnat when I hear its faint buzz. I previously have just chalked it up to being a woman, though

that seems a little cliché, it’s true that we’re taught to make ourselves smaller. And I like being

small. It's easier to be liked when you’re small. But would I trade being liked by others for being

liked by myself?

I return my imaginatory gaze to that rippled face, and I finally meet her eyes. I am a little

ashamed. I know the answer, and it is not a simple yes or no as I wish it would be. It is that I am

scared to know who I really am. I am scared of who I would become if I embraced the ripples. I

am scared that I would be too prideful, too greedy, too jealous, too selfish. I have convinced

myself that the parrot has kept me humble and likeable; without it, I would be even more
undeserving of love than I already am. The hidden truth is that I am scared if the gnat’s buzzing

went from buzzing to humming to singing, I would lose the familiarity of the self I know. I have

already lost so much of her already. She has faded away ever so gently and I have no idea who

she is morphing into. It terrifies me. I look at the reflection in the mirror for a moment, and I lose

myself in the reality of who I currently am. I just can’t recognize her. I shift my gaze into the

pool of water, and while she is so beautiful and so obscured, her eyes remind me that I have lost

pieces of myself along the way and to be who I am going to be, I must lose even more to face the

unknown of self. For now, I will continue to retreat into my different shells and prick myself in

an attempt to collect the pieces I have lost so far, but enough of me has begun to shed that I can

look her in the eyes.

After workshopping this piece, my professor cautioned me that my readers would not

understand the author. She gently warned me that this essay cannot be fully appreciated without

knowing it is a woman who appears to be “extroverted, confident, beautiful, and brilliant”

penning all of her fatal flaws. She also told me to be a witness without judgement to myself. I

took her words to heart, enough so that I could share her compliments of character, even if only

in a quote so that I do not claim her words as my own declaration of self-description. And when I

return my gaze to the water of my mind’s eye, I witness without judgement and look at that

extroverted, confident, beautiful, and brilliant reflection. Perhaps, one day, I can reach into the

shimmery water and embrace her and accept the murkiness that surrounds her. Maybe, when I

emerge drenched, I won’t mind that no one else knows her the way I do. The most mortifying

ordeal of all is knowing myself and loving her anyways.