by Olivia Buvanova, 16
I haven’t looked in a mirror in 10 years.
I was diagnosed with a psychological disorder. I can’t look at photos—or reflections—of myself. It’s not a self-esteem thing; at least, I don’t think so. I know that I’m average-looking. Maybe even above average. My fiancé, Jason, tells me I’m beautiful, and I take his word for it.
It’s just something that I have.
For the most part, I don’t mind it. There are a few minor inconveniences—I can’t wear any mascara or eyeshadow, for example, because I’ll poke myself in the eye and will end up looking like a clown. I can’t drive because there are too many mirrors. And in most instances, I try to avoid social media.
I’ve accepted that this is just how I am, and how I always will be. But last night, as we were getting ready for bed, Jason brought it up for the first time.
“Sara, we’re getting married. And I totally understand if you don’t want a photographer at the wedding, because of … you know.” He stumbled over his words, squeezed my hand. “But I want to have photos of our wedding. I want to look at them with you years from now.” He stroked my cheek. “I want you to see how beautiful you are on our wedding day.”
“I don’t know,” I replied, pulling away. I found myself trying to catch my breath, as if I had just run a whole marathon.
How silly, I thought. Why am I getting so nervous over nothing? Still, as I pulled away, I felt myself beginning to panic: my eyes felt out of focus—blurry and watery, blinking faster than my heart was thumping.
“At least consider it?” he asked, sensing my discomfort.
“Okay. I will,” I sighed, tempted to bring the conversation to a close. I didn’t consider it at all.
Until a week later.
I had just finished showering. I shut off the water, pulled on a bathrobe, and began hurrying for the door. That was always my strategy—run out before the steam on the mirror cleared.
Except this time, I slip.
Sudden pain shoots up my tailbone. I cry out in despair, but no one can hear me—Jason is out having lunch with a business associate.
Maybe Jason’s right. I pull myself off the wet tile and limp out of the bathroom.
I keep trying to pretend like this isn’t affecting my life, but it is. No matter how careful I am, a mirror is always going to find me. Eventually. They’re … everywhere.
My heart begins to pound.
I’m going to do it.
I’m going to look in the mirror.
I swing the bathroom door open. Steam pours out, curling towards the ceiling. I wait ten minutes for it to clear completely.
I haven’t seen myself for ten years.
Maybe it’ll be fine. Maybe this one time will be hard, but then it’ll be okay. Like getting your wisdom teeth out. Or ripping off a band-aid. Or getting a flu shot. Sure, it’s painful and terrifying, but once you do it, you can rest assured you don’t need to do it again for a long time.
I take a shaky step into the bathroom and turn toward the mirror.
My ear and a bit of my hair reflect in the glass, poking out from the doorway.
I don’t feel anything. No fear, no trauma, no terror. It was a little weird seeing a part of myself—the ear looked bigger than I remembered, since I was only 13 the last time I saw it. But other than that, I was fine. I have nothing to be afraid of, I told myself.
I take another tiny step.
My jaw, cheek, and a bit of my chin came into view.
There were a few mild freckles scattered amongst my nose and cheeks. My wet hair was all rumpled and tangled. And I felt fine. My heart soared. I’m going to be okay. It’s going to be okay!
I take another step forward.
My eyes come into view.
I jump back. A strangled scream comes from my throat.
Not my eyes. Large, round, black pits where my eyes should be. As if someone cut away all the flesh from my eyebrow to my cheekbone on each one, leaving only darkness.
I run down the hallway, into my room. I collapse into the closet and lock the door. It is pitch black in here.
No light. No reflections. Nothing.
From outside, I hear a sound. A light chuckle.
Coming from the bathroom.
I sob and cry and hang my head in my lap. The memories come flooding back—memories of my reflection, as a child. Reflections of that thing. The thing in the mirror with the big black pits for eyes, that would talk to me every time I saw it.
Another chuckle. Louder this time.
I fly out of the closet. I run down the stairs, grab my cell phone. Call Jason. He’ll make everything okay. He’ll make it go away …
I frantically reach for the phone, anxiously awaiting Jason’s soothing voice. But when I glance down at the dark screen, all I can see is its reflection, staring back up at me. Laughing. Mocking me.
Bernardsville, NJ
Bridge Ink 