I just want things to be normal.
At least, that's what I think when I'm most vulnerable and scared and down.
Like when I've taken refuge in our teeny shower stall a little too long and I'm burning lava hot yet I don't want to step out of the rushing water that drowns out the droning in my ears, in my house, in my life. I reluctantly step out and slowly turn, stealing a glance at the clouded mirror that hides my image behind a wall of wet.
I don't see me.
I stand there, naked and dripping, huddling my body around a towel, willing it to heal my deepest darkness.
But still, I don't see me.
Slowly, the mirror begins to drip, revealing jagged blurry pieces of my face, like exaggerated tear marks in negative.
I lurch towards the glass and hastily wipe it down, unable to stand the distortion.
And I see me.
Wet, stringy hair and a face that won't let go of its adolescent skin, despite it's aging eyes and I know, perhaps now more ever, that I will never really see me, will I?
Because these eyes need correcting, in so many more ways than one, and if left alone, they can't see rightly.
So I turn away...there's always this great turning away...and I rush to put on my clothes because I feel too vulnerable if I don't.
And then I sink onto the bed and remind myself to breathe into one moment, then the next.
And I sigh.
And then I remember...
"It is only with the heart that one can see rightly; what is essential is invisible to the eye."
-Antoine de Saint Exuperay