While I’m wandering through life, I’m never truly free. A part of me is trapped, trapped inside a house of mirrors. Forever facing one distorted image after another, each claiming to be a reflection of me. Yet none of them are the same. My identity becomes an accumulation of imperfections.
Too big, too small, thighs, eyes, hair…despair!
My mind is too eager to define its happiness according to someone else’s idea of beauty. Imperfections become an obsession and my self-esteem depends on my ability to ‘cure’ those imperfections.
Imperfect from day one. Two legs. Two feet. Two arms. One hand. The hospital staff advises my parents to leave their worries behind…to leave me behind. My parents, however, say yes to imperfection, say yes to me. Yet, I cannot. I cannot say yes to my own body and its perfect imperfections.
I laugh because it is not my disability that haunts my mind. I am at peace with my arms. I am embracing the silhouette my unlike arms create. I am, in fact, at war with the rest. Oh, if I could only change this, that, and everything else, I am sure I would feel good. I keep telling this lie until I start to believe it.
Maybe, if I’m lucky, I might find a way out of the house of mirrors. Then, I think, I can make peace with my body and embrace my perfect imperfections.