sometimes

i'm an unreliable narrator

Sometimes, there is a palpable tension when I look in the mirror. Sometimes is an improvement, it used to be always.

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It’s an odd yet freeing journey, learning that what I see, and I mean literally see, is not always real.

It’s not depersonalization. I’m not disconnected from myself, my body. I feel my arms' unmarred, baby-like skin as I run my long fingers, a remnant of my grandmother, against them. I see tiny green flecks floating in my eyes; “They are hazel, not brown,” I hear my father insisting. I scrunch my face as my red nails pull two white hairs out of the brown nest atop me. I sigh as my legs ache in unison, as I power my way up Everest (a treadmill).

I see - I feel - each part of myself so clearly. The round edges. The sharpness. The softness. The scars.

Goodness.

But, sometimes, when I look at all the pieces together, it’s hazy. Like the astigmatism I had in middle school is suddenly back. And when I see myself refracted through this cloudy lens, I lose sight of my essence. I lose sight of my magic. Of the soul thrumming inside.

In the delicate dance between self-perception and external interpretation, I find myself caught in the threads of an untrue narrative. My reflection becomes a story I tell, distorted by harshness.

There are times when I look in the mirror and see a failing body. A body of shame. And without intervention, these thoughts morph into disgust and apathy. And then I do become detached. The depersonalization creeps in and I lose sight of the good parts. Those golden cracks that are usually a source of pride, leave me clenching my fists in rage.

There are times when I look in the mirror and feel lost. It’s a narrative constantly in flux, shaped by internal struggles and external perspectives. How do I make sense of the dissonance?

I trust my body.

I don’t trust how I see it.

---

Growth for me has meant learning that, sometimes, I am an unreliable narrator. That, sometimes, despite my best efforts, my brain glitches, and those no-good, very bad thoughts slither in and fill my vulnerabilities with venom, leaving me aflame.

Growth has meant learning that I am both the venom and the antidote. That I can choose to not spiral. I can meet my gaze amongst the fog and say: “Walk away, now. It feels true, but it’s not.” That I am simultaneously the storyteller who weaves tales of self-doubt and the observer who witnesses the compassionate narratives others see.

Growth has meant learning that regaining self-trust takes time. It is not different from how we rebuild trust in any other relationship. I need to give my body and eyes and mind more time to get reacquainted, to recalibrate.

Growth has meant accepting the vastness of my sickness. To meditate on how high of a toll I paid. I’ll need to continuously remind myself that healing is a process, not an event, and I’m not fully there yet.

Growth has meant learning that you cannot heal a body you hate.

Once more, with feeling - You cannot heal a body you hate.

I don’t hate my body.

I’m set on healing.

I now know that my body is but a part of my existence, not the be-all and end-all.

I’m growing. It’s good.