Mirror, Mirror On The Wall, Do You Bare Any Truth At All?

On average, women look in the mirror thirty-four times a day. That means we see ourselves twelve thousand, four hundred and ten times every year. But what happens if you don’t always see the same person staring back at you? What if you see over twelve thousand different yous? Clearly then, not every reflection you see is real. So which one is?

To pinpoint when my transmogrifying reflection began would be extremely difficult. Undoubtedly it is linked to my disordered eating in my teen years, but I don’t remember looking in the mirror and not seeing me. It was probably a gradual development over time, like the way a weed grows in a garden, silently wrapping itself around a plant. It tightens; strangling the life from the naïve flower, destroying the innocent beauty that once existed. When I do try and pinpoint it I have this image of being eleven, looking in a circus distorting mirror and seeing a disproportionate, ugly, pale giant of a girl. But I am unsure if this is just a metaphoric or hyperbolic memory I have created.  What I do remember though are occasions of catching sight of my reflection unexpectedly and not recognising what or who I saw. Sometimes I would see someone with a kind smile, deep and thoughtful eyes, with a shape well suited to her body. Sometimes I would see someone too skinny or someone too wide. Sometimes I would see someone with a flat bum and chest and a protruding stomach. Sometimes, if I stared too long, all of the areas of myself I hated would become hazy like a mirage. They would shift and distort, making them so prominent they would be etched into my mind. Even now, in my late twenties I occasionally see a picture of myself or a reflection and don’t recognise what or who I see staring back at me. So which one is really me? Which one is what I actually look like? Do I even look like any of the Meghan’s I see staring back at me?

I don’t know if we are actually brought up forced to pick out the supposed flaws we see in our reflection, but to me, it almost feels like an expectation of being female. It is like that scene in Mean Girls where the trio of stunning young women focus on how big their pours are or their large noses in the mirror. They then expectantly stare at the new girl, waiting for her to criticise herself and if she doesn’t, well clearly she is overly self assured, big headed and a self-centred bitch. And of course, the thought of someone believing and spreading this notion that we are these things terrifies us because we are women and we are supposed to be liked and nice. So we don’t step out of line. We look in that mirror with a Mean Girls attitude, we focus on the things that we think are wrong about ourselves, we hone in on them until it is all we see. It is like we shouldn’t be happy in our own skin, we should want to change parts of our body and that is just part of being a woman. It may also be a way of protecting ourselves in a weird and masochistic way- if we vocalise our insecurities, if we “own them” then people can’t use them against us. We are creating an armour made of self hate and insecurity so no one else can harm us with what we believe they will criticise. 

For me, the reflection I saw, the constant flaw picking and insecurities led me to measures which were drastic. If you have visited my page before, you have probably read my post Plagued By Numbers (a detailed and honest account of my disordered eating of fifteen years) and although I won’t repeat my story, it would be dishonest to not mention how my shifting reflection fuelled my eating habits and self-loathing. There I would stand, staring at my supposed self, covered in red splotches as I pinched the “excess” fat I found around my body. I dreamt of the day I would be thin enough to no longer be able to pinch. And so the cycle of meal skipping, calorie cutting and diets continued. But as I grew older and stared for longer, a new insecurity arose.

At eighteen, finally an adult able to make decisions for myself and working full time, I found that I was financially in the position to do something about this new insecurity. Having what I deemed a flat chest was what I believed was my second biggest flaw. I felt disproportionate, I felt unwomanly, I felt disgusted by what I saw staring back at me. Thus, I always promised myself that I would have breast augmentation surgery when I could afford to, and I did, going four times bigger from my natural cup. I was excited, regardless of other people's opinions, to finally look in the mirror and see what I wanted to see. I was excited to see someone beautiful, confident and sexy. I was excited because I believed I would finally look in that dreaded Mirror and be content. And I was…for a year. And then the image shifts. The Mirror in front of you starts to show something else; starts to focus on new things about yourself that you once didn’t notice or deemed fine. The haze then returns, old insecurities arise once more. The weed starts growing again, twisting and killing the version of you, you once deemed acceptable. The twelve thousand different yous reappear. The inadequacies, self depreciation and loathing rear their heads. I don’t regret getting my surgery- I love my boobs and did it for me (regardless of what preconceived ideas people have of plastic surgery and the type of person that gets it) and for some women it can be an extremely empowering and positive change. But what does bring me sorrow and regret is the fact that I also did it because I was so insecure. The fact I felt like I needed to change in order to be beautiful. The fact that teenage me didn’t feel enough. The fact that I did it with the naivety of thinking it would fix all of my insecurities and being utterly distraught when it didn’t.

My desire to change my appearance continued, and living in an age where surgery and non-surgical procedures are so easily accessible I could continue to change what I deemed flawed. As the 2000s saw the thin eyebrow trend, and as I had dark thick eyebrows growing up, obviously I plucked and plucked to try and make them thinner. But of course, times changed and as did the beauty standards! Thin was out and a thicker “natural” brow came in. So what was I to do? Microblading - a procedure in which a blade is used to cut open hair stroke slices into your skin, ink rubbed in and voila- the perfect brow. When done properly, this procedure can be really effective. I also believe in your body being your own and you having the power to do what you desire with it.  But for me, microblading was another step in trying to change my appearance. Another piece of the unhappy dysmorphic puzzle. Another way of changing my outward self because I was internally unhappy with what I saw staring straight back at me.

Thus, the cycle continued. I tried altering  my appearance with other procedures, with make-up, with clothing, with the gym. You see, for me, with every physical change I made to my appearance, a new dissatisfaction would arise. A new self loathing. A new thing to criticise. And there I was, like Hercules, trying to defeat the immortal beast, Hydra. Cutting and slicing in desperation to defeat all those images of myself I saw. Only to find with each head I cut, a new one would appear. With every insecurity I “fixed” another ten would be reborn in its place. Because I was trying to fix the wrong thing. I was trying to destroy the twelve thousand Meghans in the desperate search of achieving perfection, satisfaction and approval in my reflection. But that would never be a war I could win because I had been focused on destroying the wrong thing. I couldn’t even tell you what my version of perfection is. She doesn’t exist because dysmorphia doesn’t allow that person to exist. So therefore, the thing that needs to be destroyed is that dysmorphic self. Not the insecurities or the flaws. Not the reflection.     

So does the Mirror now bare the truth for me? Can I look in the mirror and be content with the Meghan staring back? And the answer is sometimes yes. Some days, weeks and months are good- I feel empowered. My outlook on myself and life has changed; there is so much more to someone than the way they look, as mentioned in my previous post, your appearance is the least impressive and interesting thing about you. I am more than what I look like. I am creative, I am funny, I love and feel deeply, I am a teacher, I am a writer, I am a daughter, I am a girlfriend, I am a friend, I am loyal, I am strong, I am healthy. I am also beautiful.  But my answer can also be no, the Mirror doesn’t always tell me the truth. I can be self-deprecating and mean to myself, I sometimes find myself focusing on flaws or pinching my stomach. But I am trying; I am aware and I am changing. I am finally fighting the right war- I am no longer fighting the versions of me, I am finally fighting the dysmorphia that tells me I am not enough.