Living Without a Mirror

It's Friday, May 15th.

The day after my birthday is beautiful. The sky is a cap of cobalt screwed on tight over the world, free of whipped-cream clouds or the tug-of-war of wind, and the Earth itself practically hums with the heady, amber tickle of soon-to-be-summer.

It's been four months since I've lived with a body-length mirror. I do have one mirror, technically, but it's no larger than the size of my hand and doesn't capture anything but my face. This wasn't a conscious, intentional decision. But it should've been. Three years ago, I had a therapist calmly suggest I try something like this, even if only for a couple days, but there was no way in hell I was simply going to give up my scale *and* my mirrors. No way. Never. Not when they were the stark relief in the swirling fog of my thoughts, the clarity I couldn't master independently, the only way to see when I didn't have eyes.

But now, years later, I've done just that. I've mastered my clarity, I've grown new eyes. And I have, without even meaning to, slayed the dragon circling the base of my turret, freeing myself forever of something I thought vastly indomitable.

It's Friday, May 15th.

The day after my birthday is beautiful.