Can a Mirror Lie?

TW: Eating disorder, body dysmorphia.

Have you ever read a horror story where the main character has a mirror that doesn't reflect what's standing in front of it? A mirror with a reflection that talks, or speaks, or walks, or moves on its own? Have you read anything like that? Surely you have. 

And if you're anything like my mother or my best friend or her brother, I'll ask you this question, then perhaps you'll get a scared look in your eyes and you'll say: "But things like that don't really exist. It's great for fiction, and I once saw a scary short film on YouTube that was pretty good, but it's nothing more than that." Why will you look scared? The question I asked - it's a normal question, isn't it? Well, that's because you'll notice that as I'm asking you this question, I'm standing in front of a mirror. I have my back to it, but I know you're too curious not to look. And I know what you're seeing in there.

You'll stare at your reflection in the mirror as your voice trails off. That's okay - for some reason, it's a natural human reaction to look at yourself in a reflective piece of glass whenever you have the chance. Your eyes will drift away from mine, and you'll keep bringing them back until you can't anymore, and your gaze is lost in the mirror. 

I know you will, because I do the same thing.

The mirror is across from the door that leads into my bedroom. Whenever I open the door, its brass knob cold in my hand, that mirror - and my own reflection in it - is the first thing I see. It’s so hard not to look at it. Even if I’m in a hurry, or if I was thinking about something else before, I still freeze in front of the glass. Every time.

I see the outfit I chose the night before, the one I put together painstakingly while listening to the song my classmates raved about in the group chat, lyrics so muffled I can barely understand them. I’ve never heard it before, and I don’t think I like it. But since I’m doing what I should be doing, it's a cozy atmosphere, one where I feel like I'm fitting right in. Though, when I look at my clothes in the mirror the next day, the coziness is gone. Instead, there's only wishful thinking. Thinking that they should have looked nice, but they don't.

I see little red spots on my forehead, relics of relentless hormones and cheap drugstore skincare that was supposed to be helpful. No amount of makeup will cover them up. Wearing makeup, in fact, makes me such a fraud that nowadays, with the mirror as my guide, I don't dare. One time I tried, and I looked into the mirror and saw a dried-up wheat husk. It sounds crazy, I know, but you have to think about the way the foundation caked on my dry skin, the wavering line that was meant to be eyeliner, the red spots peeking through like a child's messy coloring ... and when you look in my mirror through my eyes, you’ll see it too.

I see my schoolbag, loose and heavy, draped over one shoulder. It has seen better days. I didn’t choose it – Mom did. I was thirteen when she grabbed it off the shelf, held it up against me, and smiled. “Do you like this?” she asked, and I did. It looked like something a preppy, fresh-off-the-bus high school student – the one that all the seniors would baby – might carry. I saw a little metal grommet where I could attach a keychain. I’d put a photo there, I thought, pictures of me with friends or silly photoshopped pictures of me with celebrities that my friends and I would laugh about together. But I’m still waiting for that. The plainness and the wear and tear adds character, or so I thought when I saw my bag sitting on my shelf. But when I looked at its reflection in the mirror, it just seemed shabby. Strange.

I see that I forgot to exercise this week. Hold on – is that thought really coming from the mirror, or did I just happen to remember it right when I opened my bedroom door? I don’t like to work out, and I’m always hungry, and I can’t stop myself from eating a good cookie when Mom makes them to tempt me. But, come to think of it, I guess I should get back on my "routine." Maybe my clothes would fit better if I did, and I wouldn’t have to see them bulging out in all the wrong places. The scale says I’m underweight, but BMI is all a lie anyways. I don’t look underweight, and it’s better to be under than over, isn’t it? That’s what the other girls at school would say if I asked. They’d laugh while they said it, too, and that would be intended to make me feel better, but it wouldn’t work, for I'd still be hungry.

It’s safe to say that other people’s mirrors aren’t like mine. When they look in their mirrors, they don’t see wheat husks and tired eyes that were laughing just a moment ago and ugly sweaters that were bought at trendy stores. They see reality – they see themselves. Just themselves, just what other people see. 

I have a friend who calls herself an “influencer.” I don’t know what that means exactly, but I do know that she’s pretty, pretty enough to call herself whatever she wants. She wears platform sneakers that would make me look like a tree trunk, and they make her look willowy and dainty and cute. She wears a little white skirt that would show too much of my veiny thighs to be attractive. She scrunches with her heels flat to the ground and holds her phone up over her face. Click. Her phone flash reflects off her mirror, adding an eerie, angelic glow to her photo. And voila, she’s beautiful. That’s all there is to it. So I’ve been told, but it has never been that easy for me.

I thought that when I saw myself in her mirror, I would look beautiful too. Because the reflection in my mirror at home, I think, isn’t reality. How could it be? How could I be so wrong about myself? But I was sadly disappointed. I only saw my reflection in passing, but it looked just the same as it did at home before I left. Sad, sorry, pathetic. Droopy and lame. 

The mirror isn’t magic, not like the mirrors in horror stories. The problem is me. It must be.

But you see it too, don’t you? You have an idea of what you expect before you look in the mirror, but you don’t see it when you finally do look. Your reflection is all wrong. You’re shaped differently than you thought, and your clothes aren’t the same color, and your cheeks are waxy and sallow. Never, ever does a mirror work the opposite way, telling you you’re better than you really are. It's like mirrors have a secret plot to take over the world by making themselves superior to those who look in them.

Now the only question is, which one’s real – the mirror, or the reflection I think I should have seen? Will I ever find a mirror that tells me the truth about myself? That mirror - will it be someone's eyes, perhaps my best friend's, or Mom's, or a person that loves me?

Or ... my own?