Session Four
Mirrors Tell You Sweet Lies
We’ve all been through a breakup, to some capacity I’d assume.
Friends, family members, partners.
It’s pretty fucking painful, losing something you thought would stick around for the long haul. Only for it to be ripped away from you with no warning – or maybe, lots of warning.
You just chose to ignore it.
When I dyed my hair black, covered up all the blue, I thought: Okay, she’s changed. You’re different. No longer you, Blu. No longer you.
See, but here’s the thing about mirrors…
Mirrors tell you sweet lies.
They tell you that you look fat, but “How? I just bought this top? It fit perfectly in the store!”
They tell you that you look skinny, but, “I feel every inch of excess skin between my fingers.”
They tell you, “Nobody will ever look at you long enough to love you for a lifetime.”
Lies, you want to believe, because we’re hardwired to hate ourselves. Our worst critic, our closest enemy.
A few months into my reconnection with Jace, we’d brushed our teeth side by side in the mirror of his apartment. Because, yes, he was a big boy now! Paying his rent like the common folk, contributing to society, filing taxes –
So, I should respect him. Of course I should.
Even if he didn’t return the favor.
I caught him staring at me, eyes like a distant sea, and I asked, “What?”
“Nothing, Blu. Just happy to be here.”
He never quite got my name right, no matter how many times I corrected him. Not like he wasn’t aware, he just preferred Blu.
In his mind, Blu was easier to love.
Blu asked questions, yes, but question marks became periods the second he kissed them off her mouth.
Blu was easier to manipulate. Easier to warp. Easier to please.
I wanted, with all my desperation, for him to love me beyond the damage I’d endured. But he loved me inside of it.
And kept me locked in its cage.
He couldn’t swallow the fact I got testy, grew some balls, countered things he said about things that actually mattered.
Not trivial things like a café order or, “Do we get the buttered croissants or the shortbread?” But about politics, the economy, our government, career struggles, mental health – so much. Fucking. Mental health.
Because I longed to quit my job, I outgrew it (like I outgrew him) and the thought of leaving (both) sent me spiraling to the abyss.
I needed him, but I hated him.
I wanted him (to leave) to stay, to help (pack my things) and walk away.
But every conversation ended in a fight.
Nowhere did he ever recognize the woman beneath the wreckage (that was Blu) and how she was ascending.
I could thank him, for hammering steel armor to my bones.
I could thank him, for teaching me how easy love can feel like control, and control can feel like selflessness. He always did say, “With the right words, you can convince anybody of anything.”
You did, Jace. You did.
But most of all, I can thank him for finding me so that I could find myself. Without him, I don’t think I’d be sitting here, twirling Cole’s promise ring around my finger, working my dream job in my dream apartment, scribbling my experience to the world, hoping it finds the right audience.
Can you believe that? Me?
Beatrice Henderson, the girl that made an impact?
All thanks to Blu, the girl who survived.
The girl who looked around her cage – five, ten, fifteen times – and realized, the door’s been ajar since the beginning.
Open your eyes, Beatrice. Widen your scope, Blu.
He didn’t lock you in here.
You did.