Eisoptrophobia

What would you call it? The fear of mirrors. Would it be “reflectphobia” because of the simple idea that it is a reflection of how you see yourself or “veraphobia” because of the fact that you know that whatever is looking back at you is the definition of truth.

At the ripe age of 4, I couldn’t reach the mirror. I just wasn’t tall enough. I would ask my mother to lift me up as I high as she could so I could see what everyone else saw, still not being able to entirely grasp the concept of a reflection. I was taught that it was an aide. Use the mirror to guide you when you brush your teeth. Make sure you look tidy in the morning so you can look put together and pretty for school. As time went on and I started growing into myself, I started to stare at the figure looking back at me as I got ready for school every morning. I started to hate it. The round dark craters that filled my face. My uneven facial structure. My gigantic crooked nose. My big ears. I started hearing my families compliments as lies as I couldn’t truly see what they were seeing. My shiny, visible mirror differing from the human eye altogether.

I was raised in a high-class suburbia of Las Vegas, Nevada. Being labeled as the odd one out was an understatement. I grew up idolizing everyone else’s looks and had a skewed idea of what beauty was; it was the straight blonde hair and perfect rosy complexion. The fact that my classmates could get everyone to turn heads in their prepubescent relationships with a simple sentence enticed me. Then confused me. And then led me down a rabbit hole of disappointment as I navigated my way through elementary school.

In first grade I got glasses. Not just normal, black framed glasses but bright pink, rectangle spectacles. If life was based on a point scale of beauty, I was below zero. The day before fourth grade I fell down on my treadmill trying to lose the imaginary weight I thought I had and started the school year off with a scar on my chest that was visible from a mile away. Fifth grade was when it all got considerably bad.

I was a part of a good group of girls. Snotty, bratty 11-year-old girls who wanted nothing in life but to be the top of whatever social hierarchy there was on the bright yellow playground. On a cold, bitter day in January, my friends, Danielle, Quincy and I, all decided that we were going to match. Deep down it was my idea. I wanted so badly to look like them. I wanted so badly to believe I belonged with them. We picked a place. Justice. Every little girl’s dream fashion destination. A place filled with glitter, sparkles and soon to be empty wallets. It reeked of plastic and had a sense of conformity. We all went separately as we dragged our moms from the comfort of our homes, texting each other with our green Nokia flip phones and new edition blackberries. A blue jumpsuit set was what we all decided on. We were to wear it to school the next day and amaze everyone with our preteen ways of thinking. We wanted to be those girls. I wanted to be that girl. Little did I know they already were, and I was just an anchor that dragged them while I sunk further down the whole of desperation. Upon getting to school the next day, my fellow five- foot monsters praised them; all of them asking where they got their new fits. It only took my mind a few seconds before I realized that no one had run up to me. That I again, was alone. Forgotten. Tossed to the side. As my now broken self-esteem cracked like the very thing, I was afraid of, I went home and cried buckets of hot tears steaming up my reflection.

I became the scapegoat, the person you only go to for help, the girl who lived in the zone of friendship and a person who thrived on empty compliments. The beginning of high school was when I put my insecurities to bed at night and woke up every morning a new character. The beauty of not knowing who you are is that one day, maybe you’ll stumble into it. This is why it was my goal to run full speed ahead. I wanted to hide my face. I needed to distract everyone from what I thought was the ultimate Achilles heel. In trying to do that, I turned to fashion. My new life goal was to have everyone look at me. Not just for fun and games, but to have people finally notice me. I was tired of being a background character of a favorite TV show and longed to be the star. I pushed all of my emotion into my outfits. I wore things that I knew I could pull off and became known for never repeating clothes twice. One thing I loved most were sweaters. Maybe it was the physical embodiment of trying to hide. I handstitched problems on a sweatshirt while keeping my awareness warm. I started with a needle, carefully weaving in and out of loops of my unspoken complications and ended with an everyday fashion statement. I turned my insecurity into my identity but still needed something more.

I joined varsity dance team and became the very thing I despised early in life; a mean girl who judged others just on surface level. I reverted back to my fifth-grade ways in a sense, but of course, more aware. I was wearing a mask and was drenched with fake self-confidence. I used dance to get out my frustrations and soon came across photography because photography for me, is capturing everyone else’s beauty without having to focus on my own. Just as I hid behind my clothes I now hide behind my camera. During my senior year of high school, I had a conversation with my mother. I had just come home from dancing on the sidelines at a varsity game in a heightened state of insecurity and my face was newly wet. I found myself standing among those I found better than me and couldn’t let go of this false fact. Like mothers rightfully are, she was concerned.

“Chika, what is it? What is wrong?” she said. My mother repeats herself quite often and I learned quickly that it shows that she cares.

“Nothing. I’m fine”, I choked out.

It felt like even saying those two words caused my throat to burn and for the first time ever, I told her what I was silently repressing. It had never come across to me that my mother didn’t really know what I was harboring all these years. That she didn’t know that my sweatshirts were my insecurities. When I talked to her, I blamed her. I accused her for constantly lying to me and praising me whatever chance she got. I cried as she tried to defend it, but I knew she was right. To me, my mom is the physical embodiment of beauty. Growing up, though I rejected it, she always made me feel beautiful. I look up to her and as she comforted me, she said,

“Loving yourself is the first step. You don’t need anyone else to tell you who you are. All you have in your life is you and soon learn to only rely on that. If you keep running away from this and never confront this, you will be miserable forever.”

She was right. This fear had chased me with cold hands for years and it was time for me to turn around and confront it. To hold it tight and make a campfire.

Eisoptrophobia. The fear of mirrors. I walked into my sterile bathroom in my home in Las Vegas and had the inability to turn the light on. The flip of the switch as I got ready is something I hadn’t done in 14 years. I wish bodies showed what was on the inside because maybe then we’d all look the same. Maybe then we’d all be equal. As I creeped into my bathroom the day before I left for college, I did it. I reached towards the light aching to face my fears. I pushed it up and looked at what was staring back at me. The mirror was still broken but it is slowly starting to repair itself. Slowly starting to show beauty. Beauty creeps in as I walk past my college dorm mirror and it is starting to call my name as I stroll into the communal bathroom at night. Confidence does not come easy, but it is something you can learn to have if you just try hard enough. Even if all you see is broken glass. Even if you truly believe that was is staring back at you is your definition of ugly. Hand stitch your sweatshirt and keep yourself warm. Change your definition of beauty.