How Do I Look?

How Do I Look?

 by Valentina Rivera

I spent 45 minutes, half a bottle of stain remover, and an entire roll of bounty paper towels while cleaning up after my ex. It was the summer before my parents put our house on the market, and since it had been more than a year after I left those stains to sit, I figured I should dig the chalky black mascara stains out from the carpet before a realtor told my Dad to. I spent a hot, August afternoon with a window cracked, under the fan, scrubbing viciously at the fuzzy fibers between my fingertips, hoping that maybe if I scrubbed hard enough, I could erase a little more than just the makeup.  

            I was young and dumb when I met him. At just 16, I convinced myself that I had met my soul mate, devoting to him every fiber of my being. What else were lovers to do? Have you ever heard a heart-broken, newly single individual sorely spit, “I gave them my everything!” Well, for most, that statement is no exaggeration. I gifted him my time, surrendered my independence, handed him free control of every one of my emotions, let him borrow my confidence and shared my dreams and fears. Ultimately, I gathered every piece of what made me who I am, packaged it neatly in a box sealed tight with a bow, and delivered it, lovingly, to his greedy hands.

            At first, things were wonderful. We were mutually invested and loving on a high. I spent every moment I could wrapped in his arms. His admiration was like a drug and I no longer knew how to go a day without my fix. I belonged to him and he belonged to me. I would stand in the mirror admiring the girl I had become—for I was his girl—and tragically, at the time, I believed that was all I would ever be. And tragically, I was more than happy to say so. And tragically, when I looked in the mirror, and saw myself as his, I believed I looked good.

            It didn’t take long for me to change my mind. As time passed, and as I grew older, I began to long for particular pieces of myself that I had lent him. When I would try to retrieve them, he would do one of two things. The love of my life would either grow very angry, filling my head with ideas of helplessness, ensuring me that without his gentle care, I was sure to crumble to pieces, becoming nothing of importance at all. He wrapped each discouragement and insult within a deceiving claim of love, insisting that he was, and would continue to be, the only man to ever truly love me for who I was. Other times, the love of my life would fall into deep sorrow, telling me that if I were to pry myself from his fingertips, the air around us would become much to heavy and thick for him to swallow. These incidents developed into bickering, which eventually grew into arguments, which inevitably ended with shrieks and bellows of confusion and resentment. I would return home after long nights out with my sweet heart, wiping the tears clumped at the base of my chin, running mascara smudges across my bedroom carpet and burying my heavy heart into the pillows on my bed.

            I went almost two years avoiding mirrors. My reflection scared me, for I no longer recognized the girl that stood before me.  same brown eyes, same thick lips, same waterfall of curls, but no sign of *******. What I saw was simply and plainly his girl. I did not recognize what starred back at me. It truly was terrifying how much I didn’t look like myself at all.

            The day I left him for good was the day I stood in front of my bathroom mirror for nearly an hour, tracing the outline of my head and shoulders with my finger pressed against the glass. I then remember moving my finger to my left cheek, tracing the bruise that I thought I could possibly cover with Maybelline liquid, but I knew I could never eliminate completely. With all the strength I could gather within myself, I looked hard into my own eyes, and you better believe I saw. I saw who I had become, I saw who I had lost, I saw that he had hit me, I saw that he could not possibly love me the way he loved himself, and most importantly, for the first time, I saw the very toxicity of our love, dripping from my shoulders and oozing from my being. It had filled me and covered me, masking me as the ugliest version of myself possible. In that moment, I realized that my sweetheart probably saw the same in his own reflection. And it was this realization that drove me to finally let go.

            They say you never forget your first love, and I suppose in my case, that statement holds true. However, I cannot say that it is true for the right reason. As sad and crazy as it sounds, some couples in love are simply not in love. My heart aches for those who have not yet found the difference. My heart cries for those who no longer know who they are or how to free themselves from such a restraining grip. All I can do is share and teach, hoping that those will find their way out and into the comfort of their true skin again. All I can do is wait for my daughter (or son) to meet their first love and hope that their bond truly is what they claim it to be. All I can do is sit close by when they stand before a mirror at this time in their life. All I can do is swear to myself that when the time comes, I will walk up behind them, pull their hair away from their face gently, kiss them with care, and before I find any dark stains sunk deep into my carpet, I will ask them what I wish someone would have asked me.

“How do you look?”