Hi Tanya, how wonderful this is, and how generous you are. I have accepted your invitation this month. In fact, at your prompt the memory leapt into my mind, so I had no choice really.
Sally! I've just replied, and have already put your beautiful contribution into the story archive. It was wonderful to see your name come up in my notifications, and to know I had some words from you to read. You were one of the first people to take a chance on this project of mine, and so it's a special feeling to know this prompt moved you to add a new piece. Thank you! Txx
Your work and your book have been a great comfort and inspiration for me, after a pretty crappy couple of years. That you manage to encourage me to write is testament to the power your words and deeds have. I'm so glad I found you - by chance - and hope I can shift further from my own sleep-walking into the light. Thank you so much Tanya, you really give me hope xxx
Well that means so much to me. It’s what I hoped for the book - that it might keep even a few people the kind of company I yearned for in my hardest years. And now, in turn, the reader community around the book - of which you are part - is helping me as I stand at the end of a seven-year life passage unsure as to what I might do next. Thank you.
“Now then,” says L, “do you know who this is, she’s come a long way to see you?”
Your brows gather fleetingly as you look at me, eyes sweep my face, up and down. You look away, uninterested, then stand up and leave the room. My heart cracks. No, you don’t know me, your youngest daughter, do not remember my face.
Your face. After half a century, yours is the face I see every morning when I look in the mirror. When I was younger I saw my father’s face there in the glass, but now all signs of him are gone. There is only you. I see the tilt of your nose, the curve of your lip, the arch of your brow. I see our face and think of your soft, velvety skin, know exactly how it would feel it under my fingertips.
As you drift along the corridors, uttering amorphous complaints, I wonder how you do not recall yourself in my face, even if my own identity eludes you. But even that memory is gone, eaten away by this cruellest of diseases.
You walk past the doorway, then back into the room, but as we turn to you, you walk out again. I try to hold back the tears, and cannot.
But years after you are gone, we still meet in that mirror. Mutual, poignant recognition. Heartbreak. And joy.
Dear Sally - how wonderful to see you return to the project with this deeply moving piece which moved me to tears. The loving detail of your mother's younger face, which now lives on in yours. Thank you so much for this. Here is your link to your piece in the story archive... very best as ever, Tan xx
Scanning the numbers on the doors down the corridor, I harboured no feelings of dread, no feelings that I would find anything untoward or unexpected. I expected to see my mother, in a hospital gown in a hospital bed. Pulling back the curtain divider in her room, I saw my grandmother’s face swimming out of my mothers’s, calling out to me and admonishing me for making the trip down to see her in hospital. I was thrust out of myself. The years swam. I lost my steadiness. And then, when I looked again, it was my mother and it was her face that was chastising me.
I was no longer in my body. I staggered down the corridor with nothing like the steady considered steps of those patients diligently walking their laps around the ward. Collapsing into the green plasticky lounge in the visitor’s room, I put my head between my knees until I returned to myself. I opened my eyes and saw my face mirrored on the blank screen on the wall opposite. It was a face that I could not seem to recognise. The years swam. I lost my steadiness.
Now the practice of looking through old photographs for the faces I saw that day in the hospital room has become a search for the right face attached to the right person. The fluidity, the distinct lack of fixed-ness, of features formed through years of familial living, astound me. Is it possible to see my face in the mirror as mine and not as a fusion of all the women I am the result of? Will my daughter see her grandmother’s face in mine one day? Does she see me when she looks into the mirror? Does she see herself?
Thank you so much for this moving contribution. That confusion of our faces with those close to us (or those we are related to, but are becoming separated from): how very well you convey the compelling but also unsettling nature of this. I'm so glad to have you join our project, and would love to see your responses to other prompts in the archive. All stay open. Here is your link to your piece in the story archive. Thank you. Tanya xx
Emily,you have written this so well. I can relate exactly to those weird feelings of others in your face. The loosing of steadiness, years swimming,fusion. And also the trauma of it somehow leaps out at me,the hospital and fear.
I thought we looked alike, me and another girl in my class at primary school. Her eyes were large, and brown and her skin much paler than mine. But it was the similarities I noticed (and still do). Secretly checking off shared life experiences. Seeking connection – and the possibility of not really being alone. It was the height that caught my attention since adults would comment that I was tall or tall for a girl. Sophie and I were the same height. Had the same brown ponytail length hair. And the same outfit: floral lilac culottes and a mint green t-shirt tied in the middle; coordinated dressing on non-uniform day.
After a few weeks of revelling in our similarities I asked Dad a question that had been on my mind for some time. Gazing into the tall, narrow mirror in the bedroom I shared with my sister, I wondered… Was there a way I could become Sophie and yet still be me? Was there a way in which my thoughts could be inside of her head, so I could look out from her eyes and see and feel her body yet know I was still me. It was an uncertain, hesitant commitment to my becoming her. Because if I was her, how could I be me? Could I experience being her while still being myself? Might that be possible?
“No.” said Dad. Though something in the tone showed an understanding of my desire to experience being through another.
A few years later, as a young teen, being talked about by my classmates I would wonder again about how my face, my thoughts and my being were connected. Self-conscious about how I appeared to the world left me staring at myself for hours in the mirror. Hoping I would somehow learn to be both inside and outside of myself. To be able to look at myself as another, as an outsider and see how I appeared. What did these harsh external judges, who had no idea what was happening inside, see? What did they want? Could this watchful guarding of myself keep me safe, help me second-guess the criticisms that would come my way? For a time, I could bring my face still and staring up in my mind’s eye. No need for a mirror.
And now, in the mirror? Can I meet my ever-vigilant eye? Can space for dreams open up if the watchfulness recedes?
Anna, this is exquisite. Such a quietly powerful, searching exploration of self/other. I only had room to touch briefly in my book on how my childhood self looked long hours into a mirror after my father left - here you have expressed better than I ever could that longing (& also unease) to merge with another, but also to have your inner self seen by others. Simply beautiful. I’ve already added your words to the story archive but because I’m doing this on a phone while away from home/computer I can’t yet create the hyperlink direct to your piece. I will do that on Saturday & come back here to give you it. But for now you can see it if you scroll down on the following page:
Thank you for your kind and encouraging words Tanya. Your book has changed my life and then to find this platform has been wonderful. I’ve never written anything before and I was shocked to find how ashamed and embarrassed I felt. After I posted, I had to pretend I hadn’t - I couldn’t look at myself in this word mirror I’d made. Then I came back to delete it but something stopped me and I’m proud of myself for leaving it be. What a small step but to notice it is huge. Thank you for commenting and for the community you have created here, there are so many special and inspiring snippets of lives. X
It's always moving to me to hear how hard it is for people to begin sharing their words - but also exciting to feel this space is a safe place for that experiment to begin or deepen! I was so surprised though to read your comment and find it's a first time for you as a writer - you have such wonderful pace and detail in the story you've shared here. More please!
Here, as promised, is the link directly to your piece in case you want to showcase it online in any way, now or in the future as you begin to share more writing and more widely: https://thecureforsleep.com/may-issue-mirrors/#annafrancis
Yes Anna, be proud! Loved reading this, and good to read your work here. I have similar feelings of shame and embarrassment about my writing ,not quite sure why,because its exposing i guess. This community is SO safe and the place to share and connect with others.
Louise, I'm sorry I'm so late in seeing and responding to this. I've needed a couple weeks largely offline to start a much-needed health/fitness programme. I always check any new comment notification instantly on my phone in case of the outlying but awful possibility someone has misused the space to be unkind (hasn't happened yet and I hope it won't ever!). I'm now able to be a daily presence on here again... and on my first day fully back here, I want to thank you not only for your own always-moving and beautifully-written contributions, but for the way you take the time to read others' work and respond to them: the way you're using this space is all I hoped it might offer and more. Thank you. xx
Ah,no problem re lateness! Honestly,I’m so grateful for this space. It has changed how I feel about my writing . Well,it’s got me writing and feeling proud of it. Of course it’s also processing experience and putting those things together.
On responding to others; feels part and parcel of the space & an equally enriching experience.
So glad your writing career is bringing you the satisfaction it appears to be doing. Here’s to more of it all!
There is a mirror in my childhood bedroom, where I have seen my reflection grow from 7 year old baby to 40 something old mother. Through childhood dancing and singing with a hairbrush, teenage awkwardness, through a variety of unsuitable boyfriends, then the one suitable boyfriend that became a husband, bumps then babies, toddlers and now young people.
When I was 7 we went to see the original Phantom of the Opera, the Phantom appears at first in a full length mirror and pulls the heroine through into his lair. It looked just like the one in my bedroom. I was frightened of the mirror in my bedroom after that, that a malevolent spirit was lurking behind and might reach through and snatch me away.
But looking back - that idea that a strange and odd man with a disfigured face who lived in the sewers and might GET me, well that was just a symptom of my over anxious and over imaginative mind, fearing danger at every corner. I see now that the mirror refracts different personalities that I have tried on through my life, who is the real me? Do I still belong in that bedroom in my childhood mental constraints? Or have I blasted through the looking glass to find the true me?
I love this from you, Jenni. The way you use the mirror prompt to show us so many of your selves and for that then to be the thought the pieces turns on and ends with. You've also reminded me of a relationship to mirrors that I'd forgotten in my own life - that eerie sense of them as potential threats as well as a place to gaze at. Here is your link to the your piece in the story archive. (If you'd like your last name added, just use reply here to let me know and I will update). I changed the last word of your piece for impact - from 'me' to 'self'. If you'd like me to change it back, again just say!
What we see and what don’t see in the mirror. They are so close aren’t they? There in our face and also beyond making some things weirdly distant and others sharper than they’ve ever been.
I look in the mirror on this grey Tuesday morning and there’s my mums neck; suddenly and rudely more wrinkled than I’ve noticed before.
“I hate my neck” I remember mum saying exactly that 20 odd years ago now; she was about the age I am now.I had peered at her then and examined her skin and found it unremarkable under a face I felt was aging amazingly well. Indeed I heard this echoed in the compliments she received especially in relation to me and my big sister; could she really be old enough to be our mum? Familiarity and love too making my judgement so much more favourable than her own.
I also always received flattery from friends as well as strangers back then;but these were often misperceived if I think about it now. I didn't really want to look like a schoolgirl. We want to look grown up enough to be at the mother of our own child, dancing at that club, drinking at that bar, hanging out with that crowd; I needed to see myself as of an age that could cope and manage with all that life seemed to hurl my way. I didn’t want to see the fear, panic, pain and confusion on my face any more than I wanted to see mums wrinkles.
As I had sat on the 73 bus travelling across London with my 10 month old on my lap, my face with its girl like appearance , passers by would say
“ You must’ve had him young”
Not so I thought , 27 was the average age for having your first child;I was average then. I felt anything but that. I felt panic at times.So much so that I called social services one day, distraught.
“What do I do if I can’t cope with my child?” The question I just managed to relay to the person who had picked up the phone. I can’t recall their exact reply. I can recall the way the question landed, was there immediate danger? Did I have support? They just didn't get me. No-one did.Why would they? I didn’t get myself either and I really couldn’t explain this.Put the phone down. Cry and hurt alone some more.
I didn’t get what to do when I wanted to run out the door; when I needed my mum but not how to ask; when I wanted my big sister to step in and scoop me up and look after me.When I just wanted my dad to see how brilliant I could be at being grown up.My head was full of chaos and sadness and joy all in one big scramble. Yes, thats what it was, a scramble, like eggs mixed so each one was now part of the other. Where did one emotion start and another end? What even were these emotions? I just felt alone; unable to express myself except after wine and dancing but then it seemed to come out strange and urgent and somehow more frightening than ever. But there was joy too. A lot of pure love and joy.
So now, when I see my neck and my face and the wrinkles I don’t like I also see beauty and experience and someone who has made it through, through the toughest of times.
Louise, I read every line of this with increasing urgency, being taken by you on a true journey through the mirror. Such a powerful piece. I'm not quite there yet where you are...I'm finding the aging of the last seven years since I began my late-made writing life newly painful (maybe because so many photos of me are in the public domain whereas my life before that was so obscure? But now, for a seven-year period of 42 to 49 there's a detailed record of how much I've changed? I dislike that I care. I'm not proud of it. Your piece reminds me to look at the experience instead of what has gone... thank you. Here is your link. Txx
Oh, you know as well as I do,there’s also what’s not said! Some days I look and am much less generous & I am on the same page with wishing I cared less…..
I couldn't write this until today. It was too uncomfortable. Maybe I should have just taken it on, but it was too hard. I have been brooding on it, though, and I think that brooding has been helpful and has been one of the things propelling me forward, so thank you for that, Tanya. Also, having met you at that little hut, this piece is really special to me!
Sarah, how much I wish you weren't going through this chemo and cancer journey. But that you trust me and others here with your meditations on your experience - it's the deepest privilege. People say my writing is brave, but my bar for that is set very high: testimony of survivors of any personal or public atrocity, those like Lynne facing terminal illness and writing of it. Her diary entry in Wild Woman Swimming on listening to the sound of water, written from a hotel booked by her dear friend once they knew it was a brain tumour - this remains a high water mark of personal writing on life-threatening illness for me. And I believe your writing on how your life has been permanently changed by your diagnosis belongs in the same category. Txxx Here is your link...
I have become a woman who doesn't look in mirrors. I don't see myself there - I see someone else, as if a spell has been cast. I was the fairest of them all, now I'm a saggy, tired old crone.
My hair has become a symbol of that. I started life with brown hair. Straight, thick, shiny. In my early twenties, I had a lot of fun with my hair - red and black checks, multi-coloured sunbursts, asymmetry. In my late twenties, I settled on a low maintenance bob of varying lengths. We got on together, me and my hair.
When I started my first chemo, I had it cut short. And then I had it shaved off. The hairdresser cried as she shaved my head. A sweet little old lady in the next chair patted my arm and told me it suited me. It was OK. Better than the constant drift of hair loss, the blocked drain in the shower, the scattering of hairs on the pillow. After chemo it came back silver. The perfect canvas.
This time round, I haven't lost it all. My eyebrows are gone. I have a total of 6 eyelashes - four on one side, two on the other. But I still have hair - just about. It won't grow more than 3 cm, and it's thin. So thin. But it's there. I have grieved for my hair this time round. "I don't want to die bald", I tell people. I mean I don't want to be chasing treatments until the end. I want to know when to stop.
One of my dearest friends is now my hairdresser. Last night, in her kitchen, she tidied me up. She has made such a difference. I'm embracing this crop, this short-back-and-sides. I've mourned enough, time to leave that behind. There's enough grief to come.
I deliberatly avoided reading other pieces until I’d submitted my own because I was pretty sure someone would pick this particular theme and I didn’t want to be unduly influenced. Your take on it is positive and reflects on the ageing process generally, what we fight to defend, and for how long. And hairdressers, those unsung heroines, keepers of our secrets and our dignity, whose skills go far beyond the technical. Has anyone written a book about them yet?
What a very beautiful idea for a book or - even better - an anthology. My mother used to 'do' pensioners' hair all around the countryside, even though she wasn't trained. I loved being in the kitchens of these farmers' wives, head going slightly giddy from the smell of perming lotion... and I've cut my husband's hair now for 25 years...my teen daughter cuts mine...
I haven't felt moved to write anything myself - not even my daily journals of the last ten years! - for months now (a few short commissioned magazine pieces coming up). But this prompt from you makes me want to. Would you mind if I gave that theme a try?
Go ahead. I remember reading a piece in the Guardian about recruiting hair stylists as early detectors of domestic abuse, because they become very good at reading people close up and they were in a good position to spot bruises covered with makeup. That stayed with me.
I stand in front of the bathroom window where the light is good, tilt my chin slightly upwards before the magnifying glass, and pick up the tweezers. Brace a little, pull in my lip. Ouch ouch ouch. A tiny hit of release as each wiry intruder leaves its pore. I know every little cluster, every stretch of the skin. After the big lockdown, I stopped paying a beautician to perform this service.
Well, I won’t have to worry about this in a few weeks’ time, I think, as I have done every day this week. Ouch, ouch, ouch.
Between Cycle 1 and Cycle 2, that’s when it begins for most ladies, they say. There are classes you can go to at Maggies, they teach you clever ways of folding scarves. Or you can get a voucher for a wig. But everyone knows it’s a wig, well everyone who knows you, who sees you in the clinic waiting to be called for your bloods week after weeks, because hair is meant to change in all kinds of subtle ways, and certain people’s - you need to take care with words like ladies nowadays - certain people’s, don’t.
Do they offer the men scarf-tying workshops, I wonder? Or wigs? I saw a bloke in the coffee shop who’d had an eye taken away last week. It makes you realise how lucky you are. He looked sort of okay with it, he’s alive, for the moment, after all, and anything is better than that.
The day it actually starts, the day your hands fill with it in the shower, unless you’ve already called your hairdresser who probably won’t charge you for that particular cut - and will certainly understand if you cry - will you stop looking in the mirror? WIll you have to force yourself from the house? Will you wear that defiant, colourful hat you bought weeks ago?
Oh Miranda - how you've conveyed here the physical shock & cost of cancer, right from (before) the start of treatment. You're having to think about things ahead of you that none of us want to experience - or see our loved ones go through. As with Sarah, as with Lynne Roper - the wild woman swimming, I am so grateful for your words from this place that I and others in my family are almost certain to go through. And other members of our story-sharing community on here will also find value in your contribution too, I know. Thank you. Here is your link... https://thecureforsleep.com/may-issue-mirrors/#mirandarwaterton
The bathroom cabinet mirrors hold my gaze: a silvered altarpiece that needs no kneeling. A thousand of me stares back, front back and sides; nowhere to hide. I switch off my eyes and escape from view, but there is no cut and run, moonlight flit or vanishing trick. I am the act, the performer inside and outside of my head. The mirror gives me age; I give me a road less travelled.
The mirror is a cruel thing, it empties out my face and entombs me in a space. The mirror neither loves me nor dislikes me. It maintains a neutral stance. A lifetime of my faces have stared back at me searching for answers; narcissistic impulses have tempted me, tried to catch me off guard; even lied to my face. I have erred and misjudged my way through many different mirrors.
Whatever I see in the mirror I slug it down; I cannot restrain nor repress it like uncomfortable memories. Decades of sunlight have scratched my retina, leaving an impression of a life well lived; I close my eyes, but the mirror sees all.
Looking at old photographs links me to a narrative of past golden moments; a lifetime of my smiling faces packaged in the past, but my "now" face unwraps them with caution. I have looked at the world with all of these different faces. My inside hall of mirrors re-create and re-structure my image of me. Corridors of masks hang there waiting to be worn, waiting for the right moment to face the world.
My eyes have fed me the world; with pie in the sky, castles in the air, cloud cuckoo land and a glimpse of bliss; all in the blink of an eye. Steve.
Steve, as ever I am blown away by the way you combine the spiritual or existential with such exacting physical language: 'Decades of sunlight have scratched my retina, leaving an impression of a life well lived' - just one quote from you back to you to show my admiration!
I love how forensic this is, how unsparing. Thank you. Here is your link:
Thanks Tanya, always a pleasure receiving your comments. This has always been a dream of mine to break open the word prison and set them free to explore the world and bring back some genuine voice to help shape my thoughts.
Covid came knocking so had to lie low for a while.
It's all started with a routine argument. I wasn’t cautious enough, wasn’t sufficiently vigilant and on and on it went. So, I tried to defend myself and habitually pacify him but then some red mist blinded me momentarily. Enough! I’ve done nothing wrong. I screamed back and he froze. His only working eye burning with hatred, not love - “You cannot see through to my soul, and you never will! Never!”. But I’ve seen it then. A fear of a trapped animal and aloneness, the depth of which I couldn’t yet comprehend. And there were resentment and regret and more fear. I could not unsee it any longer. All those years wanting to be like him, hanging on his every word, feeling so small without him and terrified to lose his love. The glass pedestal got cracked.
The years passed. The time came when I couldn’t look into a mirror without stabbing pain right in my core. How many times I had to pretend to be someone else to feel accepted and to chase imaginary status. I thought I got away from my past by building a new future as a wife and a mother. I do that for my kids, I used to tell myself. But in the mirror the past was staring back at me, judging silently, reminding me that one can never get away from one’s roots, and responsibilities to them. “You have forgotten your filial duties and for that you will be punished” – the mirror hissed back at me in his voice, reminding me how long I carried on seeing the world through his lens. The only way forward was to rely on myself and stop judging my reflections. I won’t let a piece of glass to steal my soul. I have the duty to myself, and I knew it mattered now…. Because I owe that to my children too… I have to find my way so that they could too.
How devastating, how powerful this is. And I recognise the truth of this: how mirrors become the way we confront an inner truth. Have you read Educated by Tara Westover about her childhood of religious indoctrination from her father and physical abuse from her brother? The mirror is a central part of how she copes as a child and then decides to leave as a young adult...
Yes, I have and I loved it until the very end. The end just somehow didn’t sit right with me. I felt she simply swapped one religious cult for another. Maybe I need to go back to it , as it was a while back. Thank you for reminding me about her. I need to look her up, I wonder what she is up to now. Oh, gosh so many things to talk about, so little time xx
There she did it. She threw out the beans. All of them. Dumped them on the ground and watched the chickens come running. She usually doesn’t mess up in the kitchen like that: why did she think she could soften dried garbanzos and black beans in the pot together without turning the garbanzos gray. She tried to salvage the beans, separate the black ones, have something besides anger left from this pot of beans, anger that he invited people over for dinner that she doesn’t really like. She thinks they are boring and that the husband dumps his wife on her and that is mean but it is her truth. What was he thinking? He’s not here in the kitchen, he’s working again. And now she’s cooking and throwing out beans and opening cans of beans that she keeps on hand for emergencies. What woman has emergency beans? Someone who is always responsible for all the meals, that’s who. Other women throw out beans, too, she thinks. They yell and let it all out, dump good beans, bad beans, baked, boiled, buttered, pickled beans, stupid beans, stupid, stupid stupid beans, women throw them in the yard, against the wall, into the woods, into the garbage, down the disposal. They must do this, she can’t be alone in this. She usually just cries, ruminates, writes, moves on, walks away, shuts down, there are always more beans, other beans to think about. But these beans, she wants to hurl them, every last bean, heave them hard, against trees, against the ground, against it all, just out and away from her.
Even so, she still doesn’t want him to know about these beans.
Wow! So much fierce energy in this! Love the repetition of beans, beans, beans (and think my eqivalent, thinking of my maternal grandmother, would be mince, mince, mince). Just want to check which theme you want this added to? It's come in under Mirrors but I wasn't sure it was linked to that?
Oh, there was definitely fierce energy that day. I think I put it under mirrors because I was so mad at myself for not just telling him that I didn't want to cook for them. I grew up around too much yelling and can be conflict avoidant to a fault. I like to think of myself as someone who speaks her mind, but sometimes I don't at all and this seemed like one more manifestation of that, so I was once again seeing parts of myself that I dislike, confronting what felt like a lack of courage. If you don't think it's a good fit though, I do understand why. As always, thank you.
I love it so much, and it has given me a thought that Secrets should be one of the Season 3 themes. If so I will add it to that part of the archive when it's made...and yet I couldn't bear not to add it already. So it's in Mirrors too! Here is your link:
Have I already mentioned that I'm planning to do a featured contributor with one of their pieces in the main body of the monthly newsletter every month from Season 3 starting soon in end of Jan? I'd want you to be one please - I'm starting with the people who have written on multiple themes, and have been part of the project for a while now. It feels like a lovely way to boost awareness of the treasures in the archive as well as raise visibility of writers in the projects. I'm just thinking through the format I want to use. I like the idea of asking each of you to provide a few lines of bio, and to answer a few questions too. More when I'm clearer in my approach!
Oh my gosh, Tanya! I am truly honored. I wish you could see the cheesy smile on my face right now! I hope that all of the generosity you offer out to the world is returned to you ten fold. I don't use the words "life changing" often, but first hearing you on Katherine May's podcast and then reading and re-reading your book, and then this space to share writing, well, it actually has changed my life. So many thanks!
I was always fascinated by my mother's dressing table. Three mirrors. One central that you could swivel backward and forward. Two side mirrors that you could angle to see the back of your hair. Contorting my head at impossible angles, I would swivel and adjust for the perfect view. Coiled on top, combed to the left, then the right, brushed forward hippy-style. I was Olivia Newton-John, Joni Mitchell, but always Daddy's Jeannie-with-the-light-brown-hair.
I didn't learn to love myself well with gazing in the mirror. I was a twinkle in your eye. I found my reflection in your deep love. I miss my reflection there.
What an exquisite portrait piece. Tears came at those last sentences - for you: your loss of that loving gaze/reflection; for me, never having known that love from a father. Then a smile: the editor in me who delights in good writing.
I think she had, the woman in the mirror, looking back at me.
But whether that was a bad thing depended on how the phrase was interpreted.
Was she she unkempt in appearance?
Had she stopped caring about standards or had she stopped caring about standards?
She had stopped caring about standards
The inner critic and the outer judges no longer held sway.
Her mother would have noticed her undyed hair, her lack of a girdle to keep it all in!
The late hour at which she rose after nights filled with, well not sleep anyway
Her limited wardrobe, black, blue, grey or white with the occasional flash of hand crafted scarf.
Yes she had let herself go.
She had stopped trying.
She didn’t want to be, couldn’t be action granny. Her health put a stop to that.
Ruined by attempts to be supermum in another life, she limped towards pension age in a game where the state kept most unfairly moving the goalposts.
We could do anything, have it all, break down the stereotypes stopping us.
For some this meant doing it all, dragging along the baggage of unevolved relationships, until it all collapsed in a messy heap leaving us feeling bewildered and betrayed without the resources to recover. Counting the cost of it all.
And the irony of being rescued by her fathers money ( inclusive of her mothers secret running away fund)
So now finally she had let herself go and the sky hadn’t fallen.
Retirement a growing speck on the horizon promising a truce to the monitoring of her ability to be of financial worth. Because apparently that is all that ever matters.
Jan, this is such an exciting and strong first piece from you for the project. In so few words you've not only given your personal story, but you've condensed into it too generations of inherited attitudes to what women should be, as well as the economic contexts that are lives are shaped by. Here is your link to the piece in the story archive (I've had to change the format, as too many lines breaks don't work well in the website style I have - but your words have not been edited in any way).
If you'd like to have your full name attributed to the piece, just let me know by reply and I will amend asap. I so hope you will write more for the community!
Well that is exactly how I hoped this space might feel! Thank you! Now the very busy communal years of child-rearing are ending for me, I'm returning fast to the quite solitary patterns I had before then - but this online community is a way that I can still find and feel connected to like-minds. Lovely to have you here. I will put your last name onto the piece now... xx
You are most welcome. I love the energy in this space and find it exciting to read everyone's contributions! It is interesting how everyone approachs the prompts so differently. For a newbie like me this is all pure gold.
Your love. On loan, metered and mercurial, bags packed, calls severed, words splintered, provisions bargained. My complicity, my hand thrown in, decided to play, learnt to dance and bend to get the love I thought was due and for the rest I sought my comforts where I could - in fancies far and cosy nooks. As the years slid on, those rules remained though changed their looks and language for the time. Should I have seen that what I feared to lose I never had, a fool’s endeavour, to think we win when we cheat ourselves. And now, I am a paper girl, so light of substance and so unshaped, I am, so often, at a loss. And you, so riven by your brain’s decay you show me all your hands at once without veneer. The rage, the jealousy, the guilt, the lack and I am forced to relive it all again without the time to fix and chose a different path, whilst your demons dance a jig around me still.
I know I must seek peace and pity to temper rage. To see that you never had to give what I thought you surely must, and you suffer for that too.
And now with wisdom and in later years I have such love to give but no child to gift and prove I have defied the odds. This paper girl must seek her sense and meaning in other lands – though the winds are strong and coax and tempt me still to the shape of others wants.
Louise, this is an astonishingly-fine and fierce piece by you. A decades-old pain and sadness given new and urgent shape by these end years. Reading you, I am sad for your pain but I also admire how you have given voice to something so complex that is at the heart of so many parent/adult child relationships. Here is your link:
Louise this piece has me transfixed! I feel drawn to read it again and again, such is its allure to see you and hear you. A truly powerful piece of writing!
Hi Tanya, how wonderful this is, and how generous you are. I have accepted your invitation this month. In fact, at your prompt the memory leapt into my mind, so I had no choice really.
Sally! I've just replied, and have already put your beautiful contribution into the story archive. It was wonderful to see your name come up in my notifications, and to know I had some words from you to read. You were one of the first people to take a chance on this project of mine, and so it's a special feeling to know this prompt moved you to add a new piece. Thank you! Txx
Your work and your book have been a great comfort and inspiration for me, after a pretty crappy couple of years. That you manage to encourage me to write is testament to the power your words and deeds have. I'm so glad I found you - by chance - and hope I can shift further from my own sleep-walking into the light. Thank you so much Tanya, you really give me hope xxx
Well that means so much to me. It’s what I hoped for the book - that it might keep even a few people the kind of company I yearned for in my hardest years. And now, in turn, the reader community around the book - of which you are part - is helping me as I stand at the end of a seven-year life passage unsure as to what I might do next. Thank you.
I sit on the sofa and look at you.
“Now then,” says L, “do you know who this is, she’s come a long way to see you?”
Your brows gather fleetingly as you look at me, eyes sweep my face, up and down. You look away, uninterested, then stand up and leave the room. My heart cracks. No, you don’t know me, your youngest daughter, do not remember my face.
Your face. After half a century, yours is the face I see every morning when I look in the mirror. When I was younger I saw my father’s face there in the glass, but now all signs of him are gone. There is only you. I see the tilt of your nose, the curve of your lip, the arch of your brow. I see our face and think of your soft, velvety skin, know exactly how it would feel it under my fingertips.
As you drift along the corridors, uttering amorphous complaints, I wonder how you do not recall yourself in my face, even if my own identity eludes you. But even that memory is gone, eaten away by this cruellest of diseases.
You walk past the doorway, then back into the room, but as we turn to you, you walk out again. I try to hold back the tears, and cannot.
But years after you are gone, we still meet in that mirror. Mutual, poignant recognition. Heartbreak. And joy.
Dear Sally - how wonderful to see you return to the project with this deeply moving piece which moved me to tears. The loving detail of your mother's younger face, which now lives on in yours. Thank you so much for this. Here is your link to your piece in the story archive... very best as ever, Tan xx
https://thecureforsleep.com/may-issue-mirrors/#sallyharrop
Sally, your beautiful reflection on faces and mirrors and identity resonated deeply with me. Thank you for sharing.
Sally,this is so moving (for want of a better word!) Those last two sentences especially.
Thank you Louise and Emily, for your comments.
I think many people can relate to seeing someone else's face in the mirror, for good or ill. It's a strange yet everyday experience. Thank you.
This is incredibly poignant and powerful. You are right, there are many cruel diseases but this is the worst of them, I think
Thank you Miranda, very kind of you to say.
So sad that so many of us have to experience dementia in one way or another.
Scanning the numbers on the doors down the corridor, I harboured no feelings of dread, no feelings that I would find anything untoward or unexpected. I expected to see my mother, in a hospital gown in a hospital bed. Pulling back the curtain divider in her room, I saw my grandmother’s face swimming out of my mothers’s, calling out to me and admonishing me for making the trip down to see her in hospital. I was thrust out of myself. The years swam. I lost my steadiness. And then, when I looked again, it was my mother and it was her face that was chastising me.
I was no longer in my body. I staggered down the corridor with nothing like the steady considered steps of those patients diligently walking their laps around the ward. Collapsing into the green plasticky lounge in the visitor’s room, I put my head between my knees until I returned to myself. I opened my eyes and saw my face mirrored on the blank screen on the wall opposite. It was a face that I could not seem to recognise. The years swam. I lost my steadiness.
Now the practice of looking through old photographs for the faces I saw that day in the hospital room has become a search for the right face attached to the right person. The fluidity, the distinct lack of fixed-ness, of features formed through years of familial living, astound me. Is it possible to see my face in the mirror as mine and not as a fusion of all the women I am the result of? Will my daughter see her grandmother’s face in mine one day? Does she see me when she looks into the mirror? Does she see herself?
- Emily Tamas
Thank you so much for this moving contribution. That confusion of our faces with those close to us (or those we are related to, but are becoming separated from): how very well you convey the compelling but also unsettling nature of this. I'm so glad to have you join our project, and would love to see your responses to other prompts in the archive. All stay open. Here is your link to your piece in the story archive. Thank you. Tanya xx
https://thecureforsleep.com/may-issue-mirrors/#emilytamas
Thank you, Tanya. I am quite moved. Xx
Emily,you have written this so well. I can relate exactly to those weird feelings of others in your face. The loosing of steadiness, years swimming,fusion. And also the trauma of it somehow leaps out at me,the hospital and fear.
This is so disconcerting. It's very powerful.
Emily I have enjoyed reading this so very much! I love the way you have put this together.
Thank you for sharing
Tracey x
Thank you, Tracey, for your kind words. E x
From proof to possibility.
I thought we looked alike, me and another girl in my class at primary school. Her eyes were large, and brown and her skin much paler than mine. But it was the similarities I noticed (and still do). Secretly checking off shared life experiences. Seeking connection – and the possibility of not really being alone. It was the height that caught my attention since adults would comment that I was tall or tall for a girl. Sophie and I were the same height. Had the same brown ponytail length hair. And the same outfit: floral lilac culottes and a mint green t-shirt tied in the middle; coordinated dressing on non-uniform day.
After a few weeks of revelling in our similarities I asked Dad a question that had been on my mind for some time. Gazing into the tall, narrow mirror in the bedroom I shared with my sister, I wondered… Was there a way I could become Sophie and yet still be me? Was there a way in which my thoughts could be inside of her head, so I could look out from her eyes and see and feel her body yet know I was still me. It was an uncertain, hesitant commitment to my becoming her. Because if I was her, how could I be me? Could I experience being her while still being myself? Might that be possible?
“No.” said Dad. Though something in the tone showed an understanding of my desire to experience being through another.
A few years later, as a young teen, being talked about by my classmates I would wonder again about how my face, my thoughts and my being were connected. Self-conscious about how I appeared to the world left me staring at myself for hours in the mirror. Hoping I would somehow learn to be both inside and outside of myself. To be able to look at myself as another, as an outsider and see how I appeared. What did these harsh external judges, who had no idea what was happening inside, see? What did they want? Could this watchful guarding of myself keep me safe, help me second-guess the criticisms that would come my way? For a time, I could bring my face still and staring up in my mind’s eye. No need for a mirror.
And now, in the mirror? Can I meet my ever-vigilant eye? Can space for dreams open up if the watchfulness recedes?
Can I open up for the possibilities to begin?
Anna, this is exquisite. Such a quietly powerful, searching exploration of self/other. I only had room to touch briefly in my book on how my childhood self looked long hours into a mirror after my father left - here you have expressed better than I ever could that longing (& also unease) to merge with another, but also to have your inner self seen by others. Simply beautiful. I’ve already added your words to the story archive but because I’m doing this on a phone while away from home/computer I can’t yet create the hyperlink direct to your piece. I will do that on Saturday & come back here to give you it. But for now you can see it if you scroll down on the following page:
https://thecureforsleep.com/may-issue-mirrors/
Thank you for being part of our story-sharing community here.
Txx
Thank you for your kind and encouraging words Tanya. Your book has changed my life and then to find this platform has been wonderful. I’ve never written anything before and I was shocked to find how ashamed and embarrassed I felt. After I posted, I had to pretend I hadn’t - I couldn’t look at myself in this word mirror I’d made. Then I came back to delete it but something stopped me and I’m proud of myself for leaving it be. What a small step but to notice it is huge. Thank you for commenting and for the community you have created here, there are so many special and inspiring snippets of lives. X
It's always moving to me to hear how hard it is for people to begin sharing their words - but also exciting to feel this space is a safe place for that experiment to begin or deepen! I was so surprised though to read your comment and find it's a first time for you as a writer - you have such wonderful pace and detail in the story you've shared here. More please!
Here, as promised, is the link directly to your piece in case you want to showcase it online in any way, now or in the future as you begin to share more writing and more widely: https://thecureforsleep.com/may-issue-mirrors/#annafrancis
Tanya xx
Yes Anna, be proud! Loved reading this, and good to read your work here. I have similar feelings of shame and embarrassment about my writing ,not quite sure why,because its exposing i guess. This community is SO safe and the place to share and connect with others.
Louise, I'm sorry I'm so late in seeing and responding to this. I've needed a couple weeks largely offline to start a much-needed health/fitness programme. I always check any new comment notification instantly on my phone in case of the outlying but awful possibility someone has misused the space to be unkind (hasn't happened yet and I hope it won't ever!). I'm now able to be a daily presence on here again... and on my first day fully back here, I want to thank you not only for your own always-moving and beautifully-written contributions, but for the way you take the time to read others' work and respond to them: the way you're using this space is all I hoped it might offer and more. Thank you. xx
Ah,no problem re lateness! Honestly,I’m so grateful for this space. It has changed how I feel about my writing . Well,it’s got me writing and feeling proud of it. Of course it’s also processing experience and putting those things together.
On responding to others; feels part and parcel of the space & an equally enriching experience.
So glad your writing career is bringing you the satisfaction it appears to be doing. Here’s to more of it all!
There is a mirror in my childhood bedroom, where I have seen my reflection grow from 7 year old baby to 40 something old mother. Through childhood dancing and singing with a hairbrush, teenage awkwardness, through a variety of unsuitable boyfriends, then the one suitable boyfriend that became a husband, bumps then babies, toddlers and now young people.
When I was 7 we went to see the original Phantom of the Opera, the Phantom appears at first in a full length mirror and pulls the heroine through into his lair. It looked just like the one in my bedroom. I was frightened of the mirror in my bedroom after that, that a malevolent spirit was lurking behind and might reach through and snatch me away.
But looking back - that idea that a strange and odd man with a disfigured face who lived in the sewers and might GET me, well that was just a symptom of my over anxious and over imaginative mind, fearing danger at every corner. I see now that the mirror refracts different personalities that I have tried on through my life, who is the real me? Do I still belong in that bedroom in my childhood mental constraints? Or have I blasted through the looking glass to find the true me?
I love this from you, Jenni. The way you use the mirror prompt to show us so many of your selves and for that then to be the thought the pieces turns on and ends with. You've also reminded me of a relationship to mirrors that I'd forgotten in my own life - that eerie sense of them as potential threats as well as a place to gaze at. Here is your link to the your piece in the story archive. (If you'd like your last name added, just use reply here to let me know and I will update). I changed the last word of your piece for impact - from 'me' to 'self'. If you'd like me to change it back, again just say!
https://thecureforsleep.com/may-issue-mirrors/#jenni
Tanya xx
Thank you so much, am enjoying exercising the creative side of my brain thinking about all this!
Mirrors
What we see and what don’t see in the mirror. They are so close aren’t they? There in our face and also beyond making some things weirdly distant and others sharper than they’ve ever been.
I look in the mirror on this grey Tuesday morning and there’s my mums neck; suddenly and rudely more wrinkled than I’ve noticed before.
“I hate my neck” I remember mum saying exactly that 20 odd years ago now; she was about the age I am now.I had peered at her then and examined her skin and found it unremarkable under a face I felt was aging amazingly well. Indeed I heard this echoed in the compliments she received especially in relation to me and my big sister; could she really be old enough to be our mum? Familiarity and love too making my judgement so much more favourable than her own.
I also always received flattery from friends as well as strangers back then;but these were often misperceived if I think about it now. I didn't really want to look like a schoolgirl. We want to look grown up enough to be at the mother of our own child, dancing at that club, drinking at that bar, hanging out with that crowd; I needed to see myself as of an age that could cope and manage with all that life seemed to hurl my way. I didn’t want to see the fear, panic, pain and confusion on my face any more than I wanted to see mums wrinkles.
As I had sat on the 73 bus travelling across London with my 10 month old on my lap, my face with its girl like appearance , passers by would say
“ You must’ve had him young”
Not so I thought , 27 was the average age for having your first child;I was average then. I felt anything but that. I felt panic at times.So much so that I called social services one day, distraught.
“What do I do if I can’t cope with my child?” The question I just managed to relay to the person who had picked up the phone. I can’t recall their exact reply. I can recall the way the question landed, was there immediate danger? Did I have support? They just didn't get me. No-one did.Why would they? I didn’t get myself either and I really couldn’t explain this.Put the phone down. Cry and hurt alone some more.
I didn’t get what to do when I wanted to run out the door; when I needed my mum but not how to ask; when I wanted my big sister to step in and scoop me up and look after me.When I just wanted my dad to see how brilliant I could be at being grown up.My head was full of chaos and sadness and joy all in one big scramble. Yes, thats what it was, a scramble, like eggs mixed so each one was now part of the other. Where did one emotion start and another end? What even were these emotions? I just felt alone; unable to express myself except after wine and dancing but then it seemed to come out strange and urgent and somehow more frightening than ever. But there was joy too. A lot of pure love and joy.
So now, when I see my neck and my face and the wrinkles I don’t like I also see beauty and experience and someone who has made it through, through the toughest of times.
Louise, I read every line of this with increasing urgency, being taken by you on a true journey through the mirror. Such a powerful piece. I'm not quite there yet where you are...I'm finding the aging of the last seven years since I began my late-made writing life newly painful (maybe because so many photos of me are in the public domain whereas my life before that was so obscure? But now, for a seven-year period of 42 to 49 there's a detailed record of how much I've changed? I dislike that I care. I'm not proud of it. Your piece reminds me to look at the experience instead of what has gone... thank you. Here is your link. Txx
https://thecureforsleep.com/may-issue-mirrors/#louisestead
Oh, you know as well as I do,there’s also what’s not said! Some days I look and am much less generous & I am on the same page with wishing I cared less…..
Oh my Louise, what a beautiful and moving piece! I really felt myself caught up with the movement of it all.
A lovely share, thank you.
Tracey x
I couldn't write this until today. It was too uncomfortable. Maybe I should have just taken it on, but it was too hard. I have been brooding on it, though, and I think that brooding has been helpful and has been one of the things propelling me forward, so thank you for that, Tanya. Also, having met you at that little hut, this piece is really special to me!
Sarah, how much I wish you weren't going through this chemo and cancer journey. But that you trust me and others here with your meditations on your experience - it's the deepest privilege. People say my writing is brave, but my bar for that is set very high: testimony of survivors of any personal or public atrocity, those like Lynne facing terminal illness and writing of it. Her diary entry in Wild Woman Swimming on listening to the sound of water, written from a hotel booked by her dear friend once they knew it was a brain tumour - this remains a high water mark of personal writing on life-threatening illness for me. And I believe your writing on how your life has been permanently changed by your diagnosis belongs in the same category. Txxx Here is your link...
https://thecureforsleep.com/may-issue-mirrors/#sarahconnor
I have become a woman who doesn't look in mirrors. I don't see myself there - I see someone else, as if a spell has been cast. I was the fairest of them all, now I'm a saggy, tired old crone.
My hair has become a symbol of that. I started life with brown hair. Straight, thick, shiny. In my early twenties, I had a lot of fun with my hair - red and black checks, multi-coloured sunbursts, asymmetry. In my late twenties, I settled on a low maintenance bob of varying lengths. We got on together, me and my hair.
When I started my first chemo, I had it cut short. And then I had it shaved off. The hairdresser cried as she shaved my head. A sweet little old lady in the next chair patted my arm and told me it suited me. It was OK. Better than the constant drift of hair loss, the blocked drain in the shower, the scattering of hairs on the pillow. After chemo it came back silver. The perfect canvas.
This time round, I haven't lost it all. My eyebrows are gone. I have a total of 6 eyelashes - four on one side, two on the other. But I still have hair - just about. It won't grow more than 3 cm, and it's thin. So thin. But it's there. I have grieved for my hair this time round. "I don't want to die bald", I tell people. I mean I don't want to be chasing treatments until the end. I want to know when to stop.
One of my dearest friends is now my hairdresser. Last night, in her kitchen, she tidied me up. She has made such a difference. I'm embracing this crop, this short-back-and-sides. I've mourned enough, time to leave that behind. There's enough grief to come.
I deliberatly avoided reading other pieces until I’d submitted my own because I was pretty sure someone would pick this particular theme and I didn’t want to be unduly influenced. Your take on it is positive and reflects on the ageing process generally, what we fight to defend, and for how long. And hairdressers, those unsung heroines, keepers of our secrets and our dignity, whose skills go far beyond the technical. Has anyone written a book about them yet?
What a very beautiful idea for a book or - even better - an anthology. My mother used to 'do' pensioners' hair all around the countryside, even though she wasn't trained. I loved being in the kitchens of these farmers' wives, head going slightly giddy from the smell of perming lotion... and I've cut my husband's hair now for 25 years...my teen daughter cuts mine...
I haven't felt moved to write anything myself - not even my daily journals of the last ten years! - for months now (a few short commissioned magazine pieces coming up). But this prompt from you makes me want to. Would you mind if I gave that theme a try?
Txx
Go ahead. I remember reading a piece in the Guardian about recruiting hair stylists as early detectors of domestic abuse, because they become very good at reading people close up and they were in a good position to spot bruises covered with makeup. That stayed with me.
I stand in front of the bathroom window where the light is good, tilt my chin slightly upwards before the magnifying glass, and pick up the tweezers. Brace a little, pull in my lip. Ouch ouch ouch. A tiny hit of release as each wiry intruder leaves its pore. I know every little cluster, every stretch of the skin. After the big lockdown, I stopped paying a beautician to perform this service.
Well, I won’t have to worry about this in a few weeks’ time, I think, as I have done every day this week. Ouch, ouch, ouch.
Between Cycle 1 and Cycle 2, that’s when it begins for most ladies, they say. There are classes you can go to at Maggies, they teach you clever ways of folding scarves. Or you can get a voucher for a wig. But everyone knows it’s a wig, well everyone who knows you, who sees you in the clinic waiting to be called for your bloods week after weeks, because hair is meant to change in all kinds of subtle ways, and certain people’s - you need to take care with words like ladies nowadays - certain people’s, don’t.
Do they offer the men scarf-tying workshops, I wonder? Or wigs? I saw a bloke in the coffee shop who’d had an eye taken away last week. It makes you realise how lucky you are. He looked sort of okay with it, he’s alive, for the moment, after all, and anything is better than that.
The day it actually starts, the day your hands fill with it in the shower, unless you’ve already called your hairdresser who probably won’t charge you for that particular cut - and will certainly understand if you cry - will you stop looking in the mirror? WIll you have to force yourself from the house? Will you wear that defiant, colourful hat you bought weeks ago?
I don’t know, you say. I honestly don’t know.
Oh Miranda - how you've conveyed here the physical shock & cost of cancer, right from (before) the start of treatment. You're having to think about things ahead of you that none of us want to experience - or see our loved ones go through. As with Sarah, as with Lynne Roper - the wild woman swimming, I am so grateful for your words from this place that I and others in my family are almost certain to go through. And other members of our story-sharing community on here will also find value in your contribution too, I know. Thank you. Here is your link... https://thecureforsleep.com/may-issue-mirrors/#mirandarwaterton
Txx
The bathroom cabinet mirrors hold my gaze: a silvered altarpiece that needs no kneeling. A thousand of me stares back, front back and sides; nowhere to hide. I switch off my eyes and escape from view, but there is no cut and run, moonlight flit or vanishing trick. I am the act, the performer inside and outside of my head. The mirror gives me age; I give me a road less travelled.
The mirror is a cruel thing, it empties out my face and entombs me in a space. The mirror neither loves me nor dislikes me. It maintains a neutral stance. A lifetime of my faces have stared back at me searching for answers; narcissistic impulses have tempted me, tried to catch me off guard; even lied to my face. I have erred and misjudged my way through many different mirrors.
Whatever I see in the mirror I slug it down; I cannot restrain nor repress it like uncomfortable memories. Decades of sunlight have scratched my retina, leaving an impression of a life well lived; I close my eyes, but the mirror sees all.
Looking at old photographs links me to a narrative of past golden moments; a lifetime of my smiling faces packaged in the past, but my "now" face unwraps them with caution. I have looked at the world with all of these different faces. My inside hall of mirrors re-create and re-structure my image of me. Corridors of masks hang there waiting to be worn, waiting for the right moment to face the world.
My eyes have fed me the world; with pie in the sky, castles in the air, cloud cuckoo land and a glimpse of bliss; all in the blink of an eye. Steve.
Steve, as ever I am blown away by the way you combine the spiritual or existential with such exacting physical language: 'Decades of sunlight have scratched my retina, leaving an impression of a life well lived' - just one quote from you back to you to show my admiration!
I love how forensic this is, how unsparing. Thank you. Here is your link:
https://thecureforsleep.com/may-issue-mirrors/#steveharrison
best as ever, Tanya
Thanks Tanya, always a pleasure receiving your comments. This has always been a dream of mine to break open the word prison and set them free to explore the world and bring back some genuine voice to help shape my thoughts.
Covid came knocking so had to lie low for a while.
Steve.
Your words are well & truly free & clear now, Steve, so far as I as one of your readers receive them anyway!
It's all started with a routine argument. I wasn’t cautious enough, wasn’t sufficiently vigilant and on and on it went. So, I tried to defend myself and habitually pacify him but then some red mist blinded me momentarily. Enough! I’ve done nothing wrong. I screamed back and he froze. His only working eye burning with hatred, not love - “You cannot see through to my soul, and you never will! Never!”. But I’ve seen it then. A fear of a trapped animal and aloneness, the depth of which I couldn’t yet comprehend. And there were resentment and regret and more fear. I could not unsee it any longer. All those years wanting to be like him, hanging on his every word, feeling so small without him and terrified to lose his love. The glass pedestal got cracked.
The years passed. The time came when I couldn’t look into a mirror without stabbing pain right in my core. How many times I had to pretend to be someone else to feel accepted and to chase imaginary status. I thought I got away from my past by building a new future as a wife and a mother. I do that for my kids, I used to tell myself. But in the mirror the past was staring back at me, judging silently, reminding me that one can never get away from one’s roots, and responsibilities to them. “You have forgotten your filial duties and for that you will be punished” – the mirror hissed back at me in his voice, reminding me how long I carried on seeing the world through his lens. The only way forward was to rely on myself and stop judging my reflections. I won’t let a piece of glass to steal my soul. I have the duty to myself, and I knew it mattered now…. Because I owe that to my children too… I have to find my way so that they could too.
How devastating, how powerful this is. And I recognise the truth of this: how mirrors become the way we confront an inner truth. Have you read Educated by Tara Westover about her childhood of religious indoctrination from her father and physical abuse from her brother? The mirror is a central part of how she copes as a child and then decides to leave as a young adult...
Here is your link: https://thecureforsleep.com/may-issue-mirrors/#elena
Yes, I have and I loved it until the very end. The end just somehow didn’t sit right with me. I felt she simply swapped one religious cult for another. Maybe I need to go back to it , as it was a while back. Thank you for reminding me about her. I need to look her up, I wonder what she is up to now. Oh, gosh so many things to talk about, so little time xx
There she did it. She threw out the beans. All of them. Dumped them on the ground and watched the chickens come running. She usually doesn’t mess up in the kitchen like that: why did she think she could soften dried garbanzos and black beans in the pot together without turning the garbanzos gray. She tried to salvage the beans, separate the black ones, have something besides anger left from this pot of beans, anger that he invited people over for dinner that she doesn’t really like. She thinks they are boring and that the husband dumps his wife on her and that is mean but it is her truth. What was he thinking? He’s not here in the kitchen, he’s working again. And now she’s cooking and throwing out beans and opening cans of beans that she keeps on hand for emergencies. What woman has emergency beans? Someone who is always responsible for all the meals, that’s who. Other women throw out beans, too, she thinks. They yell and let it all out, dump good beans, bad beans, baked, boiled, buttered, pickled beans, stupid beans, stupid, stupid stupid beans, women throw them in the yard, against the wall, into the woods, into the garbage, down the disposal. They must do this, she can’t be alone in this. She usually just cries, ruminates, writes, moves on, walks away, shuts down, there are always more beans, other beans to think about. But these beans, she wants to hurl them, every last bean, heave them hard, against trees, against the ground, against it all, just out and away from her.
Even so, she still doesn’t want him to know about these beans.
Every woman keeps her secrets.
Wow! So much fierce energy in this! Love the repetition of beans, beans, beans (and think my eqivalent, thinking of my maternal grandmother, would be mince, mince, mince). Just want to check which theme you want this added to? It's come in under Mirrors but I wasn't sure it was linked to that?
Oh, there was definitely fierce energy that day. I think I put it under mirrors because I was so mad at myself for not just telling him that I didn't want to cook for them. I grew up around too much yelling and can be conflict avoidant to a fault. I like to think of myself as someone who speaks her mind, but sometimes I don't at all and this seemed like one more manifestation of that, so I was once again seeing parts of myself that I dislike, confronting what felt like a lack of courage. If you don't think it's a good fit though, I do understand why. As always, thank you.
I love it so much, and it has given me a thought that Secrets should be one of the Season 3 themes. If so I will add it to that part of the archive when it's made...and yet I couldn't bear not to add it already. So it's in Mirrors too! Here is your link:
https://thecureforsleep.com/may-issue-mirrors/#sheilaknell
Have I already mentioned that I'm planning to do a featured contributor with one of their pieces in the main body of the monthly newsletter every month from Season 3 starting soon in end of Jan? I'd want you to be one please - I'm starting with the people who have written on multiple themes, and have been part of the project for a while now. It feels like a lovely way to boost awareness of the treasures in the archive as well as raise visibility of writers in the projects. I'm just thinking through the format I want to use. I like the idea of asking each of you to provide a few lines of bio, and to answer a few questions too. More when I'm clearer in my approach!
Txx
Oh my gosh, Tanya! I am truly honored. I wish you could see the cheesy smile on my face right now! I hope that all of the generosity you offer out to the world is returned to you ten fold. I don't use the words "life changing" often, but first hearing you on Katherine May's podcast and then reading and re-reading your book, and then this space to share writing, well, it actually has changed my life. So many thanks!
Absolute joy to have met you through the work I've been doing. Your writing is exceptional and I feel sure you're doing to do more and more x
I was always fascinated by my mother's dressing table. Three mirrors. One central that you could swivel backward and forward. Two side mirrors that you could angle to see the back of your hair. Contorting my head at impossible angles, I would swivel and adjust for the perfect view. Coiled on top, combed to the left, then the right, brushed forward hippy-style. I was Olivia Newton-John, Joni Mitchell, but always Daddy's Jeannie-with-the-light-brown-hair.
I didn't learn to love myself well with gazing in the mirror. I was a twinkle in your eye. I found my reflection in your deep love. I miss my reflection there.
What an exquisite portrait piece. Tears came at those last sentences - for you: your loss of that loving gaze/reflection; for me, never having known that love from a father. Then a smile: the editor in me who delights in good writing.
https://thecureforsleep.com/may-issue-mirrors/#jeanwilson
Oh Tanya, that's so generous and kind.
The Woman in the Mirror
Had she ‘ let herself go’ ?
I think she had, the woman in the mirror, looking back at me.
But whether that was a bad thing depended on how the phrase was interpreted.
Was she she unkempt in appearance?
Had she stopped caring about standards or had she stopped caring about standards?
She had stopped caring about standards
The inner critic and the outer judges no longer held sway.
Her mother would have noticed her undyed hair, her lack of a girdle to keep it all in!
The late hour at which she rose after nights filled with, well not sleep anyway
Her limited wardrobe, black, blue, grey or white with the occasional flash of hand crafted scarf.
Yes she had let herself go.
She had stopped trying.
She didn’t want to be, couldn’t be action granny. Her health put a stop to that.
Ruined by attempts to be supermum in another life, she limped towards pension age in a game where the state kept most unfairly moving the goalposts.
We could do anything, have it all, break down the stereotypes stopping us.
For some this meant doing it all, dragging along the baggage of unevolved relationships, until it all collapsed in a messy heap leaving us feeling bewildered and betrayed without the resources to recover. Counting the cost of it all.
And the irony of being rescued by her fathers money ( inclusive of her mothers secret running away fund)
So now finally she had let herself go and the sky hadn’t fallen.
Retirement a growing speck on the horizon promising a truce to the monitoring of her ability to be of financial worth. Because apparently that is all that ever matters.
Then she could really let herself go.
To Let oneself go.
Definition:-
To relax and enjoy oneself without restraint.
Jan, this is such an exciting and strong first piece from you for the project. In so few words you've not only given your personal story, but you've condensed into it too generations of inherited attitudes to what women should be, as well as the economic contexts that are lives are shaped by. Here is your link to the piece in the story archive (I've had to change the format, as too many lines breaks don't work well in the website style I have - but your words have not been edited in any way).
https://thecureforsleep.com/may-issue-mirrors/#Jan
If you'd like to have your full name attributed to the piece, just let me know by reply and I will amend asap. I so hope you will write more for the community!
Tan xx
Hi Tanya, thank you so much for your response to my piece. Yes sorry for the format , I generally write poetry and struggle with paragraphs🙄!
I am honoured to be part of your amazing project and feel I may have found ‘my tribe’ at long last. How exciting xx
Jan Hillier
Well that is exactly how I hoped this space might feel! Thank you! Now the very busy communal years of child-rearing are ending for me, I'm returning fast to the quite solitary patterns I had before then - but this online community is a way that I can still find and feel connected to like-minds. Lovely to have you here. I will put your last name onto the piece now... xx
Ps Here is your updated link...
https://thecureforsleep.com/may-issue-mirrors/#JanHillier
Ooh me too Jan, I feel as though I have found my tribe too! Xx
This is such a moving piece Jan! So much has been woven into this fabric of words creating endless images clear as a cloudless sky!
I love it, thank you for sharing.
Tracey x
Thank you Tracey for taking the time to comment , it means a lot x
Hi Jan!
You are most welcome. I love the energy in this space and find it exciting to read everyone's contributions! It is interesting how everyone approachs the prompts so differently. For a newbie like me this is all pure gold.
Tracey x
Your love. On loan, metered and mercurial, bags packed, calls severed, words splintered, provisions bargained. My complicity, my hand thrown in, decided to play, learnt to dance and bend to get the love I thought was due and for the rest I sought my comforts where I could - in fancies far and cosy nooks. As the years slid on, those rules remained though changed their looks and language for the time. Should I have seen that what I feared to lose I never had, a fool’s endeavour, to think we win when we cheat ourselves. And now, I am a paper girl, so light of substance and so unshaped, I am, so often, at a loss. And you, so riven by your brain’s decay you show me all your hands at once without veneer. The rage, the jealousy, the guilt, the lack and I am forced to relive it all again without the time to fix and chose a different path, whilst your demons dance a jig around me still.
I know I must seek peace and pity to temper rage. To see that you never had to give what I thought you surely must, and you suffer for that too.
And now with wisdom and in later years I have such love to give but no child to gift and prove I have defied the odds. This paper girl must seek her sense and meaning in other lands – though the winds are strong and coax and tempt me still to the shape of others wants.
Louise, this is an astonishingly-fine and fierce piece by you. A decades-old pain and sadness given new and urgent shape by these end years. Reading you, I am sad for your pain but I also admire how you have given voice to something so complex that is at the heart of so many parent/adult child relationships. Here is your link:
https://thecureforsleep.com/may-issue-mirrors/#louiseratcliffe
Txx
Thank you Tanya and thank you for encouraging me to go where the resistance is! X
Louise this piece has me transfixed! I feel drawn to read it again and again, such is its allure to see you and hear you. A truly powerful piece of writing!
Tracey x
Thank you so much Tracey for reading what was difficult to write and harder to share, your words mean a lot, xx
Louise you are so very welcome xx