The Body in the Mirror

Reflections on a life reflected

My planned series for paid subscribers has been put on hold until my son goes back to school in September. As a single mamma, the school holidays have always been a bit challenging for me, this year, with the mental health stuff I’m still recovering from, even more so.

But I just edited this to send to someone, and wanted to share it with you. This was the start of a book called ‘Wearing my life on my Sleeve’, about the tattoos I have celebrated my life with. I started writing the book a few months after my mother died, but found it too hard to write at the time. Coming back to it now feels joyful, a celebration of my life and hers, and I am delighted to share it with you here. Do let me know if you want to read more!

The Body in The Mirror

I’ve been dreading today. And wanting to get it over with. People assure me it's easier once this part is done. 

But I don’t want to do it. 

It’s been too long, but it’s far too soon. It won’t ever not be too soon.

With Herculean effort, I drag myself from sofa to shower. The warm water soothes me and washes away the tears that begin to flow. I wash on autopilot, lost in the flood of tears and sadness.

Warm from my shower, thick green towel around my body, my wet hair wrapped in a black towel, I walk to my bedroom and see the clothes I will wear today. 

A black top with long sleeves and neckline that covers the tattoo on my chest. A green cardigan. Her favourite colour. Black trousers. Her trousers. Two scarves to choose from. The black one we bought together for Tim’s wedding, just a few months ago. Or a blue green one I bought for her a few years ago. 

Funeral clothes.

I need to put on funeral clothes.

I’m not ready to do it yet. I don’t think I will ever be ready. Are we ever ready for this? 

I drop the towel, noticing that my choice of towels today reflect the colours of the clothes I will be wearing. She’d laugh at that. 

I have so many mirrors in my bedroom it’s hard not to see myself when I’m in here. Mirrors that are supposed to be doors, but became stand alone mirrors because I know that a wardrobe door will never be opened, and the space inside will become a graveyard of unworn clothes, while the clothes I wear will adorn cupboards, chairs and the floor.

So there are 2 mirrored doors, and one full length mirror, all in this small bedroom.

I don’t really like to look too hard when I am naked. I look pretty good in clothes most of the time. 

But I’m not sure the same can be said of my nakedness…. Although some men have told me different. 

There’s no man here now. Just me. Me and my sadness stop and gaze at my naked form.

She was the first person to see this body. The first person to hold me in her arms, to kiss me and tell me I was loved.  The first person I ever touched. The first person who told me I was safe, who made sure that was true.

And she is gone. 

I look at my body, still in awe that I was once small enough to fit inside her womb. That I once needed her to carry me, to feed me, to shelter me. 

Did I ever stop needing her? Did I ever stop looking for her strength?

As I scrutinise my body, far more closely than I usually do, I see my life etched on my skin. 

I see my calves, strong from walking and climbing, flexible from yoga even if I don’t practice as much as I really ought to. My legs are quite short. My whole body is short, so why would my legs be any different? But these legs have got me to the top of some high mountains. They have taken me long distances. They have moved as the music I love moves me, and allowed me to express my connection to the sounds i hear. They have opened to welcome in lovers, and walked me away from people and situations I needed to escape from. They have allowed me to sit on the floor to play with my children. They walked me into friendship and deep connection with my beautiful mother as we deepened our relationship in our walking boots.

And today they will walk my mother into a crematorium.

I see my stomach, so hated for so many years. The round belly that puberty brought after years of being a skinny little girl with a concave tummy. The pot belly that got me taunted by a gymnastics teacher when I was 14, upsetting me so much that I never went to another gymnastics class again. That prompted one of my classmates to ask me if I was pregnant when I was just 16. That prompted my brother to tell me, 6 months after I had my first child, that I was fat. That prompted 6 months of chocolate and laxative binges before it was stopped, not with healing, but with threats.

I see the stretch marks. Isn’t it amazing how much human skin can stretch in such a short space of time when another human is growing underneath it. Three humans created a map across my tummy, the map makers that were the treasures they were mapping.

I see the expanding waist that reminds me that while my body is still sort of going through the motions, I’m not really of ‘child bearing age’ anymore. That soon, those monthly attempts to prepare for conception will stop, and I will settle into my crone years. I have had children old enough to make me a grandma for many years now, but so far I’m still just Mum.

She was Grandma. And today, my children, the cartographers of my belly, will walk with me as we walk my mother, their Grandma, into a crematorium.

I see my arms and my hands. The hands that she held to get me to safety across countless roads. The ring finger that never made her a ‘mother of the bride’.  The arms that played the violin as a child, to her delight, and that now play again, reliving my childhood dreams of being a real musician. The arms that lifted so many pints and bottles until I was forced to stop by my own will to survive. The arms that have held my children to my breast to feed, and comforted them when they were upset. The arms that helped my mother into bed when she could no longer do it unaided. The arms that write the words I needed to heal the pain in my core both today and for so many years before.

And today, these arms will hug my family as we comfort one another at the crematorium.

I look at my face. Getting closer to the mirror so I can see even clearer. Is this wise? Aren’t there public health guidelines that advise women of my age not to peer too closely? Or do the ‘anti ageing’ cream makers want me to do that? I expect they do. I’m useless with that stuff. I only remember to put moisturiser on in the winter when my face gets sore from the cold, or in the summer when dehydration and sun dry it out. Always cure. Never prevention.

I shall be one of those women who wears her life on her face, as I have done all my life. I can’t hide my emotions or thoughts from my face, why hide my years?

My face. The face that many have told me is my father’s, while others see me and ask me if I was their french teacher, Mrs Nagle…They are older than me, the people who think this. So maybe I also have my mother’s face to those who don’t know my father.

When i stand back from the mirror, I don’t see an old woman. I mean, I’m 49, I’m not old. But I don’t look how I imagine a 49 year old would look. Not how I see some of the people I went to school with. 

But then I get a little closer to the mirror. And an old woman starts to emerge.

I see the dark circles that I think emerged with my pot belly at puberty. The dark circles that seem to be my legacy from Nana, along with her face, the face she passed to my Dad. I hoped that sobriety would take them away, but it seems that they are here to stay.  

I see the lines on my forehead. The deep one above my left eye, the ‘what the fuck?’ line that comes from too many eyebrow raises at the idiots of the world. 

I see the lines around my mouth that betray the ex smoker I used to be, and make me so glad that I gave it up… I see the thick black hair above my top lip that I bite out as soon as it gets long enough to get between my teeth. 

I see the eyes, and know that the first thing those eyes ever saw was my mother’s face. I wonder what she looked like to me then, in those first moment when we met all those years ago. She was young and beautiful then. Her beauty never faded, not to me, even when she was at her end.

Today, those eyes will weep as we say goodbye to her, and thank her for a lifetime of love. 

I look at this body that I live in, and smile through the tears. While I don’t always look at my body and see a shape I like, there are so many memories and precious moments I can’t look at it with anything with love.

And i love my body so much that I have decorated it with memories and moments.

When I see the body I was born into, I see the body I have adorned with colour, wth art, with the stories of my scars. 

I once told my mother that I was done with tattoos. But I think she knew as well as I did that while I might have meant it in that moment, I would never be done with them.

I love to write and share my stories on the page. I also love to mark them in colour on my body. 

I love to look at my tattoos far more than I enjoy looking at the rest of my body. They are colourful and quirky. Just like me I guess. The pictures are beautiful. The skill of the tattooists who worked on them can’t be denied. They look great, and often attract the attention of people who stop me to tell me “I love your tattoo!”

But what I love most about them is the stories they tell. The strength they remind me of. They show me that I’m still here. That I have overcome some heavy shit in my life. That I’m a survivor. 

They remind me that I can always be better tomorrow. That no matter how grey today might look, things can always improve. That the hardest times can be turned into beauty when etched on my body. 

I’m a writer, so I have often joked that everything that happens to me is food for my writing. 

But my life is also fuel for the stories on my skin. These stories will tell you as much about me as any words I write. So many stories….

My planned series for paid subscribers, the PEACEful Path to Recovery, will start in September, once the busy-ness of the school holidays is over and I have recovered from it all. I will also be opening my doors to welcome coaching clients who want to find a way to recover from stress and find healthier coping mechanisms to deal with the challenges of life. I will share more about that in the coming weeks, but in the meantime, do get in touch if you want to know more.