“We don’t see things as they are,
we see them as we are.”
This morning, as with every morning, I found myself face to face with, well myself.
And it suddenly struck me that somewhere along the way, some time along the way; I stopped liking the reflection I saw in the mirror.
Don’t get me wrong, I have never been the most beautiful woman in the room. Yet I always knew I could turn a few heads, and I have always enjoyed the receptive aspect of being a woman, the drawing in of glances, or flirtatious remarks, of energy that somehow made me radiate even more.
Now when I look in the mirror I don’t see that woman there anymore. I now see the one who put on 6 pounds with all the hormone fluctuations and warnings to stop working out so intensely, and who can’t seem to get them off. I see someone I don’t recognize, someone who has lost her luster.
And while I know all of this is in my mind, I feel somehow the world of men (my husband included) senses that I am not amongst the rabbit-like fertile mertile’s who inhabit every seeming space around me. That I have become invisible.
Somehow I’ve entered the not-interesting, washed-up, unattractive sphere of my life. I suppose I always knew this happens with time, yet I wasn’t prepared to feel this way at 35.
Yes, infertility has changed the way I perceive myself. And while I can entertain the thought that I am not seeing things as they truly are, knowing this doesn’t seem to change much.
The mirror may have two faces, but I can only see the one staring back at me.