My clothes, my hair, my face

Show the mirror who's Boss.

“The tyranny of the human face!”

― Thomas De Quincey

As an addict, I preferred not to look at myself in the mirror. I didn’t need to remind myself what I had become.

But every now and then, I’d accidentally catch a glimpse of this crack-addled Nosferatu. And I’d be transfixed. Look at those teeth. How quickly they become mahogany. Is that a hair growing directly from my ear? I was devolving in real time.

And what’s with all that bellybutton lint!? It’s like my bellybutton had no idea I had stopped collecting it — and just kept putting it out to the curb anyway.

I knew looking into the mirror would only compound the dim view I held of myself. I would only convince myself that I truly was becoming a walking corpse. And my mind, in all its reality-bending glory, would make it so. Because that’s what a mind does. It manifests our hopes and dreams — but also our fears and nightmares.

How do I know this? When I was a kid and I still felt magic and energy in everything around me, I created the most fantastic universe in my mind. When I looked in the mirror, I saw a wizard-knight, protected by invisible guardians. They kept the monster under my bed from surfacing. They held back the witch who rapped at the window every night. And they swatted aside all manner of evil spirits that grasped for me when I had to fetch a jar of tomatoes from the basement.

Sure I couldn’t keep all of life’s slings and arrows at bay. Some got through. But if not for the reality that my mind created, I know things would have been a lot worse.

That’s why, many years later, as an addict, I avoided the mirror. I couldn’t convince my mind that I was alive. And my mind, though weakened by the onslaught of drugs, would ensure that.

I guess that’s why one of the pillars of recovery is the simple act of looking into a mirror and telling yourself that you’re human — even a worthy human.

When I went clean, my relationship with mirrors changed. Now, I’m not exactly swanning from mirror to mirror, but I don’t recoil when I catch a glimpse of myself.

How quickly a body responds to even a little attention. My smile doesn’t look like it’s carved from wood. A little hair-plucking here and there really makes a difference too. Oh no, you don’t, little white hair growing from my ear!

And the collection of bellybutton lint has resumed regular service.

Recently, a recovering addict shared his routine with me.

Every day, he looks in the mirror and tells himself he’s an addict. It’s a reminder, he says, to stay vigilant.

He must have sensed my misgivings.

“Do you consider yourself an addict?” he asked.

“Well… I mean, I hope not.”

Sure, maybe I am still an addict. I mean, if we’re nitpicking, I’d at least hope to be a recovering addict. Or even better, a re-formed addict! Besides, should I be defined by the one thing I did — granted, it was life-changing — for the rest of my self-pitying existence?

These days, when I look in the mirror, I try to aim a bit higher. I tell myself that I’m the sum of innumerable parts. With more to come.

I mean, there are so many things we can be — so many things we can tell ourselves that we are when we gaze at our reflection. Why would anyone want to be an addict?

A mirror presents infinite possibility. Because our mind is looking back at us. So, today, I’m an astronaut. A professional synchronized swimmer. A son. A wizard.

I’m not going to waste a perfectly good mirror by reminding myself of what I was yesterday. But rather, who I aim to become.