I used to think taking selfies, making videos, and checking myself was part of having fun with my friends. I still understand the value of taking photos with your best friends, but I was having way more fun without the anxiety. It didn’t feel like I was missing anything.
Day 7
last day
On the last day, I was scared to see myself. I’d gone so long without looking that I didn’t really remember my face. Part of me wanted to keep going, just to avoid that moment.
I hadn’t felt particularly pretty all week, but that wasn’t really the point anymore. I felt more purposeful than anything else. I had gotten a lot done. I had spent less time thinking about myself.
The first couple of days, I couldn’t stop wondering what I looked like. By Day 7, that question had mostly faded. Still, I counted down to 5 p.m., waiting to rip everything down.
5 p.m.
I ripped my Trader Joe’s bags off the mirrors and prayed I’d like my face.
If I were going to spend seven days without my reflection, the reveal had to feel dramatic. I put on a sad song and opened my eyes all at once.
I counted down—three, two, one—and looked, only to come face to face with my mother.
Years of English classes could never have prepared me to describe the feeling of seeing my own face and not recognizing it.
My mother and I are not close. I’ve always been irritated when people say I look like her. Until I saw it myself. It wasn’t just a resemblance. It was exact. The shape of my features, the way my expression sat on my face. It all felt like hers. I was looking at something inherited, not something that belonged to me.
Like any deeply disturbed girl, I opened a note:
