I M Perfect lady

Many years ago, I used to see my mother in my eyes.  And, it caused me to not want to look into a mirror. I didn't see her image so much as her energy.  It is hard to explain but I would catch a glimpse of my mother and it would freak me out; mostly because I didn't want to become her.

 

During the pandemic, when they shut down the hair salons, I allowed my gray hair to come forth.  It wasn't until I had it cut short, to go natural, did I realize how much like my mother I now look, due to the gray hair.

 

Now I am seeing her often in the mirror.  

My age,

my hair,

her face and mine, blurring into one.

Yet the one isn't me.

It is her.

As me.

I want to be natural and not have to worry about color.

I want to be me.

Just me.

No mother.

No connection to the past  - in the mirror.

I have her toes too.

Those don't bother me as much.

It is to see her face sorta weaving and ebbing with mine.

The hair.

 

I need to make this hair color mine too.

It may just be the shock of it.

From brown to gray that sped me closer to old looking.

Her looking.

 

I feel different with the gray hair; more authentic and free.

I feel more me, until I look in the mirror and see where I came from.

And that is true too.

It is just not a warm and fuzzy feeling to see her there in me.

 

Maybe she's on my mind more now in summer, when she's here.

Here in my space

And, in my mirror.

 

It's hard to not feel I am becoming her.

With age.

Being a grandma

In gray hair.

 

I want to be me, just me.  Not see my past in the mirror.

But is that possible to erase her from my DNA, my features – Me?

 

I can see how folks who transition must feel – sorta – to try and find a Me that has no trace of the self before.

I am estranged; and yet I see her in me.

So am I?

 

Perhaps my transition was inner.

My insides are different.

It is true, I was her – I emulated her – in her faith, in her blindness, in her lack of self, her need for control – oh how I used to be her.

But, my insides changed.

My beliefs are different.

I have a self.

I grew me into someone who I love and feel deeply connected to. 

I love that I have boundaries and requirements.
I have passions and things that make me unique and Me.

 

I am different inside.

Yet my outside is more her than ever before.

 

I will try to funk her up, my outside image. I will have to work to make her even more unique and put my stamp on her.

A transition to becoming less my mother, and more Me.

The church frowned upon painting our nails. I now own them and love to have pedicures. My toes look fancy and not like my mother's.

It will take time; but slowly I will own my gray hair and see less of my mother there.

 

I do feel sad for the girl inside of me, who is wanting separation from her mother.

I feel the un-naturalness of pushing away.

The emptiness when I look up.

 

But I also feel the fierceness of being Me and owning my image in the mirror.

 

When I first began changing inside, I would see my mother in my eyes from time to time, until she no longer was there. Will the same happen to my image?  Will I continue to change until she no longer is seen there?

 

I fear that I will never outlive or grow enough to be free of her.

She will forever reside in the circle just outside of me.

An image

A flitter

A glance

A ghost 

A reminder

Of the old me.

Alive, but dead to me.

 

This is an odd grief.

A sadness wanting to be free of someone.

The upside-down-ness of estrangement.

Seeking to be free – and sorrowful to be alone.