by Sahar Abdulaziz

I stand, transfixed, staring into the mirror at a face I no longer recognize, at a body that has housed my soul for fifty-plus years, birthed healthy children, sustained me through illness and healed me from falls, and yet, here we are, she and I, practically strangers — adversaries for most of our co-existence. The light brown eyes glaring back at me are tired, worn, angry, and immeasurably sad. It’s been a difficult few months, and I am only now coming to terms with my loss.

On the outside, my body is a pretender, an impostor, a fake. She’s worn “just fine” like an insignia for so long that only the weathering of time has succeeded in unmasking her…bringing her crashing to her knees. Together, we wallow in heartbreak, she and I, weighted down by the stark realization that our well-worn mask of approval is slipping. Vanishing. Being replaced. I want to beg her for forgiveness, tell her how sorry I am for so many things I’ve thought and said, but she’s not ready to hear it. So instead, I lower my gaze, fighting back the torrent of shame, and blame-filled tears, and the urge to descend into darkness.

I am regretful. I should have defended her – us more. Thanked her more. Shown her the kindness, courtesy, and generosity I have so easily afforded strangers. The same strangers whose low opinions somehow carried more weight than the body which has protected, nurtured and cared for me through sickness and in health, until eventual death do us part. Instead, I have complained, mocked her legs, her waist, the size of her thighs…the texture of her hair, the shape of her nose. Never content. Never satisfied.

Now time, the greatest of equalizers, has reared its demanding head and stepped in. Neither my body nor my soul has the slightest chance against this eternal warrior. The mask that I so carefully crafted out of expensive lotions, oils, and promise-filled creams is now peeling, slipping, and threatening to expose. All that will remain is the unembellished, plain and simple truth, which, for too long, has waited in the wings to debut.

Age. The wearing away of the outer shell. Skin marked by discernable lines and wounds. I have spent a good portion of my life cringing against the tiger scars of motherhood traversing my belly. Laughed in memory of the childhood injuries that still adorn my knees. Detested the welted disfigurements left over from invasive operations, slicing, dicing, reattaching, and repairing my diseased innards.

Age. The pain within. The body parts slowed by indecipherable aches and inscrutable pains. Even sleep–The Great Escape, has become a commodity now.

However, the hardest, most excruciating, most wrenching pain is the invisibility — the way we older women are sidelined and curbed, relegated to the used bin, treated to an array of aggressive sidebar comments, the less than tolerant stares, and the saccharine, placating smiles, as if the longevity of our made-to-measure masks decides our individual worth as women.

Mine is slipping. Sliding. Disappearing. All but vanished.

All I am left with is the truth. The unembellished, unadorned, bare-simple truth. I’m not ready, nor strong enough to accept the inevitable. I thought I was. I told myself I would be. I lied.

This hurts.

I have begun to hide, sequester myself away from people, from judgment. Unwilling to tolerate all of the for her age comments and wounding clarifications. It’s all too messy. I’m barely able to navigate my own life, let alone police theirs–or at least that is what I tell myself.

I drag a broom from the closet and sweep up the mess, holding the handle with my now sore hand. I shrug. What’s one more pain to add to the long, and already disruptive list?

In moments, the mess disappears and I am left wondering, will this be my fate? Will I too, fade, becoming little more than a fleeting memory? Have I bought into the hoax of youth so profoundly that I no longer value the strength and herstory of my own footprint? I squeeze my eyes closed, searching again for my voice, taunting her to resurface and save me from myself.

I lower my body into a chair to rest. My emaciated shoulders slumped in defeat…wearied by this ravenous disease. I calculate in my head the energy needed to cajole my stiff limbs forward. The computation feels astronomical, unattainable. But I have no choice. Some things need to get done. Obligations don’t care about relapses.

Back up the stairs I go, gripping the banister for dear life, panting after every labored step. I contemplate what to wear, and what if any social canon will shatter should I dare decide to show up clothed precisely how I feel…

Once upstairs, I get ready to shower. I slip my bathrobe off, purposely diverting my gaze from the mirror. I stand under the hot shower, lost in blissful nothingness while the water beats against my sore body until my skin begins to pucker. Done, I towel off. That’s when I notice a new bruise forming on my forearm.

I select an outfit that only marginally does more than scream comfort. I put on my mask, tie up my hair, throw on a scarf and head out the door. When I arrive, I am met by familiar faces, conversant questions.

“How are you feeling?” I am asked repeatedly in passing.

Do I dare speak the truth? Tell them that every cell in my body hurts? That when I look at myself in the mirror, I want to cry? That this old, weathered face with the sagging jawline

“I feel just fine,” I reply, in a voice I no longer recognize. Slipping. Sliding. Disappearing. All but vanished.

***

Slipping. Sliding. All but Vanished. is an excerpt from Women Under Scrutiny,  an honest, intimate examination of the relationships we have with our bodies, hair, and faces, how we’ve been treated by the world based on our appearance—and how we have treated others. The women who created the serious, humorous, and courageous work in this anthology—women ages seventeen to seventy-six—represent an array of cultures and religions from across the United States. They are an extraordinary group of women who all share one thing: the ability to tell the truth.

Women Under Scrutiny  grew out of Randy Susan Meyers’ new novel, Waisted, the story of two women who torture themselves and are brutalized by others around weight issues, who get caught in the war against women, disguised as a war against fat.

Sahar Abdulaziz has authored seven books: But You LOOK Just Fine, As One Door Closes, The Broken Half, Secrets That Find Us, Tight Rope, Expendable, Trust. Abdulaziz’s work covers a wide range of hard-hitting topics: mood disorders, domestic violence, marital/family dysfunction, racism, sexism, and prejudice, but most of all––survivorship.