The Devil in the Bathroom
©Rachel C Johnson
My mother confronts her demons in the shower. Early in the morning she addresses her issues whilst washing her hair. She chose the shower, I presume, because she maybe thinks no one can hear her, but I can make out every resentful word on mornings I sleep in. I unwillingly play audience to her diatribes on these mornings I have nowhere to be, paying relentless attention, eyes fixed on the dark water tower just beyond the yard. She’s noisy in the mornings, slamming doors with righteousness. I’m not falling asleep again.
When I was young I had a fear, probably spurned from the tales of Bloody Mary, and I couldn’t face myself in the bathroom mirror if it were dark. Unable to look my shadowed self in the eye, I would turn away until I found the light, or not go in at all. The anxiety followed me to the bath, and later the shower, where I felt eyes peering from places I couldn’t see hidden by shower curtains or, simply my back, turned on them. I had demons—demons in the bathroom—watching me from every point.
Even now my hand finds the light before my eyes hit the mirror—my refusal to face the glass becoming my refusal to face my darkened self. What lies beyond that mirror in the dark? I would like to remain mature in my imagination, say nothing—dry wall and insulation—but my childish superstitions and penchant for fantasy leave me questioning my appearance in the dark. Dark mirrors bring out the demons just as enchanted mirrors the beauty, and I’ll keep my eyes out of mine in the absence of light.
When I moved it was into a dorm, and I never had to face my demons in that bathroom. The light was always buzzing and someone was always there to share the experience. I took to hurrying my routine in the bathroom if only to shorten the communal event. There were times, however, when I would use the bathroom as an escape plan, a way to find peace from my roommate, a way to be alone with my thoughts. Finding an empty bathroom was a blessing, offering up a chance to take a moment for myself. In those moments I may have avoided the mirror for the safety of the stall, freeing myself from the obligation to face my mirror image. But, even while avoiding that sight, seeking console there alone forced me to cope with said demons. And, in a way, hide behind them, from the stress my life was developing. I hate my demons, but when I look in a lit mirror I see myself as something beautiful, and maybe only to contrast what lies in the dark.
My mother, she faces her demons with a noisy battle in the bath. My battle is silent, trudging on through age, keeping me aware of the little demons that haunt me.
My mother confronts her demons in the shower. Early in the morning she addresses her issues whilst washing her hair. She chose the shower, I presume, because she maybe thinks no one can hear her, but I can make out every resentful word on mornings I sleep in. I unwillingly play audience to her diatribes on these mornings I have nowhere to be, paying relentless attention, eyes fixed on the dark water tower just beyond the yard. She’s noisy in the mornings, slamming doors with righteousness. I’m not falling asleep again.
When I was young I had a fear, probably spurned from the tales of Bloody Mary, and I couldn’t face myself in the bathroom mirror if it were dark. Unable to look my shadowed self in the eye, I would turn away until I found the light, or not go in at all. The anxiety followed me to the bath, and later the shower, where I felt eyes peering from places I couldn’t see hidden by shower curtains or, simply my back, turned on them. I had demons—demons in the bathroom—watching me from every point.
Even now my hand finds the light before my eyes hit the mirror—my refusal to face the glass becoming my refusal to face my darkened self. What lies beyond that mirror in the dark? I would like to remain mature in my imagination, say nothing—dry wall and insulation—but my childish superstitions and penchant for fantasy leave me questioning my appearance in the dark. Dark mirrors bring out the demons just as enchanted mirrors the beauty, and I’ll keep my eyes out of mine in the absence of light.
When I moved it was into a dorm, and I never had to face my demons in that bathroom. The light was always buzzing and someone was always there to share the experience. I took to hurrying my routine in the bathroom if only to shorten the communal event. There were times, however, when I would use the bathroom as an escape plan, a way to find peace from my roommate, a way to be alone with my thoughts. Finding an empty bathroom was a blessing, offering up a chance to take a moment for myself. In those moments I may have avoided the mirror for the safety of the stall, freeing myself from the obligation to face my mirror image. But, even while avoiding that sight, seeking console there alone forced me to cope with said demons. And, in a way, hide behind them, from the stress my life was developing. I hate my demons, but when I look in a lit mirror I see myself as something beautiful, and maybe only to contrast what lies in the dark.
My mother, she faces her demons with a noisy battle in the bath. My battle is silent, trudging on through age, keeping me aware of the little demons that haunt me.
November 12, 2007
