18: glass//mirror

At the start of every new year, I imagine myself being guided to the mouth of labyrinth; nervously anticipating the twists and turns that lie ahead. 2018 has been a little different. In the midst of all the good things coming out (no pun intended) this past year, it has felt more like I was led to a glass house full of mirrors.

However beautiful, intriguing and appealing the transparent house is, I should have noticed as I went on display, I would be forced to look inward; confronted with every ugly crease and fold, every flaw and every fear. The concept of a glass house makes it easy to understand my dive into 2018. I knew I had a story to tell. I knew there were and still are others like me who are seeking the Divine. Those who crave to be fully seen and recognized under the Creator’s kin-dom. So, I did what any good seven (on the enneagram) would do. I entered the glass house enthusiastically, making the most beautiful home I could imagine. I mean, everyone is going to look in, so it might as well look the best, right? You put together a podcast and you start a website. You turn your name into a brand and you say things that have resonance. You make the right connections and boom, you’re off! People begin to take a look. They begin asking about the process and the content. You share about it all and how you got there. Then, you loop others in. And before you know it, the house becomes a place of refuge; a place where others can be their fullest self. You find contentment in the use, the meaning and beauty of the space.

But slowly, as time goes on, you begin to notice your reflection in the glass. Glimpses of where the imperfections are - the cut corners, the quick fixes, the facades, the fake smiles, the cover up, the hairspray, the teeth whiteners - become more frequent. Never mind those looking in, you start noticing the same person staring at you, watching your every move. You fix something. They fix it. You adjust. They adjust. But you don’t let this ‘other’ person stop you-you keep going. You build and you build and you build. You share and you share and you share. More and more people hear the weight of your story and begin to realize the influence it has. These are all good things; good motivations keeping the story alive.

Until you realize the person you noticed staring at you is yourself. You have revealed and shared so much over time you have rendered yourself exposed and naked. The scent of unhealed wounds quickly fill the space and all you can do is cry and cry and cry because it smells so bad and the pain is so real, but you have no way to fix it. So, you sit and stare at yourself. You obviously don’t like what you see, so you move to another room. But as you sit in the new room, you notice your reflection everywhere. You see the wounds, but the lighting is so bad, you confirm that you really are as ugly as those guys said. You move to the next room and the reflection of your body becomes distorted showing you how fat you are according to the kids in elementary school. The next room reveals the thoughts in your head pin pointing every missed opportunity and stupid idea you’ve ever had. The next room displays every worthless, selfish and detestable motivation hidden in your heart. Room after room. Mirror after mirror. Wound after wound. You cry and scream for days until the only thing you hear is the pain buzzing in your head and your response is silence.

I keep saying I have had the best days of my life accompanied by the worst this year. I measured 2018 to be the year I would tell the truth. I would put it against years of hurt and rejection, abandonment and sadness. I would weave it with joy and color and grace and texture (and, what I now know, a lot of cursing). I dreamt about experiencing a full Steven; unashamed, fully seen and fully lived. I came out publicly. I started a podcast. I started all of this. I accomplished most of what I set out to do without realizing what I really needed.

In April, I found myself plagued with these wicked headaches. My sense of sight and sound would completely go out. At the height of the pain, you would find me in the fetal position, praying for it to just leave. Immediately following, I experienced the best summer I have ever had while the headaches subsided. Travel, critical conversations, moments of magic and a day of making a dream come true hallmarked what it meant for me to live well. Come Fall, I felt invincible. Content was rolling and things were going the way I imagined. And then, the headaches returned. I couldn’t move. I couldn’t speak. I couldn’t breathe. I was having a conversation with a friend about some very good and new things they were walking through. I found myself excited with their possibilities. So much so that I immediately became aware I had gone several months without feeling excitement about anything. The headaches intensified until I stubbornly conceded to go to the doctor.

At first, we went through neurological tests and then went through pressure tests until we were narrowing the possibilities of the head aches. Dead end after dead end convinced me that I was beyond help until the doctor administered a mental health screening. It revealed the darkest truth I never wanted to be told: I was severely depressed. I mean, c’mon. I can be one of the happiest people you will ever meet! How the hell am I, Steven Herevia, supposed to be severely depressed?

Staring at my reflection, articulating experiences about my reflection and it’s perception to others forcibly disrobed every deep wound. I went so long without tending to them and staring at them in so many mirrors, the hum of pain and the sting of sorrow felt cosmetic. Dreaming stopped where depression caulked in.

I find myself sitting and staring in silence these days. I’ve slowly began to shatter mirrors and cover glass as I journey home. I’ve started healing. Like the long-term healing. The healing that tells myself I am beautiful and worthy of relationships. The kind of healing that fills the gaps of anger and resentment with grace and glitter. Like the for-real kind of healing regimented and regulated through medication and therapy.

I don’t offer an over-simplified anecdote, a passage of feel-good scriptures or a rose-colored painted picture to resolve 2018. My memory is forever ingrained with the image of a white mother pulling her children closer to her, screeching, “Get away from THAT man.” The image of the older white man sticking his head out of his window, declaring, “Ya dirty Mexican.” And, the countless “Well, you’re...too fat...too short...too dark…” in-person rejections.

Let this year be marked trial by trial and fire after fire. May what’s ahead be marked by grace and mercy; justice and peace; creativity and discipline; glass and mirror.