In the last days of my drinking I had a little mirror in my bathroom that I avoided as much as possible. The mirror was a small, but powerful symbol of my fear. Everything I ever saw in that mirror was a reminder of what I had traded for one more drink.
When I forced myself to look, I hated the person staring back at me. I couldn’t believe the person I had become, an unrecognizable image of who I wanted to be. I tired to understand the person behind the glass, but could never reconcile how far I had fallen.
The other day, while rummaging through my boxed possessions, I found that very same mirror. It was dusty and covered in the fingerprints of my past. I began to clean the mirror so I could see who was staring back at me now.
The dust came away with ease but no matter how hard I scrubbed the fingerprints, the smudges remained. I picked up the mirror and examined it closer than before, the fingerprints were on the other side of the glass…