Mirror, mirror on my phone: Finding identity in a digital age (a short story)

I sink into a chair and check my phone. My morning has been rough—kids bickering and dishes piling and I need to connect. Just connect. Tell me, little black box, about my place in the world… affirm me.

So I look to my social media apps and spot Instagram. I love Instagram. Inordinately? I don’t know. But I’m just resting for a minute. So it’s fine. It’s fine. I have notifications so my endorphins kick in and I click. Because I need that boost, you know? And there it is…

Mirror, mirror on the wall… who am I today?

Wait and see. Connection. Affirmation. Well, I’m here for it. I need it. Probably.

I see the beautiful people and the “raw” people. Maybe it’s make-up free Monday… I don’t know. What day is it again? I should probably wash the dishes. And then I click my messages and it begins…

A woman I have never met expresses concern. Because she doesn’t see herself in me and it grates. She wants to know if I am racist. Just to be sure. To console herself? Or confirm? I don’t know…

No, I’m not.
You must be.
I’m not.
Where’s your black box? Why don’t I see myself reflected in you? Why don’t I understand you? Why aren’t you more loving? Why are you ignorant?

I don’t know. Who are you again? Who am I? Mirror, mirror on my phone…

So I tentatively pick up that label that I know isn’t mine and carry it just for a little while… nestled in my irritation. Because isn’t that what a Christian girl does? Humility. Gentleness. They always get to strike the other cheek. They get to tell me who I am. Don’t they?

No, they don’t. I know these things and I know why. But I can’t finish my thought because I have a notification. Ugh… it has power over me and I don’t even care. I feel the struggle and want to rise but I’m not up to it. The dishes are still there. And it feels like a headache and stomach ache are both in my throat…

Creepy message from a single man in Albania.
Kind words from friends and strangers.
Articles, memes, chatter that I love.
And a few more…

“It’s people like you…”
”Stupid…”

I’m tired and there’s a tiny nagging temptation just to agree for the sake of silence. To delete what I’ve written. To become invisible.

I’m a dumb racist. It’s okay. I’m learning and growing and they are teaching me. Teaching me about myself. I never did have much confidence and this is why. They know better… they always do…

Whoever they are. The louder ones.

And so I leave Instagram with my bag of self-knowledge partially filled and my mind battling with half-truths and the search for virtue. I go to Twitter where no one ever likes my Tweets and it’s fine. I’ve never been witty anyway. It’s fine, it’s fine.

I like to read and learn… and today, I need connection and affirmation. I also don’t want to to wash the dishes.

Hello acedia… I know you are here. Hello sloth and gluttony and pride and all the others! You’re already in my bag. I’ll get to you later. Later. Be quiet for now… I’m connecting.

I see topics trending and read back a couple days to catch up because I’m out of touch. I never can catch up but I should try. I know I should. And so I see some popular Catholics weighing in. They couldn’t see me and didn’t talk to me but they talked about me…

Well, not about me exactly… because I’m invisible on Twitter. It’s best that way. But they talked about people like me and what we think, and some of them called me names.

Not me personally, you understand. But my kind. My type. You know the ones… Ignorant, uncharitable, shockingly lacking in any sense of justice.

Sigh. What is truth? Who are you? Who am I?

I try to reach out and they bite my hand. Maybe it was accidental. But they call me “Honey” and “Friend” and how likely is it that every word of greeting on Twitter is sarcastic or condescending? Well… never mind. I don’t know. Who does know? They seem to know.

“Stupid.”
”Really?”
*eye roll*
”Rigid.”
”Hardly Catholic”

I pick up my affirmations (that is what I came for after all) and put them in my bag and put my bag on my back… and some of the heavy things leake into my heart. Heavy.

That’s because it’s all so real, I think. Enough shallow social media fluff! We need real and raw. It’s gritty. Because real holiness is gritty…

So I admire the weight of my introspective labels and put on my brave face to repeat them. I’m enlightened now, I think…

I am a racist, ignorant, witless, unloving, invisible garbage person. And this heaviness, of course, is the presence of growing humility and awareness. I am connected to my faults and growing. Growing.

I think about the dishes and feel a little sad… I just can’t overcome the dishes. If I only had a dishwasher. Not my fault. But perhaps I can try harder today and win the battle. After Facebook. It won’t take long.

And I click with a weary finger, a little heavy now. The failures of the day are gathering weight. And momentum.

I am enlightened and lifted by connection. My community keeps me going.
Click.
Stumble.
Repeat.
I should really get off my phone.

Facebook doesn’t disappoint and I have notifications that scroll down for 8 inches. My endorphin response proves ever-faithful. I’ve touched one soul and hurt another. I’m a good Christian. I’m a false Catholic. I’m arrogant and small-minded. I’m dangerous. I’m a gift.

I pick up all the words and the light ones slip through my fingers and the heavy ones remained. I say they refine me. Because I know that the virtuous soul is humble and takes correction. But who is teaching me? Who is refining? It’s all a bit of a blur.

Messenger notifications announce a new message and I click again. Someone is there who wants to talk to me. And he does… Even though he doesn’t know me, he kicks me. And I shrink.

“Obnoxious faithless fool.”

He knows more. He has letters. He has authority. And he keeps kicking and I fight back a little and then set boundaries. I have cancelled him. Maybe they’re right about me. I’m intolerant… of kicking. Broken. Ignorant. Weak. Ridiculous. He is wrong. Yet he is right.

Somewhere in between enlightenment and the next app, my courage fails and I start to cry. I am overwhelmed, perhaps by the blessing of connection. Of course. It is all so raw and real. And the heaviness is too much for me because I am a loser. I feel anxious and depressed because I am carrying that identity. Loser. I was born with it, they say. And I allow words to shake me and form me…

Ignorant white b!*%#, invisible, garbage, unloving, witless, arrogant loser.

And I can’t walk to the kitchen sink. And I can’t move. Because I went looking for my identity… from the mouths of liars.

My head falls to the table and my knees hit the proverbial floor. Not the real floor. Because really, I’m just frozen. But I lay my virtual identity at the foot of the Cross. I almost forgot to do that, but, you know, my heart just couldn’t carry it… and He can.

Here I am, Lord. This is me. I’m sorry. You’ll have to fix it. I can’t do it. I can’t even get the dishes done and even really really bad moms can get the dishes done.

He looks me in the soul and asks…

Is this who you are?

And when I look back, I see myself in His eyes and I know.

No, Lord. I am many terrible things. I am a great sinner. I am a fool. But these labels I carry today are from liars. And I have placed myself in their hands instead of placing myself in Yours. Refine me.

I don’t hear an answer even though I wait so long. It’s never as simple as the children’s saints stories. And the adult versions are so bloody. My mind wanders and rattles. It cannot just sit and wait. I remember how the enemy once gave me an identity that almost destroyed me…

It called me nothing. failure. regret. worthless. And it was Christ alone who reached into those lies and saved not only my mind and soul… but also my body. I had given up.

The voices are a mirror, Lord, but you are a window. You are life. I recognize the demons and fidget uncomfortably while I wait for rescue.

Disappointed in the silence from outside and the noise inside, I give up and look at the dishes. So much disappointment. But also clarity. And so I take my place at the sink and pick up a glass.

It is heavy, Lord. The glass is heavy. Heavier than it was before I went looking for myself in the chatter of the ones with voices.

Hush. You walked into a room of thieves. Did you expect to retreat unscathed? You were foolish. But you are not who they say you are. Who are you?

I am Melody. I am small and broken. I am Yours.

And as I washed, I healed. A young child wandered out of bed and as she greeted me, she pieced me together…

Good morning, Mommy.
What color am I, Little One?
You are pink. And brown. And peach.
And who am I?
You are my mommy.

And she takes my hands… and her hand cannot fully embrace mine because I hold my phone. I have to let go of my digital burden in order to accept her wholly. And my identity is illuminated. I am very happy to be a somebody for no reason other than the desire of a child to be connected to me.

I move imperfectly through my day. And I go to bed with dishes in the sink.

I set my bag down on the floor. I have cleaned it out with God’s grace but the residue remains. It’s hard to clean a bag like that after it has been made foul. I should throw it away… but I’m kind of attached. Maybe I can keep the bag and figure out a way to wash it better.

In the morning, I awaken and repeat the whole process again. But some days, I grow a little in His care and shrink a little more into His arms. And the best days are the ones when no one is allowed to teach me about who I am other than the One Who created me.