The bathroom in my grandmother’s house had no windows, so Stella deemed it perfect. She was the only one with any summoning experience. For a successful ritual, she said we needed total darkness.

I used to be a coward. Out of all my friends in our cul-de-sac, I was the shy, nerdy one, the one who begged not to watch The Grudge, the one too afraid to cuss, the one who insisted maybe exploring the black mouth of the storm drain wasn’t the best idea. A drip, a buzzkill.

Too scared to be left behind but unwilling to miss out on a story, I’d follow the other girls wherever they went. It was the mid 2000s. We lived outside from dawn to dusk and preferred the pagan: invented spells with tree bark and berries, played light as a feather, stiff as a board, lived by the rules of superstition. But standing alone in a pitch-black room chanting the name of a witch was my worst nightmare.

Later, I would learn that historic versions of the ritual required a woman to walk backwards up a staircase with a candle and a hand mirror in hopes of catching a glimpse of her future husband in the reflection. But Stella insisted we’d be fine with the bathroom vanity and a nightlight. All we had to do was stare at our reflection and chant “Bloody Mary” three times in a row to summon a bloodthirsty witch.

I asked Stella and our friend Hannah why we’d want to summon Bloody Mary if she was supposed to be so terrifying.

“Because it’s fun,” Stella said.

“Maybe she’ll show you your future,” Hannah added.

Stella grinned. “Or claw your eyes out.”

I felt sick. Stella went into the bathroom first. Hannah and I listened to her chant with our ears to the door. Her voice was steady at first, then tapered. There was a stretch of silence that she shattered with a shriek. The doorknob rattled as she fumbled in the dark. We scrambled out of the way right before the door burst open.

Her expression was a wild, impossible mix — terror and elation.

My grandmother yelled from the next room to ask what we were doing. We called back a chorus of nothings.

We begged Stella to tell us what had appeared in the mirror, but she just stepped aside and gestured for Hannah to go in after her. We repeated the steps of the ritual, Hannah’s voice lilting behind the door and sternly calling Bloody Mary, Bloody Mary, Bloody Mary. When her scream rose, Stella yanked the door open and Hannah tumbled into her. They cackled together, exhilarated with fear.

It was my turn. They shut me inside the bathroom. I clutched the hem of my t-shirt to stop my hands from shaking. In the mirror my face was a shadow, the nightlight glowing the hazy orange of a harvest moon.

Alone, I could feel my heartbeat in my ears, like the padding of footsteps coming down the hall. Part of me prayed the witch wouldn’t show while the rest of me wanted her to appear, just to prove I was as brave as the others. I chanted quickly, as if that might make the experience end sooner.

BloodyMaryBloodyMaryBloodyMary.

I waited in the dark, gripping the edge of the sink and staring into the mirror until my eyes unfocused.

Gradually, features started to blur. My jawline melted and distorted, my mouth threatening to drip off my face. Black pockets sank where my eyes had been, like someone carved them out. What felt like an eternity was probably only seconds. One moment, I’d been staring at myself in the mirror. In the next, my reflection had become a monster.

I screamed, banging on the door and begging to be freed. Stella and Hannah giggled on the other side with their hands on the knob. When they finally wrenched it open, I was near tears, lamplight stinging my eyes.

“What did you see?” Stella asked me.

That shifting face — her mouth slack, skin melting, eyes swallowed by black.

“Nothing,” I lied.

Admitting what I’d seen felt like giving it power. I kept touching my face as if to remind myself it was unchanged.

Now I know my hallucinating brain had likely just tried to fill in gaps in the dark. But back then, I was sure I had called something sinister to life. The horrible face replacing my familiar one left me with building terror and a question I couldn’t answer: If Bloody Mary was the one in the mirror, then where had I gone?

***The practice of scrying describes gazing into a reflective surface to divine the future. Like other occult practices, such as fortune telling or reading tarot, it’s a ritual that can be gamified. We treated Bloody Mary as an innocent way to unsettle ourselves. She was a part of our puberty, a girlhood party trick, a game we played because we want to feel closer to the other side. Proof we could be women of bravery — exactly what I lacked.

I wouldn’t come to terms with my lesbianism until more than ten years after our ritual; back then, all I knew was something unspoken set me apart from those friends. I couldn’t match their enthusiasm for boys. I thought my fear of marriage was just a fear of change, my inexperience branding me a gameless loser. I’d tell my friends I wished we could just grow old with each other so we never had to share our lives with men. I thought I had no other options and sought excuses to escape a life I felt predestined to.

Now as an adult living miles from the place I grew up and surrounded by queer community, I think the younger version of me would have killed to see a future like this one in the glass. That same girl — deeply closeted without the language to describe her desires, mooning after other girls and seeking validation in their affection — needed a sign in the mirror. Instead, she would go on to fear her reflection.

Even if Bloody Mary had shown my younger self the future, I doubt it would’ve looked much different from that distorted, haunted face. Embracing my queerness was one challenge. Acting on it was another.

Most queer women have heard similar claims from straight people: dating women is so much easier, I’m so jealous, I wish I could just date girls instead too. While riding the high of my first tentative kisses with another girl, I agreed wholeheartedly. Identity was a muddled question. I was elated by the idea of fucking someone who knew my body; with our mutual desire, I figured they’d understand inherently.

Of course, that was naive. Dating my first girlfriend confirmed what I’d long suspected: yes, I was a lesbian. But it also revealed parts of myself that repulsed me.

We were friends first, which made it easy to borrow the best parts of each other. We did everything together. Had all the same interests. We were both deeply insecure, jealous girls with obsessive tendencies and big emotions. I liked her so much that I refused to displease her — when she was sad, I was distraught. When she hated her body, I hated mine more. When she claimed I’d leave her and find someone better, I insisted it wasn’t possible. The movies she loved became my favorites and vice versa. We listened to all the same music. Read the same books. Wanted the same future, the only one we thought possible — to be each other’s only and closest “friend” for the rest of our lives. I took her identity and made it my own until it began to grate against me. And when her skin no longer fit, I resented all the ways I’d mangled myself to squeeze into it.

The relationship met a turbulent end, and I came out to spite both myself and her. Lying about desire was suffocating. Internalized homophobia wasted so much precious time. Most of college had flown by while I lied about what I wanted, and now I wanted to gorge myself on what I thought would be the most promiscuous, exciting time of my life.

Again, naive.

I’d grown into a different body, gaining weight, cutting my hair off and growing it out again, still hoping to recognize myself. The figure in the mirror jarred me every time I saw it. I’d spent so long perfecting my body for someone else that I didn’t know how to find my way back to myself. If she even existed anymore.

While the idea of relationships without women had terrified me, relationships with women scared me even more. My first attempt at one already left me feeling like I’d failed. I feared other women would reflect not just who I was, but the worst version of me — all the ways I’d warped myself to remain palatable.

But the lure of being wanted always won. I went on dates. Sent a like on Hinge. Swiped on Tinder. Even, god forbid, downloaded Her in an act of desperation and deleted it just as quickly. I went to bars and tried to act like I owned the fat femme body I wore. Postured like I could look in the mirror and recognize myself, like I wasn’t surprised every time I found my new face staring back.

On those dates, I was incapable of doing anything I feared might make the other person uncomfortable. I laughed at jokes my friends would have rolled their eyes at, ordered dishes I wasn’t hungry for. With a femme law student, I swore I loved a musician I actually hated. A lanky masc explained The Song of Achilles to me and I nodded along as if I had no clue. During sex, I dissociated. I insisted on giving, never receiving — anything to avoid thinking about what my body needed. I thought practice made perfect. If I could play the part for long enough, maybe I’d start to believe my performance, too.

Even if I couldn’t convince myself, the dates gave me rave reviews. They all sent messages that read along the lines of I had a great time. When can I see you again?

I built that “great time” purposefully. I matched whatever energy they provided, molded myself to fit their personalities, asked what they liked in bed and gave them what they requested, pulling away when they tried to reciprocate. On the subway ride home, I watched faces flash by and thought, I just have to try again. In the future, I’ll enjoy myself. Set boundaries. Be honest.

But every date was a new mirror reflecting the parts of myself I hated the most. I was shy, reserved, self-conscious of my body. I leaned into hyper femininity, always questioning if it was truly mine or if I just believed it was the only acceptable way to be fat and queer. Doubt haunted every attempt I made to feel like myself. My identity unraveled, coming apart thread by thread, until I would have shown a partner whatever face I thought they wanted.

Deceit felt safe. Intimacy didn’t. Maintaining both seemed impossible. Any woman I let close posed a threat to the feelings of inadequacy I’d worked hard to guard. We’d all been socialized in similar ways — expected to bear responsibility for managing others emotions, remaining agreeable. That instinctive part of my brain was impossible to turn off. When I believed I’d been open and vulnerable with someone else, she would shock me by saying the opposite. I feel like I know nothing about you. You never tell me anything about yourself. 

I wanted some other oracle to tell me my path. Wanted to chant Bloody Mary’s name in the mirror and let her claw my face, distort it, destroy it, until it was unrecognizable. Scrying for the future in a mirror I didn’t trust was like searching for self-validation in another woman; the face I found would only ever be a ghoulish distortion of myself.

***The question I asked Stella and Hannah continuously comes back to me: If Bloody Mary was so malevolent, why summon her? What was the benefit of fear?

I think the same question could be asked for any method of self harm — if pursuing relationships that confront me with uncomfortable truths about myself terrifies me so much, why push myself to do it?

With every hollow date, the same excitement that once surrounded coming out now made me feel ashamed. I was so conscious of my isolation. Dating came up in conversations with friends, family, coworkers, everyone aware of the empty space surrounding. The same excuse always poured out of my mouth: I was far too busy with work. I deleted and redownloaded dating apps, plunged myself in my friendships, packed my schedule from dawn to dusk.

Mirroring was the coward’s way out. Avoidance and isolation was the next best option. Ashamed, self-hating, I always felt like my body was something I had to make up for. So I stared at my reflection and summoned a new one. With each ritual, I conjured something more grotesque, farther and farther from myself until the distorted figure in the mirror was a stranger. I assumed whoever I wanted wouldn’t want the face underneath. I wouldn’t even give them the chance to try.

***My therapist gave me an assignment. Every time I looked in a mirror, I had to compliment something about myself.

I knew exactly why they gave me the assignment, but it still felt excruciating. I struggled not to feel resentful when I looked at myself. Every glance in the mirror felt like permission to dissect, whether physically or mentally. I’d stare too long, plucking at every imperfection. Slide around the skin of my cheek or jaw, waiting for my features to blur from normal to mutilated, expecting my eyes to darken, my head to twist, something gruesome to materialize behind me.

It shouldn’t have been so hard to find something good to say. Why fight so hard to live freely in my body, only to deny it joy? What was I keeping safe by keeping secrets, other than the caged, ashamed part of me that believed anyone who saw my true face would turn away?

Everyone wants to be understood. Wants to be known deeply and not abandoned, to be seen in all forms and still accepted. My defense mechanisms existed for a reason; that classic first queer breakup had destroyed my sense of self, and I had so much internalized shame that I felt I needed to build walls to protect the desires I once believed to be depraved.

In picking myself apart, I wanted prophecy, like the promise of a better self I could conjure in the mirror. The life a past version of me would have admired appeared liberating, but the image on the surface obscured what lived beneath: a debilitating fear of being inadequate. I wanted to see a future I had no context for, scrying for deeper meaning but only capable of working with what the present offered me.

I pulled all the tarot cards, read Grand Tableaus with Lenormand decks, meditated, burned candles, crushed herbs, spun simmer pots clockwise, washed my window sills with cinnamon, swept superstitions out the front door. Stared into mirrors with candles beneath my chin. Scryed for meaning in the glass.

The future remains indecipherable.

I won’t find it in summoning, or in mimicking someone else to morph myself into a person they might like. My worst fear has always lived in the room with me. With the lights off, eyes adapting, heart pounding, the Bloody Mary in the mirror has always been me. There is no cosmic answer. Just a willingness to endure the frightening face mimicking my own.

We choose to call forth the thing we fear the most, whether it be in the mirror or in a relationship, because it poses a challenge. For my childhood self, it was a witch who promised to claw my eyes out. Now, I know that it’s the hallucinated mutation of my own features.

Can you watch your reflection distort and keep your eyes on the mirror? Can you face it unflinchingly? Can you ask yourself to show up honestly? Can you allow someone else to want the apparition without tugging the skin away from the bone?

I stare into the mirror, say my name three times — because summoning my body and meeting her gaze is the bravest ritual I know.