Metamorphosis

by Angela Patera

“Image 008” by Richard Hanus

I pry my eyes open, and it feels like I’ve stumbled into a Monet painting- everything around me is bathed in a dreamy, blurry allure. One blink, two blinks, three blinks- my room seems to have turned into a stylish fish tank. Alas, such vision-related avant-garde cinematography usually signals one thing: a migraine is brewing. 

Every sinew and joint protests as I gingerly lift myself from the bed, embarking on a reluctant pilgrimage to the kitchen. My body seems to have chosen today, of all days, to initiate a full-scale mutiny. I silently pray this isn’t the prelude to a bout of flu as there is a crucial job interview looming on the horizon. Just my luck. I try to convince myself this feeling is just a theatrical manifestation of being overworked. I plop down on a chair and massage my eyes, trying to extract some memory snippets from the archives of the previous day.

Was it a busy day? Well, a tad, but not outrageously so. It kicked off with a morning university class on Depictions of the Body in Modern Culture. We swiftly moved from discussing the concepts of “abjection” and “otherness” to watching a woman’s home birth footage. I am ashamed to say I found some of the scenes rather unsettling, clenching my eyelids shut at some point while trying to block the sounds of some of my classmates retching. Despite the turmoil within, I didn’t voice any such ideas in the discussion that followed because I knew they reflected a sort of conservative residue that still existed somewhere inside of me, and I wanted to stay on high moral ground. Back home, I began an essay on Sarah Kane’s “Blasted”. Crafting the essay, let alone binge-reading “Blasted”, proved to be a deeply disturbing journey to the depths of profound depression, so I quickly abandoned ship and got ready for work.

My day at the University Library was cruising towards a tranquil finish until fate decided to spice things up. Hoping for an uneventful finale, I silently prayed to avoid the typical last-minute encounter with the student who, like clockwork, would show up five minutes before closing time, unable to recall the author, title, or content of the book he sought. But destiny had a grander plan. In the Political Theory section, just before the Anarchist Theorists, I stumbled upon a well-dressed Law student-who frequented the library for reasons less bizarre- defecating. I was dumbfounded. Who defecates next to Bakunin? What has the world come to? I pondered involving my supervisor, but my inner feminist rebelled against seeking assistance from an older male, fuelled by a desire to defy the patriarchal norms that deem me inferior. I was a like the volcano in Emily Dickinson’s poem that “took villages for breakfast and appalling men”. I geared up to confront the appalling law student myself. Approaching him from behind, I was determined to unleash havoc, but the overwhelming stench, the revolting sight, and an immense sense of fear stopped me in my tracks. Feeling nauseous, I gasped “Sir, I think you’ve dropped something?” To my terror, the man just smiled, pulled up his pants, and strolled away. Standing there, aghast and utterly mortified, I salvaged the situation by contemplating the potential use of the CCTV footage for a groundbreaking project on abjection, the human body, and anarchist theory. Recalling Barbara Creed’s assertion that abjection extends beyond physical objects to instances of “individuals failing to respect the law”, I thought I hit the jackpot: I had found two sources of abjection in this singular incident- fecal matter and the blatant disregard for the law. What a bizarrely compelling essay this could be! I found solace in discovering a silver lining amid the absolute wreckage of my workday. 

I carefully load the coffee pot, and I can feel my head pounding. I am feeling extremely dehydrated. I inspect my hands; they look like my mother’s hands, bony and dry. “Boy, do I need some water”, I mutter to myself. Rubbing my neck, I shuffle towards the sink, and I down glass after glass in a desperate attempt to quench my unrelenting thirst. I try to reflect on the events that followed my return home. I was determined to have a quiet, depressing night drowned in Sarah Kane’s dense and claustrophobic abyss. However, a call from my best friend, Judith, disrupted my free dive into somber gloom with news of free invitations to a Queens of the Stone Age concert. I swiftly transformed into a concert-ready version of myself and hailed a cab to the concert hall. The atmosphere inside was electric, and the raw energy of the band was palpable. Closing my eyes, I travel back in time to that moment- the pulsating lights, the ecstatic crowds, the infectious energy. Judith attempted a stage dive and spent a whole song swimming through the crowd, thousands of hands swaying her back and forth. I know I’d never try crowd surfing because the mere thought of depending on the kindness of strangers to stay afloat fills me with existential dread. I can’t help but envy Judith for her recklessness.

I open my eyes and squint at my watch, only to realize it’s already 10 am. A pang of regret creeps in. I have expertly squandered my morning. Even the slightest deviation from my meticulously crafted illusion of a daily schedule can trigger waves of panic- a hallmark of my inherently anal-retentive nature. Today, though, holds a crucial commitment: a 12.30 internship interview at a museum across town. Swiftly, I chug a cup of strong coffee, generously complemented by two ibuprofen tablets, and head towards the shower. 

While diligently brushing my teeth, I casually glance at the mirror and freeze. A middle-aged woman is staring back at me. Who on earth is that woman? Her face is thin and covered in freckles with protruding cheekbones and dark under-eye circles. Her hair is chopped in a short bob like mine- the only difference is that it’s grey. Her eyes are big and hazel, surrounded by a spiderweb of fine lines. Her nose is long and somewhat crooked, like my mother’s. I whip my head around and check behind me, half-expecting my mother to leap out of the shower and surprise me. Of course, there’s no one here, just me and my electric toothbrush having a paranormal moment. Returning my gaze to the mirror, I confront the reflection of a woman in her late fifties. She looks unmistakably like me, but it can’t be me. I am barely twenty- two. 

As I stand before the mirror, I entertain the intriguing notion that this could be an instance of the rare psychiatric phenomenon known as mirrored-self misidentification. A memory from my sophomore year at university resurfaces – an English poetry professor, well into her seventies, confided in class one day that every time she checked herself in the mirror, she saw her deceased elder sister. She ardently asserted she had undergone a spectral metamorphosis, seamlessly merging with her sister’s spirit. Initially, we dismissed it as a joke. However, over time, her suppressed longing to live her sister’s truncated life manifested in unpredictable ways. The professor showed up in vintage attire, vehemently protested against the Vietnam War, and delivered impassioned speeches against Kissinger’s carpet bombing in Cambodia.  A few weeks later, she was hospitalized due to dementia, and replaced by an assistant professor. The replacement professor tasked us with writing an essay inspired by her story, and mailing it to her at the hospital. I delved into the theme of “imaginary conversations” in Allen Ginsberg’s ‘The Iron Horse”. The professor’s fate remained veiled in mystery as I never heard from her again. I just cling to the hope that she found solace in my essay while enjoying her retreat into the tumultuous 1960s.

As I step into the shower, it hits me like a storm- not just any storm, but a hurricane of confusion mixed with regret. Of course. I am still riding the high seas of my own debatable decisions. I am obviously still high. Now, let me be clear: I’m no stranger to wild nights, but my days of experimentation are ancient history, and truth be told, I don’t remember doing any drugs .Yet, here I am, contemplating whether I inadvertently slipped back into the old experimentation game. As scalding water torrents down my body, I wrack my brain for clues. I had a beer at the concert- a cool oasis in the sweltering indoor sauna of the concert hall. After the concert, Judith and I embarked on a bar-hopping odyssey where my desire for a Hemingway cocktail collided with the looming specter of the job interview, so I played it safe with a Virgin Mary cocktail. Then what? Two charming Swedish exchange students with thick accents joined us. Afterwards, we took our merry band to a neighboring Goth club, and we all listened to Bauhaus and discussed Nechayev and Kropotkin- because nothing says party like 19th-century Russian anarchists. Apparently, I threw in a wild card, regaling the Swedish duo with the tale of the law student defecating next to the Anarchists. Judith’s elbow jabs and frantic eye rolling subtly informed me that this specific incident wasn’t perhaps the best icebreaker. Attempting damage control, I pivoted to discuss the Bleeding Woman motif in Carrie, and Judith let out a disappointed sigh that could rival a deflating balloon. My social prowess, always on shaky ground, became evident as Judith and the boys hit the dance floor, while I remained seated on my bar stool, sipping tonic water through a long straw. I bailed much earlier than the others to secure some quality sleep before my interview. The night may have been a whirlwind, but at least my dreams weren’t haunted by Sarah Kane or the Russian anarchists.

Emerging from the shower, I stand before the mirror, confronting the reflection of my middle-aged self. The events of the previous day are clear as day in my head, yet I am convinced I am tripping. Unfortunately, this isn’t my first rodeo with mind-altering escapades. Another memory resurfaces, a flashback to the glorious days of freshman folly, dropping acid with Judith in a moment of misguided camaraderie. Initially, I felt composed enough to resume my day and even attend my afternoon Political Theory class. It was too late when I realized that my mind had taken a detour into bat country, and I spent the remainder of the day convinced that I was Joan Didion. I even raised a hand and regaled the class with tales of the 1982 Salvador earthquake and my grand theories on the US interference in the Salvadorian Civil War. The class, alongside our hapless professor, stared at me in a perplexed blend of horror and sheer bewilderment. Following that incident, I opted for a vow of silence for the rest of the semester, a desperate attempt to salvage what remained of my academic reputation. I hang my head in shame, wondering how I went from a prolonged stint in sobriety to this stellar display of irresponsibility. Seeking solace, I decide to check on Judith. I fire off a text, hoping she is gracefully navigating the aftermath of our epic bender.

Consumed by a maelstrom of frustration at my recklessness, I hastily get dressed. A new unsettling revelation unfolds; the interview ensemble I had meticulously chosen fits, and yet, there’s an eerie dissonance in the way the clothes drape over me. As I scrutinize my reflection, a wave of unfamiliarity takes hold. My limbs look uncharacteristically slender but my midsection feels softer, less taut.  My skin is dry and covered in freckles and spots. My hair feels coarse. Each glance into the mirror becomes a futile search for the familiar, only to be met by the smirking image of a middle-aged interloper. But I still feel like me. It’s a cosmic paradox of identity. Amidst this extreme dissociation, a surge of repulsion courses through me. Could this odyssey into the realm of profound discomfort be the very embodiment of what Julia Kristeva so eloquently defined as abjection? Amid desperately questioning my own reflection, a mischievous thought bubbles up- an amusing notion that this chaotic exploration of selfhood might as well be the raw material for a future essay on “Abjection, Hallucinogenics and the Perceived Body”. Top of the class? You bet!

On my way to the museum, I can’t help but scrutinize my reflection in every shop window. Alas, my well-aged self greets me back with an unsettling consistency. Suddenly, I stop in my tracks as paranoia grips me: what if those two seemingly innocent-looking Swedish exchange students slipped something into my drink? I dial Judith, but my call goes to voicemail. Still under the influence of Sarah Kane’s universe, I think of all the horrifying stories of date rape I have heard, and my initial sense of unease spirals into a full-blown panic attack. I leave a voice message to Judith, begging her to call me back. I text her again, but this time, my tone shifts from moderately worried to downright urgent: “Judith, are you ok? We got hammered last night, I hope you’re fine, please text me as soon as possible”.

I arrive at the museum well before the expected hour, perhaps a bit too keen for my own good. The man at the reception, eyes me up and down with a bemused expression, before unleashing a greeting oscillating between friendliness and condescension: “Hey, girl. You’re very early. A bit desperate, I reckon? Would you like to go round the corner for a quick cup of chamomile tea to iron out those nerves? You look like you need it.” I find myself on the verge of taking offense. Who granted people the audacity to address others with a tone more fitting for a daycare than a museum? I yearn for him to perceive me through the kaleidoscope of my drug-induced lenses. Would he dare treat a middle-aged woman with such patronizing familiarity? As my inner volcano growls and threatens to eat mountains and appalling men, I cast a hostile gaze at him, and hiss, “I’d rather wait”. He ushers me towards the waiting room, a firm hand patronizingly placed upon my back. 

As more candidates gather, I find myself surrounded solely by women my age –my true age anyway, or whatever’s left of it. Spotting an old classmate of mine, I approach her with a friendly greeting. She gazes at me, but she doesn’t recognize me. “My memory is a bit foggy”, she says “Are you sure we were in the same class? You look way older than me”.  Mortification seizes me. Have I inadvertently aged three decades overnight, plunging my former classmate into an abyss of confusion and making a total fool of myself by suggesting we were the same age? I dash towards the museum restroom. My seasoned self in the mirror looks back at me. Puzzlement grips me. Have I stumbled into a time-space loophole, or succumbed to an accelerated aging ailment? I panic. How am I going to break the news to my mother? How will I be able to reconcile with the abrupt leap from youth to post-menopause? Have I “annihilated” each decade like Lady Lazarus?

In the midst of this mental chaos, my mother’s voice (and Monty Python’s) encourages me to always look on the bright side of life. In a desperate search for silver linings, I contemplate the contrasting perspectives on aging. While in the Western world, aging is associated with deterioration, both physical and mental, in Asia, it is generally regarded as a time of liberation and wisdom. I promise myself that if I don’t get that job, I will consider relocating to Japan.

Suddenly, a lightning bolt of realization strikes the chaotic landscape of my panicked mind: how on earth am I going to bridge the vast chasm between the youthful persona meticulously outlined on my CV and my current seasoned image? My well-crafted narrative of being a twenty-two-year-old literature enthusiast currently pursuing a master’s degree in Modern Culture now feels like a work of fiction. I have mentally rehearsed discussions about my favorite artists, modest library work experience, and future aspirations. Now, thrust into my late 50s, with retirement looming ten years ahead, I face the arduous task of justifying the uncharted three decades that have mysteriously materialized overnight. A spark of audacious creativity ignites within me. Perhaps I could spin a tale so fantastical, so utterly implausible, that it becomes unforgettable- possibly a daring escape from a secluded cult, complete with a heroic smuggling mission for a legion of fictional children.  

Before I can plunge into the depths of fiction, a text message from Judith jolts me back to reality: “No silly, I’m fine! What bender?! You only had a watered-down beer, a Virgin Mary, and a boring glass of tonic water! Are you feeling sick?” I snap a selfie and send it her way, anxiously watching as the three dots dance, signifying her composing a response. Is she processing my dramatic overnight transformation? The suspense builds until a thumbs-up and a plain “Looking good! Break a leg!” arrive. I start wondering again whether I have truly aged or merely perceive myself as aged. I practice some meditation deep breathing to clear my mental fog. By the time I am summoned into the interview room, my bizarre metamorphosis is momentarily forgotten, replaced by a newfound calmness as I step into the unknown.

As I nervously walk into the interview room, the manager of the HR department, a friendly man in his early sixties greets me politely. “Oh goody, we are in the same age group”, I think. I contemplate casually referencing 80s music or artists to establish a bond. However, my mind soon turns into a chaotic playlist of potential conversation landmines as there’s a risk of summoning the wrong ghost of the past. What if this guy is a disco diva and I mistakenly mention Joy Division? What if he is a flashy Jeff Koons fan, and I enthusiastically declare my love for the street-inspired art of Basquiat?

Lost in a mental inferno of “what ifs”, I am jolted by his gracious invitation to sit. Contemplating whether to preemptively spill my life story or play it cool, I opt for the latter, leaning back and letting him navigate the conversation. He poses the standard interview questions about my grades, my life goals, and my past experience. When he remarks that I am actually overqualified for this position, I can’t help but let out a snort of surprise “Have many people of my age applied for this position?” The manager’s confusion is palpable. “Yes, indeed”, he retorts, revealing that most applicants fall within my age group. I wonder what age group he is referring to but I can’t utter this question without blowing everything. I can’t engage him in making an estimated guess concerning my age, can I? Taking the reins, I steer the conversation into a philosophical analysis of the timelessness of art. I drone on and on until a brainwave hits me: “In the words of Kahlil Gibran ‘the timelessness in you is aware of life’s timelessness, and knows that yesterday is but today’s memory and tomorrow is today’s dream”. That’s how I feel about Art, and that’s how I feel about myself” The HR manager looks amused, if not somewhat perplexed, contemplating whether he had hit gold or a basket case. Thinking I am coming out too bold, I finally shut up and we engage in a silent staring contest, both unsure of how to wrap up this rollercoaster of an interview. As I leave the interview room, he shakes my hand and tells me “I am not supposed to say that but I believe we’ve found our ideal candidate. You will be hearing from us really soon”. As I strut out of the museum, feeling on top of the world, I can’t help but feel that for once, I am no longer a pawn in the game of life. Abjection, once a tool that confined me, now fueled my liberation. 

On my way to the Library, I decide to reward myself by indulging in a well-deserved cup of coffee. My gaze flits across the patisserie’s shop window, torn between a delightful slice of tiramisu, and a modest but charming scone. Lost in this deep gastronomic reverie, I absentmindedly catch a glimpse of my reflection. I look like my older self, my real self, and yet, I sense a quiet disintegration in my identity. The visual contradiction unfolds before me: I look young, at last, and yet, I feel the weight of age settling in. The process of expelling my Otherness has not left me untouched; instead, it has led me to a newfound sense of wholeness. Whether this euphoric sense of vertigo stems from a genuine rupture in time, the aftermath of drug experimentation, or the timely intervention of ibuprofen remains a mystery, but at this moment, as the aroma of coffee envelops me, I revel in the freedom to claim any identity I desire. 

Richard Hanus had four kids but now just three. Zen and Love.

Angela Patera was born in 1986 in Athens, Greece. She still resides there with her husband and her 7-year-old daughter. She is an ESL teacher. Having studied English Language and literature at the National University of Athens, she pursued a Master's Degree in Cultural Administration and Communication. Her main field of interest is the representations of womanhood, race, and disease in Culture (especially literature). Her stories have appeared in Oxford Magazine, Route 7 Review, Wilderness House Literary Review, Rundelania, and other literary journals.