She hates looking at her naked body so much that it has become a religion for her. Thou shalt not. No full-frontals in the mirror that hangs on the back of the closet door like an obnoxious guest who flaunts house rules. No looking down, chin on chest, toward the breasts striated with fatigued cellulite, or to the mounded belly that blocks the view down toward the toes. Or so she imagines; she dare not look. Looking would make her physically ill as well as distracted, and then she’d be no good to anybody. Hence the Commandment: She shall not.

She shall not appear naked in front of the bathroom mirror while brushing her teeth. She shall not regard the flesh while reaching for a towel after a shower. She shall not regard the flesh while slipping between cool sheets on a hot summer night.

She hates looking at her naked body because it is not in her own image. It is not shaped as She, the Creator, intended. It is said that every single thing, every speck of dust, every elephant, every leaf on every tree, is made in Her image. But surely her body is not what the Creator envisioned or intended. Which implies that She is fallible. Which means that mistakes are possible. Mistakes are made. And she concludes that her body is one of them.

She hates being a mistake. More than that, she hates what it feels like to be a mistake—a creature who must, in any case, walk, talk, eat, shit, work, sleep. Live. She is commanded to do all these things—also smile, laugh, sigh, cry, and yell—while inhabiting a fluid-filled vessel not of her choosing. Or, she is convinced, of her Creator’s choosing. A walking, talking mistake. And yet, there are Commandments to be obeyed: Thou shalt not complain. Thou shalt not take this life for granted. Thou shalt not wish for, or arrange, an untimely end. By definition, the Commandments are not of her choosing or her making; they simply exist. And she shall not disobey.

As the years pass, she has trouble distinguishing between that which she chooses not to do, and that which she is commanded not to do. Increasingly, they are one and the same. Free will is a constant negotiation with no one available to arbitrate the outcome. For example, is her decision to dress exclusively in shapeless black garments, thick black stockings, and black shoes simply a choice, or even a harmless preference? Or is it a regulated reflection of the Commandments she lives by? Is she, in other words, complying with the dictates of her own taste, or following the only course open to her, in the matter of dress? She isn’t sure. She cannot remember ever being sure.

She manages. She inhabits her erroneous shell as conscientiously as she can. By refusing to view her body below the Adam’s apple—even to the point of averting her gaze from her own hands, wrists, and elbows as much as possible—she appeases her Creator and thus makes daily functioning possible.

She endures not because she is a martyr or a saint, but because her Creator affords her an escape hatch, which she calls dreaming. Specifically, there is one dream, and it is the same every time she sleeps. In this dream, she walks into an art studio filled with white-smocked students standing in a ring, eager to fill their blank canvases. She stands on a low, square platform in the center of the ring and casually removes all her black clothing, until she is completely naked. In the dream, she sees everything. She sees the painters dissecting the planes of her flesh, their brushes raised. And she sees every angle, every fold, every curve of her own body. From the darkly dotted aureoles of her breasts to the curly-covered folds of her vagina; from the soft swell of flesh below the navel to the wrinkles on her knees. And she is not a mistake. She is her Creator—beautiful as beauty itself, for all time.

She knows the dream is her Creator’s way of apologizing. It is the ultimate rectification. The dream makes waking life bearable, and for that she is grateful.

And yet, she wants more. She wakes every morning, after the dream, with the same deep longing, a secret wish she dare not express out loud, and yet one which she hopes the Creator will hear, and fulfill, some day. If she remains obedient, perhaps that day will come.

What if her dream life could become real life? What if she could actually walk to that studio, and bedazzle those artists with her naked beauty? In this other life, she would stand before the closet mirror and gaze for hours at the wonders of her own flesh. She would love and honor and cherish her own body. She would never look away.

One morning, after waiting an eon for the Creator to fulfill her wish, she wakes up and thinks: That’s enough. I shall take matters into my own hands.

– Amy Bernstein