MYOPIA

by Sophie Quindara

I remember vividly my first pair of glasses–non-perscription purple frames that slipped down my nose even standing still. I loved them. I had seen my older sister and brother wear glasses and believed it to be a privilege. Ever jealous, ever naive. I begged for glasses. When my mom found me these, I was ecstatic. They obscured my vision, if anything, but they made me feel so cool. I colored the sides red and green and orange and drew tiny pictures and patterns with Sharpie. I wore them until they snapped, or they got lost, or I moved on to my next pair.

My second pair were smaller–not meant for a child to wear. I got them at Build-A-Bear, and despite their size, they fit me well. I matched with my friends (we had gotten them together) in our all pink outfits, pink glasses framing our wide eyes. We told the story to everyone at school of our bears at home, and the glasses we wore to prove it.

My third pair were almost real. I got them at Claire’s, they were small enough for a six year old and tortoise shell colored. I thought I looked amazing. The brown complimented my eyes and the black matched my hair. Still, I felt so much older than eight years old. I felt like my sister with her coordinating frames. I felt smart and all-knowing. I loved them.

Then it got blurry. Too blurry to squint, too blurry to blink away. The great world I had once seen was reduced to diluted colors and soft edges, objects lost their form, nature had lost its beauty.

Nearsightedness, they called it. I was seven years old when I was due to swap my pretend frames for prescription lenses. This time, they were black with red temples. They were bent so much that they didn’t fit their case. I hated them. I hated wearing them. I missed my unobstructed view, missed the childish blurriness of life. I didn’t need to see all that bad. I could manage.

But instead of seeing clearer, my vision only got worse. Over time, I strained my eyes even more, searching for the authentic color and detail I had once been fascinated by. Slowly, the distance closed, my lenses got thicker, my eyes more tired of their obstructed view.

Myopia turned to astigmatism and I lost all my visual clarity. The images I had created as a kid–faces in cars, letters in shapes–had left with my vision. Though my glasses made the world appear clearer, my lenses didn’t make my life any better. They only forced me to see all the ugly parts and imperfections, taking my imagination and trading it for vanity. I had always wanted to see the world through a lens, but now that I was forced to, I realized my fault. I had taken my vision for granted.

When I got contacts at age 15, I felt like I was truly seeing for the first time. There was nothing (save for a thin layer) between my eyes and my environment. I hadn’t seen the world this way in nearly 10 years. It was beautiful.

My contacts have made me see better, but not just in the plain ways. I see leaves on trees, but I also see their intricate beauty. I see photos of my sisters, but I also see our similarities. I look at the world with a more mature perspective, capable of recognizing all the bad parts of life, but all the good parts as well.