Ode to my Eyesight

Earlier today, I took out my contacts and then sat at my desk to immerse myself in my studies. Some time passed, and I looked up at the clock to see what time it was. The clock is on the opposite wall of my room, roughly 12 feet away. I could not read the time.

Um, apparently I am practically blind. My eyesight has deteriorated SIGNIFICANTLY, and I haven't noticed because I wear contacts everyday. This brief panic attack made me think about my vision and the way I see the world, quite literally.

I distinctly remember when the optometrist first explained that the world around me was not supposed to be blurry. It was a problem with my vision, he explained, with the way my eyes saw the world. The remedy, of course, was glasses: small enough to fit the face of a fifth-grader. They were only meant to be worn when distance prevented me from seeing clearly; I wore them in school, at the movies, watching television. As the years passed, I grew to associate distance with chaos; the further away I was from an object, the more obscure it seemed. From 20 feet away, the face of my best friend was impossible to differentiate between the face of a stranger. If I couldn’t read the sign, it was impossible for me to follow the rules.

I remember the initial shock of realizing that not everyone saw the world this way. I don't know if my dependency on glasses made my eyesight worse, or what. But when I first started driving at the age of fifteen, I panicked. I couldn't read street signs, and the freeway was a complete jungle.

How could my eyes betray me? How could the way I saw the world naturally not be an accurate representation of reality? I thought that it was subconscious; I could physically train myself to return to the near-perfect vision of my childhood. I regretted all those nights spent straining to read books in the dark, afraid my parents would scold me for staying up past bedtime.

I made the switch to contacts because, well, it was the law. I had to see clearly to drive. I realized instantly that wearing contacts was a way to hide my imperfection. It was kind of a secret now, no one had to know that the way I saw things was any different from the way others did.

But sometimes I rather enjoyed the weakness of my vision. It’s almost comforting to know that my surroundings can become a little softer, a little less perfect and sharp.