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Looking at yourself in the mirror had been a source of distress for as long as you could remember. You had hoped that accepting yourself enough to fully embrace life alongside your partner would help you forget how you used to turn your back to the mirror while brushing your teeth. It was one of those seemingly minor details that, over time, began to form a much larger picture. You were fully aware of the nature of this disorder and what it entailed. You knew very well that it was a genuine condition, yet you never spoke of it aloud, unwilling to jeopardize the way your partner was finding his footing again.
Less than two years had passed since the breakup of The Beatles; Paul was finally pulling himself together and had already released a few tracks following that depressive episode in his life. Now, you were traveling across the United States - life was simply falling into place again. Your partner was in the midst of recording songs for his latest album, which he planned to release that May. He had initially aimed for April, but the recording schedule had shifted slightly, so he was now targeting May. You weren't a musician yourself - though you might hum a tune while cooking in the kitchen - so you were happy to let Paul drag you all over the globe, supporting whatever it was that helped him come back to life.
Yet the issue of how you viewed yourself remained; only the setting changed. Sometimes it was New York, other times a farm in Scotland, or perhaps London or other cities. You never spoke of your struggle aloud, feeling as though you were dragging Paul back down toward the very abyss from which you had so recently pulled him. It was a truly traumatic period - not just for you, but for him as well. He was suffering, and every day you had to watch your husband practically dissolve before your eyes, leaving behind nothing but a shell of the man he had been before the band fell apart. As for your partner’s upcoming album, however, there was one song that really hit home for you - though you kept that to yourself. "Too Many People." Seemingly addressed to no one in particular, yet clearly aimed at someone specific. You both knew that the choice of words was anything but accidental.
It was one of those days you both spent within the walls of your New York apartment. Thanks to the fortune McCartney had amassed, you never had to worry about hotel or motel rooms, something you were grateful for. You stood before one of the apartment’s full-length mirrors, allowing you to examine your entire figure without moving a muscle. By the scales, you weren't above average weight, you were even bordering on being underweight, yet you absolutely hated what you saw in the reflection. You stood there in nothing but a nightgown - one that was a bit too short, exposing the red marks on your thighs. You weren't proud of those marks either, but in moments like this - when the mirror seemed to mock you - you would start to scratch. You scratched your arms and legs; you used to scratch your neck too, but you’d managed to break that habit, fearing you’d worry your partner or give the press and journalists the wrong idea. Paul was good to you and never laid a hand on you, so you had no reason to invite that kind of public speculation. Still, old habits die hard, and the scratching of your legs and arms remained. It didn't have to draw blood; it wasn't about the marks or scars, but about releasing the energy and pressure that built up whenever you faced a reflective surface. Every moment when the light accentuated the slight softness of your belly, or when your clothes felt a bit too tight for your liking - these were all small triggers that eventually coalesced into one massive reason to cry.
“You up already…?” You heard a yawn behind you and immediately whipped your head around, only to see Paul in the doorway. He looked sleepy, his hair sticking out in every direction, and he kept rubbing his eyes, trying to shake off the drowsiness. He took a few slow steps toward you, and when he reached you, he leaned heavily against your back; his hands wrapped around your stomach, making your own stomach clench. You were afraid he would feel how soft your midsection was - that he’d realize you weren't as slim as he thought, or that you were simply disgusting.
"I couldn't sleep anymore." You mumbled, turning your head just enough to avoid facing the mirror. Your gaze settled on a nearby vase of flowers - the ones the man had given you just a few days ago. You told yourself it was only because he was grateful for the way you’d pulled him out of a depressive episode. Maybe he didn't love you at all and was with you out of pity, or perhaps he simply couldn't be bothered with a divorce and preferred to just put up with you…
"Hey. I'm talkin’ to ya… You hear me?" Paul gave you a gentle nudge, and his chin began to slowly dig into your shoulder. That was what finally snapped you out of your reverie.
"Huh? What did you say?" You asked, slightly confused. You were convinced Paul hadn't said anything to you, so you couldn't figure out the context of his remark. You looked at him with a somewhat dazed expression; to put it mildly, you were miles away - mentally in a completely different space, still dwelling on something other than your immediate surroundings. Your partner noticed this; straightening up, he lifted his chin from your shoulder. He shook his head gently and let out a heavy sigh, likely realizing that something was weighing on your mind and giving you no peace. His hands remained on your stomach, making you want, with every passing moment, to step away from him, throw on a bathrobe, and sit there until deep into the night, just to avoid being so exposed.
"I asked if you felt like makin’ breakfast at home or eating out." He repeated the question, and the word "breakfast" only intensified the knot of tension in your stomach. You gave a short cough, hoping the small reflex would help your body focus on something other than food, but it was no use. Predictable.
"I'm not hungry, Paul." Your reply was brief - almost curt - catching him off guard.
"What do you mean you're not hungry? Ya just got up, hun..." He wouldn't let it drop, persisting with the subject while you simply tried to wriggle out of his embrace. The more you resisted, the tighter he held you, refusing to let you pull away.
"Hey, hey. Talk to me, what's wrong?" His calm tone made something inside you begin to crack, and your attempts to pull away grew increasingly clumsy, almost sluggish.
"Leave me be, Paul-... I can't do it." You mumbled the words, causing him to let go of you. In that instant, you realized he hadn't meant to hurt you - that every "no" of yours had never been a "maybe" or a signal to keep going in his eyes. He respected your decisions, which only made the moment harder for you.
"Oh, luv..." He sighed, and you could only guess that he had fully snapped out of the moment and noticed the red nail marks on your legs. Even so, he didn't grab you; he gave you the space you wanted - or at least, the space you had said you needed. You wiped your nose and one eye with your fist, averting your gaze as far as possible from the mirror, from him, and from anything else that might just push you over the edge right then.
"Why did you do tha’?" He asked cautiously; his tone didn't suggest he was expecting an answer right then - it was gentle, as if he were trying to tame a wild animal. You sniffled in response and wrapped your arms around yourself, as if to help you gather the composure to answer or to shield your body - you didn't even know which it was.
"I feel disgusting." You replied curtly, your gaze darting everywhere: resting on the floor, the walls, simply on whatever was least significant and contributed nothing to the conversation.
"You know you can talk to me. I don't think you're disgustin’. Not in the slightest, hun. Did I say something wrong to make ya feel tha’ way?" You shook your head, finally letting go of yourself and reaching out toward him to show that you wanted a hug after all. Paul didn't waste a moment, pulling you into a tight embrace once more and silently giving you permission to fall apart, knowing he would help you put yourself back together.
“I’m sorry, I just… I just feel bad about myself.” You whispered and Paul quickly hushed you, his hand finding your head and gently caressing back of it.
“It’s fine. Next time talk to me and don’t shut yourself away, okay?” He asked and you only managed to nod. “For me, you’re the most beautiful lady in the world, remember that.” He sighed into your hair, and you remained in each other’s arms for a long moment. Even though no grand words were spoken, you felt safe with Paul - free to let your guard down and show your vulnerability in his embrace - knowing he would always help you pull yourself together; and if you couldn't manage it, he would piece you back together bit by bit, with the precision of a surgeon, even though he was just a musician. He had always been there and had no intention of changing that; he was ready to support you just as you had supported him during the difficult period he had recently gone through. You were meant to be each other’s rock during hard times, and that was the plan you intended to stick to.