On Sunday I will speak in front of people and have my picture taken. One of those things terrifies me. It’s not speaking in front of people. I do that often. I actually love doing it. (Yes, I know that makes me weird. And no, I do not mind being weird even a little). But having someone take pictures of me? Lord, do I mind that hate that.
I do not have Instagram. I do not want Instagram. You won’t find a ton of selfies of me on Facebook or Twitter or even on my phone. You won’t even find many pictures of me. In my third year of seminary, it occurred to me that I did not have more than 2 pictures of me with any of my friends. This was not an accident.
I could tell you that I don’t like pictures because when I was younger my father seemed to go out of his way to take terrible pictures of my sisters and me. I could tell you it’s because I’ve never had a stable healthy relationship with my body. I could tell you it’s because I have an unfortunate overbite and hate my smile. I could tell you all of that, and I would be telling you the truth. None of it is a lie. It’s just not the main reason I don’t have pictures of me.
The reason is simple, I look like my mother, and there is nothing I can do about it. I’ve tried growing my hair long and cutting if off. I’ve rejected all make-up; I’ve embraced the make-up. I’ve lost weight; I’ve gained weight. In every variation of
In every variation of me, I look like her. My mother, my abuser.
I don’t look in the mirror often. Never study my face as a whole. I split it into pieces like stained glass. Only focusing on the imperfections that I can do something about right then. That hair is out of place. That zit needs to be popped. My lipstick has strayed from the boundaries of my lips. I do not know how to hold my own gaze.
I do not know how to hold my own gaze.
I’ve tried all the tactics to love myself. I have said the affirmations. I have chanted while doing yoga. I drank the tea. I journaled. I painted pictures. I processed the baggage. I have focused on what my body could do rather than what it looked like. I’ve told myself I have strong legs and a miracle of a heart. I’ve thanked my lungs for breathing even when they struggled to do it. And you know that one almost worked. Almost. But two years ago, a new form of disability began and I lost the ability to use my legs to carry me fast and far. My miracle of a heart got broken and I don’t know how to put it back together. My lungs have forgotten what it feels like to deeply exhale and I’m not sure how to teach them to relax. I don’t know how to trust or celebrate what my body can do when it is so changeable.
And so for two years I’ve avoided it. Because I did not know what to do with it I’ve tried not to think about it. But it follows me everywhere I go. It’s always hanging around like that awkward kid who sits in the corner of the party. The one everyone wishes would just leave, but it won’t. It can’t.
I am my body and my body is mine.
So I thought I’d try again. Try to see if we could at least be on speaking terms again. This day in age everyone needs some good pictures of themselves. They need to have a professional headshot for LinkedIn and articles they write. So I figured I’d start there. Get some pictures that the rest of the world thinks is good. One that I can’t delete off my phone 3 seconds after it’s taken and try to affirm that that picture is good. That the body it reflects is okay (look I’m realistic I’m not gonna go from I hate to I love. Okay right now would be a HUGE step).
The Confessional 