Questions Written on My Face

I've spent half of April 29 wondering if something crazy would happen. And I'm spending the other half trying to prevent anything interesting from happening at all.

I had plans. I was supposed to go to a write-in to work on my novel. And I decided I couldn't. I wanted to lock myself in my shoebox-sized apartment and block out the world for a bit. I even considered turning off my cell phone (but decided I shouldn't render myself unreachable, in case the craziness of April 29 manifested itself in some sort of emergency situation... but even just considering it was a big deal). I just want this special day to not be special anymore. I want it to be like any other day.

Instead, I decided to stay in and write a blog post. On a Tuesday. Because I have something to say. Some thoughts that I have to drain from my skull before they flatten my brain like a pancake.

In the comments section of my last post, my buddy Nilsa said:

I think you should start posting "real life" pictures of yourself (i.e., post-storm) instead of continuous dolled-up ones. We already know you're gorgeous! :-)

This seemingly innocuous comment got my wheels turning in a major way.

I post the pictures that I do because I'm interested in photography. I really like taking photographs of people, but most people I know don't seem to like getting their picture taken. And besides, my camera isn't particularly great. So I improvise. I take pictures of myself. Using my laptop, as I don't have to hold it as I would a camera. I'm both the amateur photographer and the model. It helps me practice. I'm learning about lighting and angles, and even a little bit about editing (although very, very little... any editing I do is in iPhoto, which doesn't have a ton of functions).

Or, at least, that's what I tell myself.

The reason I didn't post a picture of me post-storm was because I didn't have a camera on me then. If I had one at the time, I'm sure a picture would've been taken. And who knows, maybe it would've been posted. It would, after all, have illustrated the story rather nicely.

And I have put a lot of candid pictures on here. Even a few in which I don't think I look particularly attractive.

But maybe not.

I take so many pictures. So, so, so many. And most of them get deleted before anyone other than me sees them. Any picture you ever see of me that I took? It has gone through a strenuous approval process. I have hemmed and hawed over whether it's good enough. I've hit delete on so many pictures. Ones that are blurry. Ones with bad lighting. Ones where I don't look like myself. Ones with bad angles that make me look like I have a double chin (my greatest fear).

I paced around my apartment trying to figure out why that is until I found an answer that is, at least in part, true.

Sometimes I'm afraid that people will see me the way I see myself.

*her vulnerability clicks into place*

It's true. You know how people say you can be whomever you want to be? Sometimes I wonder if I'm only pretending. I like the idea of being the quirky, light-hearted, smiley girl. But am I embracing who I am? Or am I pretending to be something I'm not and taking on this persona as some sort of facade? Maybe my entire being is a lie. Maybe I don't want people to see that I'm really just normal. And boring. And not special in the least.

I see the bad things about myself before I see the good things. I see how thirsty my dry skin is, and how badly it breaks out and taunts me when I over-moisturize it. I see the disorder in my eyebrows. I see the gaps reforming between my teeth because I stopped wearing my retainers once a month like the orthodontist said I should. I see my loathsome neck and the double-chin effect that it has been producing for the last 10 months in photographs and mirrors alike. I see my pathetic, bony wrists. I see the features that seem too big for my face. I scrutinize every detail. I'm sure I've worked myself up over problems with parts of my face and body that other people wouldn't look at twice. But then, why would they? These things are my burden, not theirs.

There are days when I think I'm attractive. And there are days when I don't. You may have noticed that two of the posts I put up recently had photos that were clearly taken on the same day. I stockpile them sometimes. Whenever I have a day when I feel cute, I take a bunch of pictures. Because I know there will be days when I don't feel cute. And I want to have those pictures. They make me feel like maybe I was once. And maybe I could be again.

God, that makes me sound so... fake. And manufactured. Maybe I am to some extent. Maybe I only allow people to see the parts of me that I approve first. Maybe I need that level of control.

You know what, fine. Here.



This is what I look like right now, at this very moment. I'm lying down, typing, with all the lights off. I'm wearing a truly hideous nightgown and am not wearing a stitch of makeup. And the sunset in the background is far more interesting than I am.

When I look in the mirror, I see me. I see all the flaws that come with me. And not just physically. I see the tenacity. I see the fear. The loneliness. The indecision. The manipulation. All of it.

Sometimes I have conversations with myself in the mirror. I will literally ask myself questions and answer them. All aloud. And sometimes I surprise myself with the answers. Sometimes I say things that I didn't know were underneath the surface until I say them.

(Note: I just started typing out one of these conversations, and then realized just how inexcusably dumb it sounds.)

There's a line from the movie The Truth about Cats and Dogs that Uma Thurman's character delivers... "Did you ever look in the mirror so long that your face didn't make sense anymore? It just becomes all these shapes. Just shapes. Not good or bad."

I do that. My face has lost a lot of meaning to me. I look at the pieces instead of at the whole. Sometimes I stare at my reflection until I'm near tears. And what's really horrifying and embarrassing about it is that I don't know why. Maybe it's just to see if I still can.

Do other people do this? Is there something wrong with me? Shouldn't I have grown out of this by now?

But I haven't. I have flaws. I have fears. I have insecurities. I have more boundaries and barriers than international travel. I can try to work through them as much as I like, but they'll never be completely gone. They're a part of me... Take it or leave it.

So you know what, while I'm in this vulnerable, uncovered sort of mood, I'm opening it up. I'm blatantly ripping off an idea from my blogging buddy Tipp (hope you don't mind).

Leave a question for me in the comments.

Please.

And, barring anything that might make it possible for an online stalker to track me down or a person I know in real life to find me via Google, I'll answer it. Honestly. Openly. Vulnerably. Longiloquently. And to the best of my ability.

Seriously. Anything. Even if it's something stupid. It'll give me something to think about other than the thoughts that are currently rolling around in my head. And that would be a welcome distraction. And it'll remind me that someone, somewhere, wonders what I look like on the inside.

ETA: Hey, lurkers! Come out, come out, whomever you are!

I hope it'll be a learning experience for all of us.


May you step back from the mirror and try to see yourself another way.

~A~


P.S. Please don't go paying me obligatory compliments and trying to build up my self-esteem or something. I wasn't fishing for niceties with this. And frankly, knowing that you've read what I've just written, it would be hard for me to believe them anyway.

P.P.S. Maybe that's what was supposed to happen today. Maybe that was my fluke. Having a weird psychoanalysis in my apartment alone, with no outside stimulus. Happy April 29 to me.

P.P.P.S. I'm sorry, Bri.