I have always hated having my picture taken. Always. But as I’ve gotten older, it’s gotten much worse.
I never considered myself beautiful. Handsome maybe, but not beautiful. And I was given plenty of reinforcement on that idea growing up. I took my body cues from my older sister. She was never comfortable with herself, so I was never comfortable with myself. We shared clothes, mirrors, and body ideals. I’d cover my body with oversized clothes and hide under t-shirts at the lake. One time, I got up the nerve to wear a two-piece suit and I could feel all eyes staring at me. I felt grotesque in my own skin.
But everything I knew about myself was wrong.
When I joined the Army, fresh out of high school, my enlistment form stated my build as slender. I was floored. But I was fat, I’d been fat most of my life. I could see it every time I looked in the mirror. I could see it in my belly flab. How could I be slender.
That was the first time I began to wonder if I actually knew what I looked like. In high school, I would look at this girl in class, she was not very popular and not traditionally pretty. I used to wonder what she saw when she looked in the mirror. Did everyone see something different in the mirror?
In school, I was a part of the gifted and talented program. One year, our field trip was to a TV studio. There was a girl. A beautiful girl with long blonde hair, and beautiful blue eyes. She was striking. We were in the studio, and she was walking around like she owned the place. I quietly pointed out to her that she was on camera, something that would have made me incredibly self-conscious, and she was unfazed. She strutted in front of the camera, looked at me with a hint of disgust, tossed her hair over her shoulder, and said, “I know.” With so much disdain, I felt I’d shrunk to the size of an ant. I couldn’t understand how she could be so confident in her looks.
Then I became a mom. I carried two children in this body, I should love it. Love what it has done for me. For the nourishment it gave my babies. But having them made me worse. New bulges, new scars, new reasons to hate my reflection.
As I got older, I tried to come to terms with the woman in the mirror. It wasn’t always easy. Some days she was my friend; others I couldn’t stand the reflection. In college, I took photography classes. One of the assignments I was given was to take a picture of myself that reflected who I am. It was the hardest assignment I had. It was an old school, 35mm film camera. Which meant that I wouldn’t see the picture until I developed it.
In the darkroom, I loaded the negative into the enlarger and held my breath.
I had taken ten frames of myself. As the light shone through the negatives, I felt smaller and smaller. These pictures would be presented to the class and none of them felt real. They were flat, unemotional. In each one of them, I could see how hard I was working to look normal. To look even remotely attractive. I could see every flaw. My instructor pointed out my wide-open eyes and asked what it signified. I don’t even remember what I told him, but I knew it was me struggling with normal.
With the advent of digital photography and then camera phones, I hated pictures more and more. I began to understand what that girl in high school saw in the mirror all those years ago. Because now, I was seeing it in my reflection. When I looked at myself in the mirror, I’d see a familiar face, one that was still young, one that I could still see beauty in. Even in selfies, I could still see her. But when others took my picture, I saw something different. Someone I didn’t want to see.
This past week, I found myself looking at the mirrored doors of an elevator and trying to come to terms. If the pictures I take of someone look like that someone, then the pictures of me must be what I look like. But I could bring up ten different pictures and see ten different women.
Today, I still struggle with how I look but care less about the judgement of others. I wear a bikini to the beach and smile in pictures. But I spend my time looking at other women. Wondering if they look like me. And still stay away from pictures, they’re too painful. But I still struggle with the question: which one is really me? Is it the mirror that lies, or the camera? I wish I knew.
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