My Life in Photos

This is a school photo from grade 2 or 3. A smiley, round-faced kid with a high side ponytail and a purple polka-dot sweater. That’s me; giggly and joyful and blissfully blind to the pressures that exist in world. The years go by and the clothes get tighter, the legs get bigger, too big for hand-me-downs from an older sister. She is a little bird and me, I love to eat. I’m forever sneaking snacks, I crave the richness and sugariness of food, I always have seconds, I always want a little more. I am a hands-on kid, I love the pleasure that is derived from exploring my senses. I am sensual in the purest form. I love the tastes and smells and textures of food, I love to play in the mud, to feel things with my hands, to hear the sounds of birds and of rain on the roof of our old house. These are the things that satisfy me.

Then the self consciousness of adolescence sets in. The teasing and the fat jokes. These are pictures of me from that time, head down, draped in baggy t-shirts and over-sized jeans. I’m trying to lose myself in those clothes, trying to disappear in the folds of fabric. Plain colors, no ornamentation. I want to be out of sight, to slip by - quiet and unnoticed. Maybe this is also when I start writing. Realizing I can bury myself in the world of words and make believe. Write myself into a new skin, a new reality.

Jump forward another year or two. At some point I lose interest in everything. There are no journals for this part, and very few photos. Even the escape of writing has lost it’s allure. I’ve given up on pleasure, realized if I just don’t eat my body will shrink to where maybe no one will see it. And at the same time the styles get bolder, I shave my head, dye my hair green blue orange purple. I progress to polyester bellbottoms from the thrift shop, tacky paisley button-up shirts. Big rings and layers of bracelets and necklaces. I’m still shy, still quiet, but I let my clothes speak about me without having to say a word myself. I shrink down to 118 pounds, far too small for this frame. In the pictures you can see scrawny arms floating inside the cuffs of t-shirts that would now bulge around my biceps. I sneer into the camera, cigarette in hand, a scarf wrapped around my head. My t-shirts belonged to children in the 90s. Ashcroft Corn Roast and Bike Show. Missuola Children’s Theatre. Sountoula Elementary School. My body Is small and weak but I’m starting to learn about it’s power. And I give that power away before I’ve fully realized it’s meaning. I’ve spent years pushing everyone away and now I want to be wanted and desired. I learn how to do that without having to express myself. All I have to do is lie there.

I make it through high school and move out to the mountains. The first few years are parties, luckily there are very few photos of these days either, one of me by an alpine lake, still smoking, still glaring but starting to fall in love with the outdoors for the first time since my childhood. I meet people who show me that there’s more to life than getting so drunk that you wake up in the bottom of your closet with mysterious bruises. I realize a fed body is easier to take up the side of a mountain. I start to open the door and peek inside to a place where it’s possible to feel loved and desired without fucking a stranger who will turn you around so you can’t see him take off the condom you insisted he wear. The clothes become more functional, though still always cheap and usually second hand. I stop brushing my hair, stop shaving. I never think of myself as taking a stand, though it is what I’m doing. Subtly. Quietly, as always. I find the love I’ve been looking for. I resist and resist it. I press it and test it but as hard as I try I can’t make it break. And I’m forced to realize I can be loved. Fully.

Here’s a more recent photo. Tousled, loosely braided hair and a radiant smile, face and jacket flecked with dirt from a day spent playing in the mud, how my little self would have loved it. I’m still surprised when I see how far I’ve come. And sometimes there’s still a resistance. I find it hard to accept that I love the way I look. My frame now carries 150 pounds of joy and satisfaction. I have relearned my love of the colors, tastes and textures of things. My attire is toned down, well fitted jeans, always boot cut or flared - no skinny jeans for these voluptuous legs, t-shirts and tank-tops, flowing colours, comfortable shoes that fit. I brush my hair and let it be (nearly) as wild as it wants to be. I have rediscovered a love of rainbows, of uneven layers, of dresses when the mood strikes. I have learned to look at rolls and curves and see not failure, weakness or repulsiveness but the joy and power of a woman in love with the world and all the pleasures it has to offer.