I haven’t seen her in years — but she’s in every photo.
Please note: this essay includes references to emotional abuse and suicide.
My head was tilted back in the picture, mouth frozen open and mid belly laugh. I’m surrounded by a handful of wonderful friends smiling and laughing with me — a candid moment of true joy and friendship.
I couldn’t delete it fast enough.
It’s been almost 15 years since I’ve seen my mother, and yet, there she is, in that damn photo someone innocently thought to take when I wasn’t paying attention. I once believed my problem with being photographed was rooted in body image issues and the general self-loathing that seems to be required for all women, particularly fat women like myself. But it’s so much more complicated than that.
Growing up, no one told me I looked like my mother. I was always my father’s doppelganger. He’s the spitting image of his father, and my face follows suit — particularly our wide-set nostrils that flare when we’re fired up about something. Once, I tested out a “bald” camera filter to see if I was one of those people who look stunning with a shaved head. Instead I just got my dad’s goofy face staring back at me.
