The Camera Never Lies

I think if I was still in graduate school, I would do a research study on selfies. I'm serious. I believe I could turn it into a social work issue. 

Long before "selfie" was even a term, taking photos of myself was part of my recovery from an eating disorder. 12 years ago, in an attempt to see the beauty I had a difficult time seeing, I began taking a lot of photos of myself. This was long before you posted stuff like that. Before Facebook. Before Instagram. Before you shared your face after you snapped a picture. 

I didn't take pictures of myself to look for bones and thinness. I took pictures of myself to look for beauty in them. The purpose was to try to like the photos I took of myself. Or at least to like something about them. 

Taking selfies (before the word "selfie" existed) was how I learned to smile at myself. How I learned to laugh at myself. It was how I learned to tell myself it was okay to have thoughts like, "Wow, I look really nice here" or "I like this picture of myself." It was how I learned that liking a photo of myself didn’t mean I was conceited. It was how I learned to perceive happiness in my face in a picture. It was how I learned to like my own appearance, even as the weight went on. 

Back when taking selfies would have been deemed ridiculous or unheard of or horribly self-centered, I used to just sit with myself, inside or outside, hair up or hair down, and snap photos of my own face and body with my old digital camera. I'd upload them to my computer and save them in a folder. Then, instead of picking them apart, which was the initial reaction my mind had, I did my best to admire them.

As time wore on and self-criticism was replaced with self-confidence, I took selfies more to chronicle feelings and changes in myself. Not to share, just to keep for my own personal reflection. And then lo and behold, selfies became a craze... First, selfies were mocked with zeal, then they were all the rage, and now, they are simply part of our new culture. 

If I could make a video montage of all my selfies from the last year, I know it would show a progression of great magnitude. A tale of grief and growth and change and strength and emotion. When I post a selfie, it's not to say, "Hey, look at me!" - it's to say, "Hey, look what's happened to me! Look what's changed in me! Look what's inside me!"

I mean, yes, selfies are a portrayal of the outward appearance. Obviously you can't ignore that or discount it. But I know damn well that every one of my selfies shows just as much of what's inside me as what's on the outside. And that's what I think is so cool.

You know what they say: a picture is worth a thousand words.

Pain-Free

I remember when I used to accompany Rick to his medical appointments. I got to know the inside of waiting rooms intimately. Team Bair was present, ready to lay it all out for the professionals. Sleep problems, depression, myofascial pain, nerve pain, mouth pain, spine pain, hip pain, foot pain, head pain, arthritis, alcohol abuse, brain fog, fibromyalgia, chronic fatigue, etc. These were the words that populated our appointments.

This time last year, I got a look at the packet of paperwork a pain center sent my husband prior to his appointment as a “new” client.  He was a patient many years ago there, so for all intents and purposes, was considered “new” even though his pain had followed him through life. The comprehensive, thick packet of stapled papers was lying nonchalantly on Rick’s desk, but when I flipped through it, this is what I saw.

Asked to illustrate where he had pain by coloring a part (or parts) of the human body, Rick had obliged.

Looking at the image, I was filled with sadness. He colored nearly the whole damn thing. I was struck by how accurate and telling the image would be for any professional who would see it. He even colored one side darker to indicate that his left side was worse than his right. The graphic told me so much about my husband. He told it like it was. He didn’t make you guess. He didn’t hold back. And he didn’t create intricate explanations or excuses for his actions.

I used to try to explain Rick’s pain to other people at times…and it just didn't work well. I couldn't feel it, so I couldn't describe it. I will never know what percentages of Rick's pain were emotional, physiological, mental, psychological, however you want to categorize it. A woman of many words, I searched for the best ways in which to tell his tale of indescribable pain. I had a difficult time making others understand how serious it was, regardless of the origin or cause, and how drastic his attempts at relief had become.

Rick's colored image was the best explanation. No fancy language. No confusing terms. Just Rick telling it like it was. You see the picture. In the simplest terms: HE WAS FULL OF PAIN.

It doesn't matter what kind of pain. He felt it. It was real and it was constant.

The same day he colored the above image, he also filled out this portion of the medical packet:

In addition to "regular" forms of pain all happening at once (burning, shooting, sharp, dull/aching, pins and needles, tingling, pressure-like), Rick felt like he was being electrocuted. AND like he was getting hit in the face with a baseball bat. EVERY. SINGLE. DAY. Seeing his no-nonsense words so plainly describing his indescribable pain was just heart-breaking. It had become so matter-of-fact to him.

There was a time I couldn't see an end in sight for the emotional and physical pain my husband experienced. But now, I know how the story ends. I can be sad that I can't hold him or talk to him or laugh with him, but he is no longer in pain. I don't have to be sad for him anymore.

Suicide is no solution, ever. But I am relieved that for the first time ever, I can actually imagine Rick completely free of pain. I did not know what that was like. I do not have memories of a pain-free Rick. Not one.

Now, in grief, when the deep sadness swirls around me, I can also let the relief slip in. Rick is not in pain. I don't know what that looks like, because Rick in pain was all I knew. But I imagine it looks something like this:

outdoors, relaxed, and smiling just like before the pain began.