a self-portrait

I have put on my bathing suit and jumped off the diving board right into the world of Inspire Me Thursday...so at least once a week you are going to see something I have created with my own two hands. This week I tried creating my self-portrait with crayons. But I had trouble translating it over the scanner...but here it is all the same. This is how you can often find me. Trying to find my breath in the midst of the ramblings of my monkey mind.

Click on over to Inspire Me Thursday to see some other self-portraits and explore some amazing blogs.

{SPT} the me who is a pirate

My eyes.
This is what I answer if asked the odd question: what is your favorite part of your body?
My eyes.
For they are not fat. And fat is how I see the rest of me.
But here is the top secret truth: my left eye is the most "flawed" part of my body.
A flaw I cannot fix.
My flaw not too many people know about.
My left eye does not turn to the left. Not even a little bit.
"No it is not a lazy eye." The answer to the question I am always asked.
"But I have never noticed" is what is said next.
Right. You haven't. Because my parents were amazing.
My mother did not want me to feel different.
She taught me to turn my head.
For a little while I wore an eye patch as a child.
A pirate at three.
When I need to see something to the left,
I turn my head.
It is that simple.
So you never notice. And I don't really think about it....
unless...

I am in fourth grade, and the doctors and my parents decide that surgery is a good idea. To move my eye forward, for cosmetic reasons, to make sure that it will not move as I age and take a look around and just see what they find. A teaching hospital. Let's just see if maybe we might be able to do something. I am easily bribed by the promise of a cabbage patch kid with a tooth. But would I have agreed if I would have known the torment a fourth grade classmate would provide during my healing process? "Your eye is all red. Gross." For weeks the redness does not go away. For weeks his words torment me. I wear my mom's sunglasses for the first few days hoping no one will notice the redness. But who doesn't notice the fourth grader in adult sunglasses? (I chuckle through tears as I write that.) I do not want to miss any school. I already missed two weeks at the beginning of the year, I love my teacher, I love reading Caddie Woodlawn, I will not miss any more days.

I am 15 and studying genetics in Biology. This is my favorite part of this class so far. I love punnett squares. On this day, we spend the hour talking about genetic mutations. Mutants. I have never thought about the possibility that my eye is a result of a genetic mutation. A little part of me almost dies that day as I think about Darwin and evolution and the idea that the mutants are not wanted. I talk to my teacher after class, wanting to understand why we would use the word mutation when talking about a person's genes. He is very kind.

I am 22 and have been out with a friend. Someone I feel comfortable with. I am walking to my car, and she calls my name. My eyes are focused on my car as I turn around quickly. I hear, "God, what is wrong with your eyes?" Because my eyes were focused on one thing, but my brain said, "turn back around," she noticed my eye. I can still hear her voice. Loud. Harsh. Cruel. Confused.

I am 25 and realize that I might need glasses for distance. I do not want to go to the eye doctor. I have not been since I was a child. I decide to go to an opthalmologist because maybe he will have seen this before and not be weird about it. As I make the appointment, I explain "my left eye has duane's retraction syndrome. But that is not why I am making the appointment. I am making the appointment because I think I need glasses." "What is that? How do you spell that?" I have to explain. Fine. Still, I hope it won't be weird. But when I get there, I have to see a young woman first. Someone who has not seen this before. Someone who did not know what it means on my chart. Someone who does not know how to react when my eye does not turn. Yes, I know I look normal. But this is what happens when you say, "please follow my pen with your eyes." And when the doctor comes in, "Well, you are quite the celebrity today. Quite a buzz about you in this office. Most of these people have never seen this before, and I have only seen it in books." But I don't want to be a celebrity. I just want to know if I need glasses. I wonder, were those my eyes in the book? Could be, because they took pictures when I was a child. I do not want to follow the pen, the light, your finger to the left over and over again so you can see my eye not turn.

I am 29. And I finally realize my favorite part of this story. The support of family when I was younger. The support, to be honest, that I don't really remember because I never felt different, never noticed my eye, never had trouble reading, seeing, playing, and so on...the support that happened before my memories really began. The support that caused me to have to think about which eye had the problem because I never noticed it growing up. The support that began as soon as my parents realized something was wrong. I imagine the fear and confusion they must have felt. "What is wrong with her eye? What is happening? What did we do? Can she use it? Will she read? What do we do?" But they did something. They did not ignore it. Hours holding the red apple is front of me and teaching me to turn my head. And support from my grandfather through his offer to see if the doctors could take the muscle from his left eye. He was born with mostly blindness in that eye and wanted to give me any parts of his eye that would work and help me not be different. Not a possibility but the offer of the gift is even greater than actually receiving it.

They said I wouldn't read or wouldn't read very well. My mother did not believe them. She spent hours doing what she could to help me realize that I was in control of my eyes, how I would turn my head, how I would see things. I wore the eye patch for a few months so that I would turn my head. It became so automatic that the eye patch was not needed, and it was almost like the eye patch became invisible. She taught me to turn my head so that I would embrace this flaw. This flaw I never really think about because it does not affect me. They said I wouldn't read very well. But I read for a living...hmmm...guess they are not always right.

I would not change it. I know this secret that I hold. I am a pirate who travels the world through the books that live on the shelves in my home. A pirate who can see it all...

see more "all of me" posts on self portrait tuesday

edited on 5/27/07 to add: if you have arrived at this post because you or your child (or someone else close to you) has duane's retraction syndrome, please feel free to email me at waywardtulip at gmail dot com. and, if i could give parents words of wisdom from my experiences, i would say this: if you can afford for your child to have surgery to help with the movement and appearance of the eye (even if it is only cosmetically), do so. i believe that part of the reason i have been able to embrace this "pirate" in me is because visually, others do not notice that there is a problem with my eye. as a result, duane's did not affect my self-esteem about how i look. people might try to tell you that the surgery isn't necessary. but life is hard enough without feeling like you look different than others.

{SPT} the me who hides

Sometimes
I pull my hood up
and a force field surrounds me
the darkness may have come
but I can protect myself
a habit that began in college
and when moments lead me to melancholy days
again
I find pulling my hood up around my head
creates
a security blanket for my soul

This month's SPT theme being all of me made me think about capturing the feeling of the me who hides from the world when loneliness, grief, or other feelings of sadness creep in.

I was able to quickly tap into this feeling as I sat on the couch this morning. And I took a few pictures with the timer...but as I tried to capture the last one, Millie would have no part of the sadness anymore. She seemed to pose for the camera, captivated by the sound of the timer. So here is another self-portrait: the me with the big smile. People say that I have a beautiful smile. I never believe them. I am always focused on my big teeth and the way that my lip comes up so far that you can see so much of my gums. But here I am. All of me. From the hiding to the laughter.

See more SPT photos here

{self portrait tuesday} a first, a last

One of the first pictures of us together. I think about what she must have been thinking, "I am holding my daughter's daughter." I wonder if she realized that she was going to be my first friend. She taught me to give and not worry about what I received in return. Together we would laugh and laugh and laugh. She let down her defenses with me; she let me in. In this picture, she is so young. She always looked like this to me. I used to rub Pond's cold cream on that face; take off her make-up then put it back on for her. How she must have looked after I made up that face. She was patient and fun and silly and honest.

The last picture. The last time I saw her alive. Before we moved to the pacific northwest, I knew we had to visit them. A last drive from Indiana to South Carolina; we stayed for a couple of days. In the middle of the night before the morning we were to leave, I woke up with a wicked flu, so we stayed for two extra days and were there on my birthday. What a blessing. Two more days I wouldn't have had. She took care of me and we talked. She showed me a family genealogy book no one knew she had. We looked through old pictures. On the morning we left I insisted, as I always do, that we take pictures. And even though I was still sick, not wearing make-up, and feeling pretty crappy, she made me laugh and laugh as my husband took our picture. Then I hugged her good-bye; we were both crying. I started to get in the car, then walked back over and hugged her again. I got back into the car, and Jon began to back out of their driveway. If I close my eyes, I can see her standing there waving, crying.

I ache because it was only a few days prior to her death that I really understood the role she had played in my life. Through a conversation with another, I realized she had been the first person to let me be whoever I wanted to be. And I wanted to tell her that I finally got it. To let her know that through this acceptance I had become the person I am now and that she was my dearest friend. And I was going to be able to tell her in person because I was flying for a visit that Wednesday. My visit had been planed for weeks, but she had been hospitalized over the weekend. She was doing better they said, no need to rush your visit. You will get here as she is feeling stronger.
Tuesday morning, 2:45 a.m. the phone rang. My aunt. The hospital had called her, and things had taken a turn; she and my uncle were on their way. "Will you hold the phone up to her ear when you get there? Even if she is in a coma, will you do that for me?" I asked "Of course," she said tears in her voice. She understood. I just had to tell my grandmother what I had realized, but more importantly, I just wanted to tell her thank you.
We didn't know that she had already died.
I know that people say she already knew. But I wanted to tell her. And I wanted one more last picture. One more last day.

(link to more SPT personal history posts here)