Portrait of a 33-year-old

Every morning I look in the mirror and see new lines on my face. I have the misfortune to have a sky light in the bathroom, so every line, every crease, every blemish is illuminated with forensic clarity – every visitor I have runs screaming from the bathroom after a few moments in front of the mirror of truth. When I was studying photography, all those years ago, I took hundreds of self-portraits. I’ve never particularly liked having my picture taken – I’m not the most photogenic person, and catch me in the wrong light the plains of my face meld into new contorted shapes that I just don’t recognise. But in my college days I was on a mission. I had the idea I could investigate the female condition through pictures of myself – a lofty ambition for a 21-year-old! Looking back at those pictures, the first thing that strikes me is how skinny I was. It’s incredible that for so long I was unhappy with my body, yet judging by the photos I was half the size I am now – I just couldn’t see it. Most of my self-portraits were nudes – I never felt self-conscious showing the pictures to others as I didn’t see the body on the paper as my own (how very revealing that statement is).

I have very few photographs of myself from this last year – it’s only recently I’ve wanted to start recording my life, with photos of friends and family, and places I’ve been. I took the photo above the other day to send to a new treasured friend, and looking at it again last night, I was struck by how my face has changed. I’ve always carried an image in my head of who I am and what I look like – for the longest time it was the face of a fifteen-year-old girl, and as I’ve never really looked my age (sure to be a blessing in my 50s) I would look in the mirror and see that same teenage face. But now I look and I see something new. I mentioned this to my counsellor the other day, how the lines are new, the bags under my eyes heavy, the eyes themselves a darker blue than before.  She told me that it was to be expected that the past year is now recorded in my features. And surely the vineyard of wine I’ve drunk and plantation of cigarettes I’ve smoked hasn’t helped either, but it’s the grief and loss that’s etched on my face. That my lover will never look at my face again is something I still have not come to terms with. I don’t even know if he’d recognise me now – I have to wear glasses to read and work at the computer, after I discovered the headaches weren’t just from tears but my weak eyes too. My hair is blonder, my wardrobe has relaxed; but most of all this is no longer the face he looked at.

Today I’m working on my six chapters, polishing the old words and inserting new ones. I’m remembering what he looked like, and how he saw me.  I’m remembering our first night together, and how I learnt the melody of his snoring. Bittersweet memories, like scenes from a film – I just don’t recognise the girl in that picture anymore. I only know who I am now.