I’m sixteen and looking at myself in the bedroom mirror, studying my image. Who am I? I strike a pose. Am I pretty? I dance with the mirror and flip my long, mousey-brown hair. Will people like me? I smile. What do they see in me? Now decades later, I know most people weren’t looking, and I, captivated in self-centeredness, was mostly looking at my shallow self. Starring in my own video. An exhausting performance. When I look at my image in the mirror these days, it’s to see if my hair is combed. I smile to check for bits of food debris in my teeth. And before I leave the house, I stop by the full-length mirror. Yup, fully dressed. Funny thing is, when I quit worrying about my mirror image, I am able to see others much better.
I have no clear self image. I know myself to be uninhibited but full of second guesses. I have a huge heart and can be extremely selfless but say ridiculously stupid things sometimes and can be extremely awkward and inappropriate. Over the years, I've often wished that I could send out an anonymous survey for folks to complete honestly which would indicate how I present to others. It doesn't worry me as much as I am dead curious to know. Despite all of my uncertainty, I have been referred to time and time again as “so confident”, which tickles me. It's an act, you see. I am definitely not good at public speaking or, by extension, acting. I get a facial tick in front of cameras and my voice is extremely warbly at a podium. I have, however, developed what I assume is an acting technique to get through situations where I am “in the spotlight.” I imagine I'm Juliette Binoche in Chocolat. The character Vianne is unapologetically but pleasantly direct and is not easily bullied by her adversaries, eventually providing them guidance to fulfilment and joy. The first day teaching, a job interview, first date – doing my best to portray her has gotten me through and evidently convinced audiences.
An early memory of thinking about my image was when, certainly to my mother’s chagrin, I demanded a haircut like my future stepmother’s – the famous Dorothy Hamill wedge.
In elementary school, when a classmate asked about my race, my father explained how the military would see it: as the race of the father.
As a teen, I sought to change my image from good girl to rebel, sourcing clothes from the army surplus store.
At college, I learned that images are reality-defining, but their meaning is fluid.
Becoming a mother, I lost control of my body and my narrative, my self-image as an artist fading away.
To overcome my lack of self-esteem, for many years I tried to “fake it till you make it” but it was exhausting.
Gradually, I seem to have arrived at a tenuous balance between self-acceptance and making the most of what is at hand. Is that capitulation or being realistic?
Long ago, a mentor said that the truth is in the body.
Listening closely to my different needs, wants, and yes, limits, has become my approach. Instead of from the outside-in, I try to work from the inside-out, embracing the truth of my ever-changing image.
Nov 8, 2023·edited Nov 8, 2023Liked by M Tamara Cutler
The first time I got married I didn’t tell anyone, except my mom. She deserved to know. I called her after-the-fact. It was in Las Vegas and on purpose, but the image of me as a husband seemed ridiculous. I wasn't about to tell people, not brothers, not friends. I was too young and the idea, too grown. Marriage was something for the established, the older, the certain.
That relationship ended long before the official marriage certificate. Years later, after meeting my future wife, I promptly explained the situation; I was single but still married, in the legal sense. A matter which could be easily resolved. She didn’t have a problem with this. No big deal. How lucky for me.
Now, twenty-two years removed from Clark County Courthouse, I’m married again. This time, everybody knows. And I wear the ring to prove it.
I thought I deleted my Facebook account a long time ago but recently I discovered everything is still online, hidden from anyone’s view but my own.
Upon rediscovery, I looked at over two thousand of photos of myself. From 2005 to 2015, my friends would take hundreds of photos of nights out, weekends, even afternoons together.
The images are like a photo diary of my life, reminding me of moments I never would have remembered otherwise.
There’s me wearing a waistcoat with skinny jeans. Towering heels and a tiny dress. A Breton top and a navy tailored coat. Sitting on a wall, shouting. Drinking wine in a phonebooth. In the woods. On a boat. At a teen house party. Rehearsing for something at uni. Eating a pastry. On the dancefloor. I couldn’t stop looking at the photos.
I wonder if, in the future, I’ll wish I’d kept my Facebook account active. So people could tag me in every moment of my life. Will I remember anything without the photo documentation? I also wonder if I should make everything public again, in case I die, so all those images of my life won’t be lost.
Nov 14, 2023·edited Nov 14, 2023Liked by M Tamara Cutler
I’m starting to realize I spend alot of time and worry that is needless and exhausting tending to my image. I had no idea about this, it was all churning away on my internal hard drive, wearing it down, until a few weeks ago when my husband out of the blue got a dire medical diagnosis and had urgent major surgery, and people we know from now, past, local, far away, all rallied around, keeping in touch, helping us out, staying in touch. I have been mostly too preoccupied with all that caregiving involves to give thought to my image. I gradually noticed that absence, a silence of worry, of rethinking, just a presence of relating to 'our people'. I noticed that even as I was not carefully orchestrating saying/doing everything just right, rethinking and questioning, still so much caring kept pouring in without any effort on my part. I had a sudden tear-causing epiphany that people care, friends care, not because you do or say just the right thing at all times, but because of who you are and your relationships with them over millions of small moments. So here I have been thinking I’m carefully balancing, I'm teetering, on a narrow balance beam, deep cold water all around me, when actually the journey is on very solid ground, a warm grassy surface with the sun shining down. I hope this new perception lasts and lasts.
I’m sixteen and looking at myself in the bedroom mirror, studying my image. Who am I? I strike a pose. Am I pretty? I dance with the mirror and flip my long, mousey-brown hair. Will people like me? I smile. What do they see in me? Now decades later, I know most people weren’t looking, and I, captivated in self-centeredness, was mostly looking at my shallow self. Starring in my own video. An exhausting performance. When I look at my image in the mirror these days, it’s to see if my hair is combed. I smile to check for bits of food debris in my teeth. And before I leave the house, I stop by the full-length mirror. Yup, fully dressed. Funny thing is, when I quit worrying about my mirror image, I am able to see others much better.
I have no clear self image. I know myself to be uninhibited but full of second guesses. I have a huge heart and can be extremely selfless but say ridiculously stupid things sometimes and can be extremely awkward and inappropriate. Over the years, I've often wished that I could send out an anonymous survey for folks to complete honestly which would indicate how I present to others. It doesn't worry me as much as I am dead curious to know. Despite all of my uncertainty, I have been referred to time and time again as “so confident”, which tickles me. It's an act, you see. I am definitely not good at public speaking or, by extension, acting. I get a facial tick in front of cameras and my voice is extremely warbly at a podium. I have, however, developed what I assume is an acting technique to get through situations where I am “in the spotlight.” I imagine I'm Juliette Binoche in Chocolat. The character Vianne is unapologetically but pleasantly direct and is not easily bullied by her adversaries, eventually providing them guidance to fulfilment and joy. The first day teaching, a job interview, first date – doing my best to portray her has gotten me through and evidently convinced audiences.
An early memory of thinking about my image was when, certainly to my mother’s chagrin, I demanded a haircut like my future stepmother’s – the famous Dorothy Hamill wedge.
In elementary school, when a classmate asked about my race, my father explained how the military would see it: as the race of the father.
As a teen, I sought to change my image from good girl to rebel, sourcing clothes from the army surplus store.
At college, I learned that images are reality-defining, but their meaning is fluid.
Becoming a mother, I lost control of my body and my narrative, my self-image as an artist fading away.
To overcome my lack of self-esteem, for many years I tried to “fake it till you make it” but it was exhausting.
Gradually, I seem to have arrived at a tenuous balance between self-acceptance and making the most of what is at hand. Is that capitulation or being realistic?
Long ago, a mentor said that the truth is in the body.
Listening closely to my different needs, wants, and yes, limits, has become my approach. Instead of from the outside-in, I try to work from the inside-out, embracing the truth of my ever-changing image.
The first time I got married I didn’t tell anyone, except my mom. She deserved to know. I called her after-the-fact. It was in Las Vegas and on purpose, but the image of me as a husband seemed ridiculous. I wasn't about to tell people, not brothers, not friends. I was too young and the idea, too grown. Marriage was something for the established, the older, the certain.
That relationship ended long before the official marriage certificate. Years later, after meeting my future wife, I promptly explained the situation; I was single but still married, in the legal sense. A matter which could be easily resolved. She didn’t have a problem with this. No big deal. How lucky for me.
Now, twenty-two years removed from Clark County Courthouse, I’m married again. This time, everybody knows. And I wear the ring to prove it.
I thought I deleted my Facebook account a long time ago but recently I discovered everything is still online, hidden from anyone’s view but my own.
Upon rediscovery, I looked at over two thousand of photos of myself. From 2005 to 2015, my friends would take hundreds of photos of nights out, weekends, even afternoons together.
The images are like a photo diary of my life, reminding me of moments I never would have remembered otherwise.
There’s me wearing a waistcoat with skinny jeans. Towering heels and a tiny dress. A Breton top and a navy tailored coat. Sitting on a wall, shouting. Drinking wine in a phonebooth. In the woods. On a boat. At a teen house party. Rehearsing for something at uni. Eating a pastry. On the dancefloor. I couldn’t stop looking at the photos.
I wonder if, in the future, I’ll wish I’d kept my Facebook account active. So people could tag me in every moment of my life. Will I remember anything without the photo documentation? I also wonder if I should make everything public again, in case I die, so all those images of my life won’t be lost.
I’m starting to realize I spend alot of time and worry that is needless and exhausting tending to my image. I had no idea about this, it was all churning away on my internal hard drive, wearing it down, until a few weeks ago when my husband out of the blue got a dire medical diagnosis and had urgent major surgery, and people we know from now, past, local, far away, all rallied around, keeping in touch, helping us out, staying in touch. I have been mostly too preoccupied with all that caregiving involves to give thought to my image. I gradually noticed that absence, a silence of worry, of rethinking, just a presence of relating to 'our people'. I noticed that even as I was not carefully orchestrating saying/doing everything just right, rethinking and questioning, still so much caring kept pouring in without any effort on my part. I had a sudden tear-causing epiphany that people care, friends care, not because you do or say just the right thing at all times, but because of who you are and your relationships with them over millions of small moments. So here I have been thinking I’m carefully balancing, I'm teetering, on a narrow balance beam, deep cold water all around me, when actually the journey is on very solid ground, a warm grassy surface with the sun shining down. I hope this new perception lasts and lasts.