They say a picture is worth a thousand words, but what exactly are those words? What’s the worth of something that’s carefully curated, filtered, and posed?
I’ll tell you. I’m a recovering pretend-post addict, after all.
Our most recent family photos were met with many words of praise: “Your children are beautiful!” “You look so gorgeous!” and, predominately, the most gutting: “You have the perfect family.”
No one could’ve known I was reading those comments with a pit in my throat, probably from the comfort of my bed, the one I refused to leave even for meals. It would be impossible to predict that behind closed doors I was crumbling; a woman on the verge of a mental break. One who had spent the last few years trying to save that very same “perfect” family.
You see, a picture is only worth the story behind it, and no one knew mine. I was a wife, mother, sister, and friend to the outside world. I smiled on cue. I showed up to play dates and performed accordingly. I dressed my kids well. I exercised. I indulged in nights out with my girlfriends. I had a husband with a good job, a pretty home, plentiful vacations. That’s what they saw: a life tied up in a nice little bow.
But here’s what was really going on behind our picket fence.
Let’s start with my husband.
He’s traditionally handsome and hardworking. A provider, a sacrificial and serving man. He doesn’t always have a lot to say (which drives me to drink), but I suppose it works well for us since I’ve been given the gift of gab. He’s a former athlete in his early thirties, and on any given day if you saw a photo of him you’d have no idea he has a failing heart.
That’s right. My husband has flat lined—twice.
In the summer of 2016 I found him unresponsive on our bedroom floor. His heart had stopped, and as it turns out, it is broken beyond repair. We now live in a constant state of limbo: trying to ride his current heart out long enough (but not too long) before he gets a transplant, which is only promised to last him 15-20 years. Another fun fact? This condition is genetic. Our young daughter and son have a 50% chance of having it as well.
No way to see that in a photo.
And then there’s my children. My daughter (now four) reads on a third grade level. She spoke in sentences at thirteen months old. She remembers every statistic from every show, book, movie, or random conversation you’ve ever had with her. She was scouted by a modeling agency (except I’m a horrible stage mom who wouldn’t miss nap time to take her to auditions). While other kids cried at new people or places, she ran in with ease. She’s an open-armed, loving, intelligent, emotionally feeling girl.
Who also has autism.
No way to see that in a photo.
Next up is my son. Well, he’s two years old with a size eleven foot. He’s physical, and coordinated, and can kick a ball well into a scholarship future. He’s the happiest kid I’ve ever met, and handsome, oh, so handsome. That dimple does me in. He likes donuts, and parks, and putting things together, and thinks his sister hung the moon. He’s a man of few words like his father, but when he speaks he means it. I wish I could clone his happiness and drink up his smile. My son is magical.
And yes, he also has autism.
No way to see that in a photo.
And that leaves me.
It hasn’t just been a few years of hiding in plain sight, it’s been my entire life. I’ve always wanted to blend in, and that came at a high cost: never knowing who I truly was. I considered myself a chameleon. You want a bright and bubbly girl? Here she is. Thoughtful and introverted? Coming right up. It was a good trait to have if you wanted to please the masses (or men), but a detriment if you desired real relationships, which I desperately craved. Very few people actually got a look behind my veil, and that is probably why very few people have lasted in my life.
