You can’t see me

I came across my first camera while rummaging through a closet at the age of 14. It was a 35mm Minolta SRT-200 - a fully manual, metal camera. My mom said it was the reason there weren’t very many baby pictures of me. I fell in love with it instantly, not knowing the first thing about it, and she said I could play with it. I took so many photos, while not understanding what I was doing, and years later I found out the light meter was broken. I have since repaired the light meter, and the camera sits in a prestige spot on my desk.

As a shy kid who often felt misunderstood, I absolutely loved having the camera in my face. For me, when the camera was in my face, I was practically invisible. I didn’t have to sit and have conversations with people, connect too long with anyone, figure out what to do with my arms and legs - - it was my own personal cloaking device. Friends and family couldn’t say I wasn’t there, because I was, sort of.

Years of using my camera as a shield for any social anxiety caught up to me, and I realized that it is difficult for me to attend any type of function without my camera. Thank you, therapy.

Now that I am aware of this, I am trying to intentionally leave the camera at home. After all, my iPhone gives me the ability to take images if I really feel the need. It’s a lot more weird to hold your phone horizontally up to your face for a prolonged period during social settings. At least, that is what I have been told. Cheers to social awkwardness and inherent weirdness.