Never the subject

I’m always behind the camera lens, not in front of it. It’s not usually by choice either. I use my weight as an handy excuse that no one will ever question when people ask me “shame, why are there no photos of you?” It’s easier to just mumble “Oh I hate being in photos,” as if it were my decision to be excluded.
Parties, gatherings, get-togethers – I’m always flung a camera and asked to take pictures because “I’m so good with a camera” and in all honestly, I don’t think I am all that great.
Even my family hasn’t really bothered to take many pictures of me lately, despite going on about what a photogenic person I am. Or maybe they just meant that when I was 65kgs. Looking through the photos that were taken in August, I was in one picture on my own. One photo of me, out of hundreds. I don’t fit in at home, I know that, but I thought they would have at least taken a couple of pictures of me. Every time I’m in a picture, it is a family photo and I have to be included in it, although I’m missing from some of those too.
At NA parties, conventions and gatherings, they would take pictures. Lots and lots of them. I was never in them. A friend’s party for her daughter – I wasn’t in one picture. Not one. Well, one where you can see my sleeve, and my head is obscured by a baby.
I’m just continually… not in photos. I wondered if it was co-incidence, but after about the 10th time when I looked excitedly through a friend’s album of an event I was at and realised with a sinking feeling that I didn’t make the cut (again), I’ve stopped finding it a co-incidence.
I’m invisible. I don’t think I’m that hideous. But I don’t think people really see me at all either.
There are no pictures of me tagged as a “sexy driver” or a “naughty schoolgirl who’s going to show everyone how it’s done” or playing games of fucking chess on the train. There’s no intimate photos of me lying with a lover in a post orgasmic glow.
There’s  no pictures of me doing “epic” shit like driving while hodling a bottle of beer, playing guitar with a cigarette hanging out of my mouth. No pictures of just my legs, just my breasts or just my bare back. None. No pictures of me lying in the sun. And no pictures of me and my lover together, taken by us. None. And if I was to put my lover’s clothes on, I’d rip them, and mine would drown him.
But I’ll do it. I’ll get there again. I’ll be the one everyone wants in their photos again. I’ll be the one whose boyfriend never stops taking pictures of me because he thinks I am so beautiful. And then I’ll put up loads of old photos of myself – as my fat self. And I’ll tag myself in them, and I will tell every fucking person that has passed on me because of my weight that I am the same person, whether I look good in pictures or not. And I’ll tell them they are so ugly on the inside that I can’t bear to look at them.

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