A long time ago, I started taking photographs.
I started taking photographs of the gowns I wore – the pills I took.
I started taking photographs of pain.
At first I thought it was a weird, pop culture, selfie compulsion… but I wasn’t sharing these photos. They never touched a twitter or a tumblr. They never left my phone.
For months this went on, needle after needle, table after table, crumpled white medical paper and a camera phone.
When he left, I cried and told my mother I finally figured out why I was taking these pictures. I don’t look sick. I look like a normal girl. And in trying to be happy, in trying to be normal, I look from the outside like nothing is wrong, or if there is something wrong, it can’t possibly be too bad.
Somewhere deep inside, afraid that no one believes me, I have been documenting my descent… can anybody hear me?
Last week a friend told me he had been suffering from Crohn’s disease for over a year. It took them that long to diagnose it, and silently, secretly he suffered. I wanted to tell him that I understood, that I truly understood, but how can you? Then I realized that in the midst of my completely inward terror, I had, somehow, created a tiny bit of good to give.
Better than a billion of my stupid, useless words – portraits.