There was a time when I couldn’t leave the house. Like I seriously couldn’t step out my front door. Why? Mostly, I believed, because I had nothing to wear. Honest. Ask my dad. I had nothing to wear. Yes, I had a massive walk-in closet full of clothes, but nothing to put on my body. My perfect and lean size 6 body. Funny enough, at the time my body was truly and actually perfect. Did I actually just say that? My dad would question why everyone else in the city managed to find clothes to wear, but I just couldn’t make it happen. I couldn’t get myself into anything other than what I had slept in the night before. I also couldn’t managed to find that small tiled room where water pours from the ceiling. For some reason, I couldn’t seem to make it to the shower. Hardly ever. Therefore, I kept myself out of sight. And hoped to be out of mind. Weird how that goes.
So many months caught in this cage. Un jaula. Como un avion. I was dragged to doctors and given tons of different meds. Finally, my dad had come up with yet another remedy. We’d go away. Far away. Somewhere where I could wear the same thing everyday and shower very little. And no one would care. Or notice.
And so on November 5, we climbed on board AIR INDIA (read: hell) and headed for Bombay. Sight and sensory overload. The noise, the dust, the dirt, the begging children. The COWS. It was nearly too much to absorb, but as my dad promised, no one cared that I was dressed in the same grey shirt. Everyday. It was gross. It wasn’t even a nice shirt, just a jersey long sleeve crew neck from Old Navy. It didn’t matter on this side of the world. NO one was looking at me. Dreamy.
Aside from traveling to photograph a major camel festival (more on that later), my dad smartly believed this trip would heal me. No longer would I be the girl who walked out of her plum job and dipped out of life. Thank you Mr Butterfield. I wouldn’t be that freak who hid in her loft all day and night. I’d become the girl who was taking some time off to “travel” as they say. We weren’t hitting the beaches in Miami or the vineyards in Napa, but rather the jungle in Nepal and that long trans-boundary river (the Ganges) people speak about. After three week in this crazy country, I’d be armed with more cocktail chat than any sane person had. I’d have a book full of photos and stories to match. My dad was right. This time away would heal. And it totally did. Thank you my daddy.
You caught me. I didn’t mean to be reminiscing this time around, but I was trying to prove a point. I used to be a hermit and now I’m not. See, presently I do leave the house. I even get dressed. Everyday. Showering? Now that’s a whole different story. It’s easy now. Just throw on a pair of yoga pants and a t-shirt and head out the door. Doesn’t really seem to phase me. I get out when I feel like it. I remember a time that not only did I not feel like it, but I thought I’d never go out again.
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