But the much more common type was known as developmental. These folks had been face-blind all their lives—and many of them didn’t even know it. Which makes sense. Because if that’s how the world has always been for you, then that’s how it’s always been. Nothing about that would seem odd. You’d assume that everybody else was exactly the same way.
I found a couple of Facebook groups and read every comment on every post, trying to get the skinny on what it was really like to function in the world like this. Most people had tips and tricks for recognizing people without using faces as the main clue, and some people seemed very good at it.
As for how everyone felt about having the condition, I found a wide spectrum of opinions. Some people found it limiting or frustrating or depressing … while others thought it was so not a big deal that they didn’t know why it merited discussion. One woman wanted to know the point of even talking about it when there were “people with actual problems” out there. Another highly likable woman described her face blindness as a “superpower,” saying she treated every person she interacted with like a dear friend—just in case those people turned out to actually be dear friends. When people talked to her in the grocery store as if they knew her, she pretended she knew them right back, and asked them question after question until she could solve the mystery for herself. She learned a lot about people that way, she said—but more than that, it meant that almost every interaction she had with other people was infused with warmth and affection. In a way, there were no strangers.
She loved her face blindness. She felt like it brought her out of her shell. She wholeheartedly believed it was a gift.
Huh.
I closed my eyes and tried to see this moment in my life as a gift.
Yeah. No.
My experience of all this so far was the opposite of living in a world with no strangers. For me, right now, everyone felt like a stranger. Even me.
I mean, I just genuinely couldn’t imagine walking out into a world where everyone looked like bowler-hat figures in a Magritte painting and feeling … awash in a gentle sea of human kindness.
Maybe it was more about the adjustment than anything. The before-and-afterness. The fact that the world—my world—was changed in ways I’d never even imagined before all this happened. The fact that a central tool for relating to the rest of humanity—one I’d relied on constantly, every day, my entire life—was suddenly just … gone?
It was scary, if I’m honest. I was never all that great with people to start with.
All to say, for the first three days I was home, I couldn’t seem to make myself leave my apartment.
I mostly just did wound care. And ordered takeout. And watched old movies.
And availed myself—after much hemming and hawing—of Lucinda’s credit card.
I had sworn never to need my dad or Lucinda’s help. But was using that card “needing” them, really? Especially if I was buying luxury items I didn’t need. That was something different from needing them. That was punishing them. Right?
If you thought about it the right way, it was a form of winning.
And so I went for it. I enjoyed my first bout of recreational shopping in years: a hygge-inspired tea kettle, a string of twinkle lights branded as “wishing stars,” a heart-shaped velveteen pillow … and a totally nutty hybrid cross between a pair of footed pajamas and a fuzzy blanket called a Pajanket.
The Pajanket came same-day delivery, and after I zipped myself into it, I swore I would never take it off ever again. It was basically a rectangular human-sized pillowcase with holes at each corner for hands and feet. The foot-holes had booties and the hand-holes had mittens. And the neck had a hoodie. And the plush, buttery, nothing-can-ever-hurt-you-again fabric they’d sewn it out of? Velvety on both sides.
It was all I could do not to order a thousand.
And so I stayed home. I was on this. I had this. I was fine.
I was, as always, completely, utterly, astonishingly okay—putting my life back in order without too much fuss.
I shut down my Etsy shop. I put a note on the page and on my Instagram that read: “AT CAPACITY! Thanks for all your orders! This shop is taking an eight-week hiatus. Not accepting new commissions.”
That sounded pretty good, right? Like I was just at capacity with work because of the unstoppable thirst the world had for my portraits?
Not like I was at capacity emotionally.
Or like my entire life was crumbling.
Or like I was afraid to leave the house.
Not doing any portraits would mean no money coming in. But there wasn’t a choice there. Maybe I’d charge all my bills to my dad’s credit card, too. Maybe it was all about attitude. If a little punishment was good, wouldn’t a lot of punishment be better?