Every Picture Tells a Story . . .

One of the few smiling images of mine

I’ve seen a number of descriptions of my writings here but none touches me as much as the thought from a number of people that his is as much a love story as it is a story of grief, loss or flat out manic depressive family panic.

I truly hope people see that is the fact, I did love Andrea, more than anyone. But I do have to admit something, whether it’s right or not; whether you believe it or not.

I got far more out of this relationship than Andrea did.

I’ve given glimpses of myself, expressed how awkward I was, how much of a geek I was . . . none of that gives a true picture.

If you’ll forgive the photographic theft, I’ve attached a few pictures above and below. I think you should all see the transition and hopefully you’ll see my point. I wasn’t just skinny, I was gangly. I can use the excuse that I had moderate asthma, took medication that sped up my metabolism to the point that I couldn’t sit still for more than 2 minutes at a time and burned an unhealthy amount of weight, but that isn’t all of it. Not by a long shot. A friend described me recently, and I’m paraphrasing, as very talented but also quiet . . .extremely quiet. I don’t dispute that it’s true, but that statement could also be read as shy.  Paralyzingly shy.

I also was filled with anxiety and fear, brought on by a tremendous lack of self-confidence. If you look at pictures of me, you see me through the years. As a kid, with a Bieber “do” far before Bieber was a twinkle in his father’s eye. Maybe before his father even hit puberty. I had a massive obsession with Eric Clapton and Fender Stratocasters. I own a Dr. Who Neckerchief/Scarf from the Tom Baker era. I was introverted to the point that after the unfathomable reality that I’d actually asked a girl to the Junior prom it didn’t mean that I was an enjoyable date. I shudder to think how awful those early, awkward evenings – evenings I had such romantic and amazing plans for – turned out to really be.  And sure, they were bad memories for me, they must just be unforgivable for some of those unfortunate enough to have gone out with me, let alone just hang out with me.  There are days I cannot believe I actually survived those years with any friends still willing to talk to me.

Before I met Andrea, the only time I was able to actually be myself was on stage, in front of a microphone with a guitar slung over my shoulder. There, I was myself, even freaking out some of the people who knew me before this, showing a side of myself they never knew existed, maybe never got a glimpse of.

A rare likable photo of me . . . at Septemberfest

Yet I’ve heard from friends that never knew me in those years who say they cannot picture that version of me. (No, I won’t go on some “look at me” rant here, I don’t have that kind of ego)  Colleagues who say they can’t even imagine the person I’m describing.

The answer to the dichotomy is pretty simple – it’s the other picture(s) . . . the ones that have the amazing blonde in them.

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This was at the station where we met. Just a quick flash of me.
A look at the changes...in me, not the beautiful woman on my arm

I know I play up her looks, and sure that’s the first thing is the physical attraction, but she gave me so much more. I wouldn’t say I changed, because I think the fundamental person that I am was always there. But Andrea found that fundamental person. It wasn’t a few weeks and I changed from the kid with the Beatles-haircut-on-sterioids look to the guy standing next to her in Geoffrey Bean shirts and short hair. There was something fundamentally profound for a guy like me to not only go out with Andrea, but to know that when you walked into a room, the room changed. All because of her. If you’re standing with someone amazing, smart and beautiful, it’s funny how your own barriers start to fall down. But it’s more than that. Whenever I’d get quiet, she’d nudge me . . . “you OK? You’re awfully quiet.” If I got down on myself, she’d tell me I was wrong. If I just had a rotten, God-awful day, she’d just smile at me. Any coldness left inside of me just melted away.

Every picture tells a story.

You can see the transition, it isn’t subtle. I went from shy, combative, grumpy, stick in the mud to a little less grumpy, stiff or quiet. I went from being a behind the scenes guy who dabbled in television stories to the guy who produces the whole thing, writing documentaries, travelling to Germany and Afghanistan. If you’d told people who knew me back then, I don’t know that they’d have thought twice about how things went.

But the pictures diminished. Not for me, but for her. She always fought what she called a weight problem. I never looked at it that way. I know that, because of some liver issues and medicines, in the last few years the problem became reality, but it wasn’t something permanent and we were working on fixing it.

The terrible, horrible thing I have to face now is the fact that I have no record of those years. She wouldn’t allow photos or video of her. We went from having a photographic history of our life to rare moments where we captured her without her knowledge and kept the photos to ourselves. Sure, I gave her things, wrote her a song, but what does that compare with what I got . . . she gave me my life back, the person I saw in the mirror but couldn’t bear to let everyone else see. She was brilliant as the sun, smart as a whip, and she gave it to me without reservation.

How do you remember someone you lost?  I see that amazing woman, the outgoing person who wouldn’t let me hide behind the wall any more.  Do the kids see her?  Do they remember that woman?  Will their image change to the ones that are left behind instead of the Mom they knew?

I hope as long as I continue to push the amazing things she did for all of us they’ll remember the person I saw, the one who did far more for me than I can imagine I EVER did for her.  It’s evident, my friends, there’s no disputing it.  Even if you don’t believe that, no matter, the evidence is there. Just look.

Every picture tells a story, don’t it?

Every Picture Tells a Story by Rod Stewart

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