Till We Have Faces

When I was little, my mother told me never to speak to strangers; but every face I encounter is a stranger to me, even my mother’s face. I have Prosopagnosia, or face blindness. No, I’m not literally blind. And no, I don’t see just a blur of skin where a face should be. My brain simply doesn’t process facial recognition as it should.

To help people without face blindness understand, I explain it like this: my brain is trying to put together a very scattered puzzle. I have the puzzle pieces of facial elements- eyes, ears, mouth, nose- but my brain can’t process those features as a whole puzzle to develop a recognition. Instead, there are random puzzle pieces scattered about making a terrible mess.

As you might imagine, this unfortunate brain processing malfunction is writhe with many awkward social encounters. Making friends when you can’t recognise a familiar face is impossible. Trying to follow the plot of the movie when the actor suddenly changes clothes is confusing. Scrolling on social media looking at people I know but can’t recognise feels disconnected and lonely. I’ve passed my husband in the street, made eye contact, and not realized he was my husband until he spoke my name. My face blindness has made me come across as rude or stuck up. I didn’t sit with my friend at lunch not because I thought I was better than her, but because I couldn’t find her in a sea of strangers. When everyone looks alike, how do you tell them apart?

So I am a detective, searching for clues. That person made eye contact and smiled at me, so I should smile back. That person walks with a unique stride, she must be my friend, Rose. Have I heard that voice before? My husband’s voice is deep and raspy, so that must be him. These little clues help me put the puzzle together. But the puzzle still is scattered on the floor. That’s why books have been my source of life. I don’t need to recognize the character’s face in order to feel connected to them and their story.

One of my favorite books is Till We Have Faces by C.S Lewis. It’s a retelling of the Greek myth of Cupid and Psyche. The title of the book comes from a quote by one of the characters when she realizes that the supernatural entities cannot “meet us face to face till we have faces,” implying that a face represents the total consciousness of one's entire being. Sometimes I feel like that. I will never truly understand myself or others until I am aware of them completely and fully.

But I don’t know if I will ever get to that point, and that is okay. I’m trying to accept myself as I am right now, face blind and all. But maybe, just maybe, I can understand myself and people better than if I could recognise faces. I am not clouded by physical prejudice. I look at a photo of myself and genuinely think, “what a beautiful person,” because I see people and myself as we are- flawed, but beautiful people connected to each other in this messy puzzle called life. Because every face is a stranger, I wear my heart on my sleeve and live in the moment, because for that moment they are not a stranger, but a friend. I may forget what they look like as soon as we part, but in that moment we are connected. So maybe all faces will be friends and strangers till we have faces I can identity.