Pictures try to tell…

My mother sent a christmas card, a collage of photos of christmases long ago…christmas mornings, tree decorating, stockings were hung, and traditional baking treats…children's faces; all a post card of a loving family christmas.  If only, it was true to its core.

If only the photographs were all that there was…if only our family were the pictures. It is like the family photographer missed the other half.  It wasn't recorded.  All we have are normal family pictures.  But, it leaves out the most life defining part.

Traditions that were photographed is what they are holding on to. This is the family they want to preserve, to keep near and dear and hold holy.

It is like carrying photographs of the happy times and erasing and moving on and away from the ones no one wants to picture, let alone see a photograph of.

I saw the christmas letter, her fond memories of christmas past, and how she still sees her history as a beautiful post card, upon which my history is not recorder.

I can't fit into her history… her beautiful memories no one can take away.  No one, meaning me and my chatter of abuse.  I would color her picture dirty.

Seeing the pictures and her resolve to hold dearly onto a family depicted in her mind, leaves no room for me.  There is no room in that inn.

I do recall those christmases.  Of being her santa helper, wrapping and later filling the gaps with presents, of baking, decorating and being part of a big family christmas, of holding parties in my home…of making ornaments, scarves, etc. I recall giving and giving and doing and doing, for what I felt was the family presented in these pictures.  A labor of love.

When, I knew that the pictures had a story behind the scenes, where there was a whole different play being played out.  I stopped laboring.  I stopped.  I was no longer interested in being second in command of double sided picture.

I miss what is pictured in the photograph. That is where my heart aches and cries…for the family.  For what I thought was there…her pretend family.

I have to tarnish the christmas memories with abuse. I can't just see those snapshot moments.  I know what lies beneath.

I have christmas photographs too.  One of all three of my little girls in Christmas Dresses, of their smiling trusting, loving, beautiful faces sitting upon the lap of my father.  It is my effidence of my denial.  It is the evidence of what my not seeing allowed.  It is my tarnished christmas picture.  I can't look at it as a fond christmas memory…it is a reminder of my blindness.  

A reminder that family isn't what you see in pictures…for there are no pictures of abuse…it mostly goes unrecorded. No pictures and certainly no words.  Silence and the christmas pictures.

It is no wonder our minds are screwed up. The juxtaposition between the two leaves you breathless.

I left my family, my memories, the parties, the get togethers, I left it not because I grew not to love them or no longer desired to be with them.  I left due to the abuse that didn't make the photo albums. The abuse that isn't seen in pictures, but rather it is felt within.

Leaving a family hurts…but, what would hurt more is pretending the pictures were the whole story.  

I am appalled and amazed she can literally create a card of memories and see only its beauty and not be tripped up by the fear and terror of abuse that lies within each little nightgown.

When I see my little girls in their pretty party dresses and rumba bumba tights….upon HIS lap…him playing Santa Claus….God.  It would be like me sending that out as my christmas memories.  

I know that many will shudder and cringe at my response and lack of holiday cheer, by not accepting and allowing her 'some' good memories. That I have to keep adding abuse to her photographs.  That I can't just let an old woman be…that I have to keep bring it up, time and time again.  

The harder she tries to depict normal the more I seem to get hit.  WE were not a normal family…no matter what story the pictures try to tell.