In the basement on the bottom shelf were piles of photo albums – dating back to the 1970's - 55 years ago – parts of my life caught in a photo.
In the mix are friends, family and now estranged family members.
I have steered clear of this pile for a few decades – knowing the ghosts that lingered there.
While doing some major decluttering in our home – I knew it was time to go through the albums and to separate what I love and what will be tossed.
Many emotions flowed through me – as I sat by the hour leafing through the pages of my past.
My heart melted as I was brought back to the early years of dating my husband and the early years of our marriage. It is amazing how photos are like time machines – and some in the best way. I love us. Our solo trips and how we camped with the El Camino and Tent. Moments of love.
Many, many photos of my children – during the seasons of their childhoods. I love them – and how quickly the years have passed. Recalling their natures and the different personalities and fun times I captured.
Photos of my friends during high school - and old church friends – some I haven't seen or spoken to in what seems like a lifetime.
And the ones I dreaded to sort through were photos of my family of origin. Photos that now seemed fake upon the backdrop of learning new truths.
It is hard to articulate how familiar pictures take on a stranger tone.
And even worse the emotions that are now attached to these awkward moments.
The photos do not accurately portray the contents of our family.
But abuse is not photographed – instead it is the act of 'normal' or putting on a good front.
Perhaps we even tried harder to make sure our cover – was covered.
You don't see the real story in pictures – instead you see the cover up – or denial. The normal going on – in the abnormal home.
I don't even know how to classify my feelings of these. The people I thought I knew – I didn't know – so who am I looking at? The moments we capture as a family – in my mind – didn't have the undertow of abuse. The memories of those day abuse didn't live there – but it did.
It is like seeing your denial in living color.
The true nature of our family isn't in the pictures.
It feels like we were all playing on the stage of life – in a play about a regular large family – instead of who we really were.
I wonder how many families are play acting over truths and secrets.
Surely we can't be the only one.
I recall seeing our childhood pictures and the poverty and inability to have nicer things and feeling ashamed. Even the shame at being poor in a large family – where more kids were added to an already poor home. IF only that was the only seed of shame.
The deeper and more impactful shame is that of sexual abuse within the family – and even more so – the denial and the way our family marched on – portraying normal. Abused and trying to be normal.
Those pictures are awkward at best now.
Yet they depict my childhood and most of my life.
They do not feel like treasures I want to hold on to.
My heart feels sad or alone or empty – with those pictures.
My memories and the truth were miles apart.
The space where denial lived.
I can't deny my family of origin.
I can choose what pictures and memories I take forward as heart moments.
These were fun ones to happen on.
Clowns I made in my early 20's. I forgot all about them. I love them – and maybe have to make a few!
I loved seeing my old projects – all the wonders my hands have made.
The parts of me that holds no shame.
A true part of me was creating even way back then.
And today's creations.
While my past holds much denial – my art has remained true.
I M Perfect lady 