LOSS. AND FIGHT.

Note:  This will be a brief pause in my ongoing series detailing my climb out of my creative pit and how I became a better happier person along the way.  But this most definitely relates to me and photography, and I’ll explain that below.  It’s a good story.  Unfortunately.

I lost my father at a very young age.  He walked out the door.  Or maybe it was my mom who left with me.  No matter.  Either he didn’t stay or he didn’t follow.  More than anything else I can point to, that has shaped my life.  That has shaped me.  It has left me with a lifetime of trying to be perfect, trying to become the person that someone won’t leave.  Maybe if I had been a better child, maybe if I hadn’t thrown that two year old tantrum over the lollipop, he might have stayed.  Of course, as an adult, I recognize the foolishness of such statements, but when you are five, you are five.  Too often parents going through separation and divorce expect their children to understand matters as they, the parents, understand.  It doesn’t work that way.  Children feel, and too much of what they feel cannot be put into words.  Loss, I felt.  I am a daughter, and my father didn’t stay.  If this doesn’t say “You’re not good enough for me to stay,” I’m not sure what does, except just coming right out and saying it.

Loss I know.

This weekend I received a phone call.  Someone once close in my life has decided to “claim” knowledge that I was sexually abused at a young age and that no one did anything to stop it (including him).  Imagine being 42 and home with your four children and husband and getting this phone call.  Needless to say, Sunday wasn’t such a great day.  As I went over everything in my head, there are two options:  truth or falsehood.  If true, many circumstances in my young life might make more sense, but it would mean others close to me knew about the abuse and did nothing to stop it.  Are YOU a mother?  What do you think?  Any suspicion my child is being sexually abused, let alone knowledge, and that abuser better watch the freak out.  So, if  Sunday’s statements are false, the person spreading such lies is really not a nice person.  Really not nice.  (I’d  use more descriptive terms here that are in my heart, but I’ve promised to improve my language as part of my ongoing 11 day cleanse challenge – more on that in a couple days – so I’ll just say he’s really really not nice.)

So, why write about this?  I’ll tell you why.  As a former prosecutor, I spent a couple years prosecuting child sexual abuse.  I spent another couple years prosecuting domestic violence cases.  I grew up in an alcoholic environment.  I know all about abusers and keeping things hidden, about hiding the ugly truth.  I know all about power and control and how abusers use that and try to exercise it over you.  I know.  I’ve not only seen it, I’ve lived it.  And while running today, I made a decision that I’m not going to participate in that.  I’m not going to hide this.  I’m not going to cover it up because it’s uncomfortable to talk about.  I’m not going to keep it quiet because some in my family would prefer it that way.  I am not going to play that game.  He doesn’t write the rules.  And I’m.not.playing.  You don’t play games with child sexual abuse.  You don’t abuse, and you don’t lie about it.  And you’re not ever quiet about it.  And you don’t make it up.

As a parent, I counsel my children that if an adult ever tells them to keep something a secret, the first thing they should do is NOT keep it a secret.  They need to tell me immediately.  If anyone ever hurts them, I want to know.  Abuse, sexual or otherwise, is NEVER the child’s fault.  And yet, an abuser will do anything to convince the child that it is, and will also encourage keeping quiet, keeping secrets, manufacturing excuses for behavior.  In an alcoholic home, it’s called enabling.  In a sex abuse case, it’s predator/abuser behavior.  I will not be quiet.

I hung up the phone on Sunday, and yes, I cried.  I went into a tight little ball and cried.  Cried for all the loss in my life and for now having to deal with this.  Yes, I felt sorry for myself.  But, that is just the expected reaction.  And you know what?  I’m.not.playing.  I am a fighter.  As a prosecutor, one of my former supervisors, Greg Hubbard, gave me a nickname.  The Pitbull.  I fight.  I don’t give up.  And I will not cower when challenged.

So I did what I always do.  I picked myself up, dusted myself off, and with Jesus’ help, I got back to being a mom.  And when the email came that a set of first-time parents were losing their baby at a local hospital that night and that a Now I Lay Me Down To Sleep photographer was needed, I jumped at the chance.  I needed to do something for someone else.  As sad as the occasion was, and oh, it was more grief than I have ever seen, what I saw was the raw emotion of a father losing his daughter, and it was love.

That couple arrived at the hospital for an induction.  Suitcases were packed, cameras were ready.  They believed they would be bringing home their child after 39 long weeks of waiting.  They didn’t know if they were having a boy or a girl.  Upon arrival at the hospital, and after being hooked up to the monitors, it was apparent that there would be no baby coming home, no celebrations, no baby’s first holidays.  There was no heartbeat.  They were about to deliver and meet their deceased child.  When the baby came out, she was perfect.  Ten tiny fingers, ten perfect little toes.  6 pounds and  5 ounces of beautiful perfection.  Except she wasn’t breathing.  And that reality is hard to come to grips with.  A parent was born as he wished it were him instead of her.  A mother’s cries of “why’s” went unanswered.  Tears fell, screams were muffled, each parent holding tight onto each other as they admired their little girl with her curly hair.  Hair just like daddy’s.  The love in the room was palpable.  I could reach out and touch it.  It rolled down the father’s and mother’s face as together they took turns holding and caressing their little girl.  These new parents didn’t want to look away, didn’t want to let go, didn’t want to miss a single moment of their remaining moments with their daughter.  It was this love that I carried home with me.

And it is that love that I know I missed from my father.  But it is that love I see when my husband looks at our three daughters and our son.  And that is what I focus on.

So, what does this have to do with being a photographer?  I’ll tell you.

When you hire a photographer, you are hiring her eyes, her background, her vision, and her ability to see, figuratively and literally.

I am a good photographer because I see in emotions.  At 9, with my mom re-married and finding myself with a “new” father, my dog was my constant companion, and my camera was how I spoke.  I took pictures of those things that for various reasons, I didn’t see in my own life.   I photographed them ~ connections, love, beauty, peace, moments ~ to bring them into my life, to put them in front of me as something I could look at every day.  I grew older, and older, and older.  Now, my own marriage, several careers, and my own four children later, I continue to speak through my photography and through my words ~ the two together form an extension of myself.

It is astounding to me when someone compliments one of my images, or the words I put with my images.  In every shutter click, I reveal a piece of myself, and that can be frightening at times.  Here, I say, click, see what I see, click, see what I think, click, see me.  Click.  See me.  After spending a lifetime hiding myself, protecting myself, yes, it can be frightening to reveal myself, to let someone see how I feel, to see what I find beautiful, to see into my heart.  But it is also strengthening, restorative, and dare I say, healing.  My photography centers me.  Of late, it has made me more of myself than anything else in the past 42 years.

Photography is a gift.  And, I am thankful every single day that I have my photography.  I delight in giving that gift to others.  To see their magic, their essence, their words that maybe they can’t say, can’t express, and to hand them “THIS,” makes my heart sing.  I say to them, “This is Your Family,” or, “This is Your Grandmother,” or, “This is Your Daughter,” or, “This is YOU.”  And to see the tears, the acknowledgment, the smiles, the nodding head, and I am complete.  For in doing this, I am giving the greatest gift I can possibly give.

This is me.  And this is my photography.

And as my feet pounded the street this morning in the pouring rain, I knew.  I am strong.  And to the universe, I say, “bring it.”  I got this one.

Thank you for allowing me to share my heart.

Night.

A