Today I was going through some old photos and found the one above in a random stack. I was immediately taken back to a very long time ago. To anyone else looking at it, it’s the photo of a happy teenage girl about to head off to school. But this picture for me is something so much deeper; a piercing reminder of a very dark time in my life. As I gazed at this photograph from all those years ago I was haunted by all that was going on behind such a bright smile. I was so stricken with emotions from the past that I stopped what I was doing and went directly to my laptop to pen this piece.
I remember that day so well. A random morning of my Junior Year of high school. My Daddy had just bought me a cherry red Honda Prelude. It was a stick shift and had a coveted sunroof. Daddy had taken me to a neighborhood down the street where he patiently taught me how to drive it. I probably gave him a low level of whiplash with my repeated stalling and jerking gear changes. But I quickly got the hang of this now antiquated skill.
The morning this picture was taken Mama had walked us out to the car with her Kodak 110 camera - a vintage treasure nowadays. (You can Google it.) My younger sister was in the passenger seat and we were headed the 16 miles away to the arts high school we both attended. I was a theater major and a dance minor and Rachael was a vocalist. The car was a necessity as there was no bus service where we lived. It gave my sister and I the freedom to attend Douglas Anderson without burdening my parents with the responsibility of transporting us back and forth everyday.
I was so proud of that car. I can still remember the feelings it stirred in me. It was one of the few things that gave me subtle bursts of joy and a temporary way to escape a suffocating reality.
I can still see the early morning fog that was covering the lake we lived on. I can smell the air around me and hear the morning birds chirping. I remember the brown leather sandals I was wearing, the tucked in striped shirt paired perfectly with a matching leather belt. And those amazing tortoise shell sunglasses. (If only I knew what had happened to them.)
My dog Skippy in my lap along with Sandy, Pokey and Frisky, all wishing they could go along…
An image so basic. So normal. Contented and full of hope. So innocent.
Who could have guessed that only months before two boys from a neighboring high school, had sexually assaulted me when I had called them for help. Two “friends” that I had grown up with whom I trusted had held me down on a dank wet mattress in the woods and used me to fulfill their unapologetic desires. Terrified to report and threatened that no one would believe me I moved forward in a daze of shame and denial. Anger and fear. Determination and ignorance. A broken compass with no direction but down.
But I’ve written that story.
This piece is about a photograph. A picture that reminds me of the beginning of what was a soul splitting struggle to stay afloat. A smiling school girl who appeared full of life yet was slowly rotting inside, lonely and isolated from anyone who she thought could understand her pain. An illusion that no one saw through.
Those days, the best acting I ever did was outside of the school walls.
Sadly, I’m acutely aware that there is nothing new to see here. I understand that. I am one of countless, the numberless who were all alone on the front lines of life. Too young and lacking the wisdom or self preservation needed to empower themselves. Desperately clawing their way out of the black hole sucking them downward. Many didn’t make it. I was one of the lucky ones. There are pages and pages needed to explain how that occurred. How it continues to occur.
Another time perhaps.
I see this photo of myself, sometime in 1992, courageously trying to keep it together for the sake of everyone around me. Pretending that everything was okay. Ashamed to admit otherwise. I can feel the torment, the hopeless anguish. I cannot lie, there is a speck of agony that still exists within me. As I look intently at the girl in this photo I understand more and less. I want to cry, punch a wall, throw up a high five and cheer. But mostly I want to jump into this photo, throw my arms around myself and say “You’re not alone. It’s going to be okay. Don’t let them take any more than they have.” The dichotomy of these feelings could be overwhelming if I allowed them to take residence for too long.
So I focus on today. 30 years after this photo was captured in time. I focus on all of the growth. All of the wins. All of the accomplishments. All of the blessings.
And if I look very close, instead of seeing myself in a pretense of happiness, broken and weak…I recognize the quiet yet ravenous strength of a survivor.
I see the reflection of a 46 year old badass who could not be kept down or quieted.
I see me.