The Fearless Journalist

Shhh. Don’t tell. No one would understand. It’s a relationship wrecker. A career killer. A deal breaker. No one will love you. It reminds me of another secret shame I carry. The one that came with its own directives: Don’t make a sound. Don’t fight back. No one will believe you.

But I am a writer. A photographer. A journalist. I deal in truth; I play in light. I speak for those who have no voice. I scream to those who cannot — will not — hear.

I have spent my life trying to prove that I am not broken. Sometimes I look at the wreckage and feel I will never surmount the cards I was dealt. And yet, I must. For the little girl who cowers in bed, afraid of the nightly shadow beneath the door. For the teenage girl who stares at a spot on the wall and wills herself to disappear. For the woman who listens to her screams ring from the walls and wonders if she smiled at the wrong guy, wore the wrong dress, said the wrong thing. For the men, women, and children who fight a demon even drugs can’t quell. For the unlucky few who face both dragons daily, breathing their fire and praying to emerge alive.

I must write for those people. I must do whatever is within my power to prove that strength of character can prevail.

I’ve spent years dancing around the words. I am a master of doublespeak, and I use it to great effect. It’s not clever; it’s cowardly. It’s a tip of the hat to fears I claim to have overcome: No one will love you; no one will believe you; you asked for this; you deserve this; you wanted this; this is who you are; this is what you are; this is ALL you are.

I have no relationship to wreck. Some would argue I have no career to kill. I already feel unloved. I no longer need to be believed. So toss the words to the wind and let them land where they may, because to deny their existence, to bury them, is to bury myself.

I didn’t ask for this. I didn’t want this. This isn’t who I am. This isn’t what I am. There is more to me than a set of labels will ever convey.

I want a better life. I want a healthy relationship. I want a lucrative career. I want to own my past, accept my present, and forge a brighter future.

Deep breath.

I know the twisted guilt of incest — the way it confuses love and fear until you’re not sure where you begin and it ends. I know the blanked out shame of rape — the way it makes you feel worthless, damaged, shattered. I know the exhausting roller coaster of manic depression. The way the highs are so high and you’re so tired, but the ideas are falling fast and hard, too thick, too copious, too fractured to parse, too brilliant to ignore. The way the lows are so low that the things you love most are the things you want least and breathing takes too much of an effort so you cling to whatever keeps you alive for five seconds longer, gritting your teeth, watching your life fall apart, praying to God the manic high will return.

And yet, I still haven’t said it. Because this is what I do you see. I sling words far and hard. I run before they crash down upon me.

Deeper breath.

I am bipolar. A child abuse victim. A survivor of rape. I want the same things everyone wants.

Another sentence naturally follows, except I can’t write it. I have an abysmal habit of penning stark truths. It prevents me from writing what I don’t truly believe. No amount of therapy or psychiatric drugs changes this. I walked into this world with the same inalienable rights as the people for whom I so fiercely fight: I deserve life, love, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness. And yet, a part of me hasn’t yet accepted this. I watch myself make the same mistakes over and over. It frustrates me. It frustrates everyone around me. It leaves me lonely. It leaves me trapped in a constant push-pull, fight-flight pattern.

On a good day, I am confident, cocky even. I am quick with a smile and prone to sudden, childlike exuberance. On a bad day, I am paralyzed by indecision, mute with fear, drowning in darkness. I struggle to get dressed. I struggle to work. I struggle to breathe. I crawl in bed, drag the covers over my head, and relive nightmares I can’t shake.

Sometimes though, I shoot. I write. I make slideshows. I force myself to face my demons in the desperate hope that this time, maybe they will let me go. Sometimes, in a fit of bravery, I hand these pieces of myself to the world. I pray I will be understood. I pray my endeavors will help someone else. I pray they will justify my existence on this earth. I pray that the people I love will take the time to read, watch, listen, see, touch, taste, hear. I pray they will have the courage to face the demons with me. I pray I will have the courage to let them.

And I pray that somehow, even though I’m not sure I deserve it, they will love me anyway. I pray they will look beyond the ragged edges and see a glimmer of something finer, better, stronger, worthwhile. I have been told that I am damned hard to get to know, and in some ways this is true. But my words are there for you to read. My images are there for you to see. It’s all there. I hide nothing, because I am trying desperately to understand that I have nothing to hide.

We get one life. One. That’s it. Before mine is over, I want my shot at happiness. I still believe it exists. And somehow, some way, I will find it. I will try not to cling. I will try not to run. I will try not to fall. I will give my all to this endeavor. Because honestly, it’s the only thing I want. I want to be happy. Nothing more, nothing less, no substitutes, no holds barred. I want to spread that happiness across the world and know when I breathe my last breath that my life was not in vain.

I want a better ending to the story that began 36 years ago. Perhaps this is too much to ask. But I am a writer. And this book is far from over.

[NOTE: This post was inspired by a slideshow I made earlier in the week while trying to sort through a sudden maelstrom of emotion. If you read this far, perhaps you will take the time to view the slideshow. It will load slowly. I highly recommend you allow it to fully load (gray slider bar will indicate when it is finished) before trying to view it. I also recommend viewing it with the volume up as the music is integral to the message. To view the slideshow, please click here.]