Coming Home

This weekend I went to my hometown of Washington, D.C. to spend some time with family and friends and make more pictures for my project on my depression. Unfortunately I was not able to meet up with my therapist from high school, as I had originally planned, because she made a last minute trip out of town. Nevertheless, the weekend was full of reflection and reminiscing on who I used to be and who I have become. My mom and I sat on her bed and thought back to the night that I sat there almost 9 ½ years ago and told her that something was wrong and that I needed to see a therapist, thought back to how she took me downstairs to have ice cream after. We recalled the time a week before my 14^th birthday when my psychiatrist decided it was time to put me on antidepressants. We remembered the night I came dangerously close to attempting suicide; how she had accidentally left her phone at home and all my calls went to voicemail; how my best friend’s mom drove her the 30 minutes to my house to intervene. It was bittersweet, wading through these memories, appreciating the actions of my friends and family while feeling sad for my former self, yet recognizing how far I have come since then.

What was surprisingly frustrating about trying to shoot this weekend was making images of my mom, as she always immediately noticed my phone and demanded to see the images I had made so that she could give them her seal of approval (my dad, however, remained oblivious). She hated the way she looked in almost every single one and kept wanting me to retake them, kept posing. I tried to explain to her that these images are not about making her look like a supermodel, but rather about telling my story, but it did not do much to help. I’m so used to my subjects not seeing the final finished product of my work that I am not used to difficulties such as this. I want to be respectful of my mom’s wishes, but also want to share my story as I see it, with all of its flaws. It is somewhat frustrating to build up the courage to let myself be vulnerable in my images only to have my mom’s own insecurities hold me back, but at the same time I completely understand it. After all, I’ve shared images that have potentially unflattering connotations about myself, but I have not shared many images that are unflattering of my physical appearance (at least, not on social media). But though she was reluctant to have her picture taken, she has never hesitated to help me in any other way she possibly can, and I cannot thank her enough for this.