Behind these hazel eyes ... in My Unpredictable Life ...

A couple of days ago, James Ensor offered a chance for readers to accept the challenge of a prompt-driven entry. You left him a note if you wanted to participate and he'd give you your own personal "topic" to write about.

I've only recently started reading Ensor's entries (thanks to Prosebox) and I had visions of grandeur of being one of the cool kids. So I signed up. Little did I know that he would "research" me and find something perfectly suited to me. (Unless he is just THAT good & took a wild guess?) Either way, here goes ...

Here is my prompt

OneSassyLadyNOK

You're granted the ability to photoshop real life. You can alter whatever you wish, but no matter how thorough a job you do, you will always know that whatever you've altered is simply a facade, a false front, one that will crumble under too much scrutiny. What would you do with the ability? More importantly, what WOULDN'T you do with the ability?

Well damn. To be honest, I feel like my whole life has been a constant struggle with Photoshop. I've always tried to find ways to get rid of the pain. I keep looking for that one filter, or that one action set that will require one click and BAM! the pain is gone. I'm not talking about physical pain either, but about emotional pain. Wouldn't it be grand if no one suffered emotional pain?

Those that have been reading me for years over at OD know that I was raised in an abusive home. For you new ones, long story short, I was physically and emotionally abused by my mother. I was sexually abused by my mother's step-father. When she found out about the sexual abuse she went out of her way to protect him and to make sure he was not punished. She even went so far as to make sure her mother, his wife, never found out about it either. With the help of my mother's 2 sisters, my grandmother went to her grave never knowing she was married to a pedophile. Who does that? Anyway ... I have plenty of physical scars, along with more than I care to admit emotional scars and I would give anything in the world to have had a different childhood than what I was raised with.

With time, patience and learning to love myself, I have been able to take that abuse and make a happy ending for myself thus far. I've developed my own special "filters" to help paint a different story on the outside of who I am on the inside. Some days I crop in rainbows and unicorns and glittery shit to show how happy I am. Some days I adjust the contrast or darken areas on the picture of me to reflect when I am unhappy. Some days I soften up the sharp edges just to get by without any questions being asked.

To see me is to know the Photoshop is doing its job. To know me is a totally different story. To know me is to know that I am not the picture I have created with the help of Photoshop.

As with any technical gadget, my own special "filters" crash on me. When that happens I have to run a 'scan' (withdraw into myself/soul search) to find the cause of the crash. It could take a few hours, it could take a few days. Or, as is the case lately, it has been weeks and I'm still trying to get my special "filters" back up and running. I don't like that the whole world can see my pain. It makes me feel weak. But when a file is corrupt and you have to re-program a new "filter" to work without a main component, it's going to take time, it's going to take patience, it's going to take healing. I recently lost my best friend of 23 years and it's been a struggle to start a new life without her in it.

Most times make-up was a quick fix for the physical signs of pain. Just go back and look at pictures of me the day I graduated High School and you can see the hues of the beautiful black eye I was sporting, a gift from my mother. Unfortunately, it was in the South, the beginning of June and at 9 am the temp was in the high 80's and only climbing higher. Humidity was at 99%. There was not a cloud in the sky to shelter us as we sat in metal folding chairs in the middle of the football field. There were 724 of us in attendance that day, not counting all the family and friends gathered in the stadium to watch. It took only a matter of minutes before my hard work with make-up to cover up my black eye had melted away. I came prepared, with a Plan "B" ... sunglasses. But the school officials confiscated them, said they were not allowed, regardless that I had a black eye I did not want photographed when accepting my diploma. "Rules are rules and if we bend them for you, we have to bend them for everyone" I was told. So I walked across the stage, with my head held high, and accepted my diploma, black eye and all.

Many times I've thought of scanning the pictures and "editing" out the black eye. Who in their right mind wants to display themselves in cap and gown, holding their much earned diploma, with a black eye? If I Photoshopped the black eye out, I would be able to look upon that picture and feel pride, a sense of accomplishment or any of the other emotions people feel when looking at their graduation pictures. Or so I'd like to think. Because even though you would never see the black eye in the picture, I still do, in my mind, in my heart. No amount of editing will ever erase the knowledge that I walked around with a black eye days before the graduation and for days afterwards. Even if I had no photograph, I would still see it in my memories.

Although I'd love to be able to Photoshop pain and erase it from existence, there is just no way to do so. For me, pain is a stepping stone; pain is a reminder of where I have been, where I am heading to; pain is a way of life for me; pain is who I am. Without pain, I couldn't strive to be better.