Inside Gigi's World

This is the beginning but also this is the road that leads to the end. I am officially a Senior (first semester) and I am chugging along, at what feels like a snail’s pace, towards the finish line. Most days I wonder if I am actually going to make it. Other days I find it hard to believe that I made it this far. 

If there is one thing I have learned on my educational journey it has been that there are some classes and assignments I looked forward to taking and have enjoyed while others were soul crushing and felt unnecessary. All the same, it didn’t matter whether or not I enjoyed them, it didn’t matter or not if I felt the classes were helpful towards my educational goals and it surely didn’t matter how engaged or connected I felt to the material, I still needed to get the work and the classes done. So I did.

I sometimes wonder how much information a person can retain when they are tirelessly being beaten over the course of a semester, a school year, the whole course of getting a degree or a high school diploma or the finish of any kind of academic journey really, with mounds and mounds of material. I spend half of my time trying to recall words for everyday, simple life things like cup, book,..shit, what is that other thing called? My brain is so tired, there are times I can’t tell if I am awake or stuck in some kind of never-ending nightmare where I twitch a little when I can’t recall if I finished an assignment and actually hit the “submit” button when it’s done. 

I heard PTSD is a real thing college students suffer from once they are done. Every Sunday when the clock strikes 11:59 and I internally panic that I hadn’t, in fact, actually hit the “submit” button and I have a panic attack, I’d say it is something they suffer from even while in school. 

But just like there are fleeting moments where I am convinced I have retained nothing, comes the moments where I can recall the most random statistic or odd fact (that I will probably never need) that I learned in a Lit class or bio class and with a sigh of relief, I think to myself, “not all has been lost”. 

Then there are the assignments that burn a spot in my soul, leaving me feeling so passionate that I fear no one will find them as meaningful as I do. For instance, while I was seeking my Associate’s degree I took a few film photography classes—my favorite classes to date. At the end of each semester we had to present our final projects amongst our peers, under the big studio lights with the praises and criticisms from fellow classmates and professors alike, in a moment that felt awe-inspiring but could also feel like your work from all semester could be crushed in one second. DId we have what it took or did we fall short somewhere? 

We had to tell the “why” of our stories that we created with just a small artist statement (200-250 words. No more. No  less.). Who are we and how do we want the world to see how we see the world around us? 

My first class I nailed it. 

My second class was the same however those who were falling beside the waste line started to say cruel things just to be spiteful. My professor pulled me aside to reassure me that these comments were no different than name calling on the playground and I should not let them diminish the fantastic work I had displayed over the past year. My professor told me that the way I was able to tell stories with my pictures and words was not like something they had seen in a very long time. “Keep shooting, every day. Just keep shooting”. 

My third semester was brutal. I was called the “teacher’s pet,” “the favorite,” the one who couldn’t do anything wrong. I was told that there was nothing special about my work. I was told if I ever did decide to take a crack at photojournalism or any other kind of style of photography that it would never amount to a whole lot of anything. What can I say? My work isn’t for everyone I guess.

I was always surprised. Not because I thought my work was great. In fact I think the complete opposite. I just try to tell stories and show the world how I see it. Nothing more. Nothing less. 

I chugged along. I had some great supporters and made some new photography friends. We were inspired by each other’s work. For instance, I thought Vinny evolved so much in his photography, that watching that journey made me want to be better. Dave had the great ability to show who a person was through his images without even having the person in the photo. Logan’s curiosity with light and darkness and not being afraid to try new things even when it didn’t produce the outcome that he was hoping for made it easier for me to try new things, even though I, too, did not always love the outcomes. And Amelia could produce a softness in her imagery and an honesty that made you feel her pictures, literally they made you feel. 

Every week I showed up with my shot rolls. I went into that pitch black room and unspooled 10, 20, even sometimes 30 rolls of black and white film, eager to see the treasures that would expose themselves to me. 

Then once I got into the digital lab and started printing large color prints and Dave and Logan would come in to see what I was working on, just as excited to see the large printers working as I was, well, I hoped to never leave that lab again. I wanted to spend the rest of my days there. Then graduation came, I had to say goodbye to one of my most favorite places to date, that darkroom and that digital lab. I vowed then that I would buy myself one of those big, beautiful printers (until I found out that decent ones can start at as much as 15K…starting price…15k) and I prayed that once my feet hit the ground running at the university that I chose to get my Bachelor’s degree at, that I’d eventually find myself back in a lab at some point…which I didn’t. 

Why am I telling you all of this? I already said this is the beginning. It’s where I started and it is how it will all end…well, in theory at least…

I had to start an individualized study plan for one of my classes this semester. I went back and forth with what I was going to do. I could write about my life…but really, who the hell wants to learn about my life? I’m just a mom. I could write a book of essays…on good life lessons and how to be peaceful and all that crap. But since when have I known peace? Or in a meaningful way that could help others. I could write something funny. You have to have a real good sense of humor when you’ve lived the kind of life I have but I am too goddamn tired to even try to be that funny anymore. And so I tortured myself for a few weeks, woke up crying out in the middle of the night, begging sweet baby Jesus to show me the way. I even contemplated drinking a gallon of peyote juice, thinking maybe a flood of inspiration would wash over me and all my existential questions to life—Is God a woman? Who decides what flavors the Skittles and Starbursts should be? Who decided swearing was inappropriate? Who ever thought making J.Lo a pop icon would be a good thing? Why are the Kardashians still on air? And at what point is it okay to decide the government has screwed up enough stuff and maybe over-throwing them isn’t the worst idea ever?…I’m joking…maybe…relax—would finally be answered. Thanks to my constant anxiety and fear of death, I decided to pass on the gallon of peyote juice…for now… but I am only 40 years old, so there’s still plenty of time. 

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Then, by chance, I had been going through my dead mother’s (very small amount) of belongings and I began to wonder if we had been able to talk about her disease, would she still be alive? In an instant the answer to what I’d do my project on came washing over me like a tsunami. 

Addiction. 

Addiction and all of her glory (maybe not the best word here, but I thought it fit best). 

I was at a young age when I realized that addiction doesn’t only affect the addict. She is far reaching and she stains like blood. She is nearly impossible to get rid of and wrecks the fabric of everything she touches.

It wasn’t until I was older that I realized I don’t think I will ever fully understand the devastating hold addiction has on all of those it touches or just how far-reaching addiction is. 

We live in a culture where addiction—any kind— is looked down upon. Addiction is dirty. Addiction is shameful. Addiction is embarrassing. Addiction is the ignorance of many, the death of many, and a disease that touches most. Yet no one ever wants to talk about it. 

I know I didn’t. There are days that I still don’t. My whole life was consumed by my mother’s many addictions. She has been gone for almost a year now and her addictions still follow me around like an everlasting shadow. 

So here is what I proposed to my professor: I want to understand. I want to understand how addiction affects the people left in its wake. I want to find people who are willing to talk to me about how addiction has affected their lives. Not just the addicts themselves but their spouses, their children, their parents. Friends. Uncles. Aunts. Cousins and grandparents. You see, during my educational journey I have earned that we, as a people, are only as healthy as our sickest members of society. I am sorry to say this dear readers, but we are sick. We are dying at fast rates. We are losing our children and our parents, our loved ones and no one is coming to help us. 

Maybe if we were able to say out loud, “my mother is an addict and an alcoholic and she needs help” as easily as we could say, “my mother has cancer and she needs chemo,” maybe we could begin to heal. If not for the addict themselves than maybe their families. Maybe with some knowledge and some compassion, the willingness to listen without judging, we could begin to become healthy again. Maybe, just maybe, we could start breaking cycles of abuse and addiction. Maybe children could grow up in a healthier world, mothers wouldn’t have to say goodbye to their children and well… I don’t know. Maybe these are all big dreams. Maybe this is all for not. Maybe there is no hope. I sure like to think there is but I don’t know everything. Maybe this is a problem bigger than anyone can handle. What I do know is that we are never going to figure it out unless we start talking about it. 

Well, what’s my project going to look like? I have big ideas. I am excited. This project is the beginning for me on so many levels. But hopefully it will also mean many ends. This project will follow me into my last semester and possibly afterwards. It will be an act of love. 

Here’s the thing though… if you want to find out what it is, you’re going to have to stick around to find out. I’ll keep you updated but for now here’s to the beginning that will hopefully bring me to the end…