Torn. Finally.

Some things are not worth keeping. At all.

(Aside: this photo is one my father took of me. Ouch.)

I don’t know why I kept the photos. Maybe it’s that Gen X feeling that one should never, ever, under any circumstances discard of a photo. Or maybe I felt like I needed them to prove my story.

Except that my story is etched into my bones like memory.

I will not forget the images.

Photos that my father took of me that were inappropriate, unseemly. They were snapshots of the way he saw the world, and his lens was crooked, sadly.

Two weeks ago, I talked to Patrick about them.

“Should I throw them away?”

He shook his head, that knowing look that made his next response obvious. “You still have them?”

I nodded. “Why in the world have I kept them all these years?” I asked.

He said he didn’t know.

And, truth be told, I didn’t know.

Their existence is an indication of the slowness of the healing journey. In that conversation, I knew that it was essential I discard of them immediately. Initially I thought I would burn them, but it was cold outside, and starting a fire in the house sounded foolhardy.

So when Patrick was at a meeting that evening, I pulled out the large box of black and whites. Each picture, I pulled out, looked at it, then either discarded or kept it depending on its subject.

Must’ve been over fifteen that were not for public consumption. I felt my face redden. And I got mad. No little girl’s father should take such pictures. I felt sad for little Mary, unclothed and vulnerable. She suffered a lot, that sweet little girl who only wanted to be noticed and loved.

Over the kitchen garbage can, I stood, the 5 x 7s and 8 x 10s in my hands. The first rip? Tentative. The next? Fervent. And then I became a human paper shredder, ripping, tearing, severing, decimating. Catharsis felt good. And those pictures shredded felt like victory.

Because they don’t represent who I am today. Nor should they haunt me anymore. Yes, my father exploited me, but my Father loves me. I’ve been adopted by the One who cherishes me, fights for me, and heals all the exploited parts of me.

Thanks be to God for pictures turned to confetti.