I’d like to take a few minutes to say thank you. My blog has
just hit 30,000+ views. I am both humbled and honored by this. My blog has had
more than 7,000 views in that past few months, even when I’ve failed to upload
new content. I’ve been booking portrait sessions, events, and weddings all
without doing any new marketing. (I am thankful.)
The past few months have been some of the hardest months of
my life. I’ve grown as an artist, a woman, a mother, and have began to face my
demons. My biggest fear in life is talking about myself. Talking about my life,
talking about my past. While attending New England School of Photography I
learned a lot about myself, realizing I was holding onto a lot of pain.
I am 28 years old. I am a product of a dysfunctional family.
I am child of domestic violence.
I watched my mother be physically and emotionally abused by
my stepfather for almost my entire life. One of the earliest childhood memories
is of my mother being abused. It wasn’t the first time she was hit, it’s just
the first time I remember with great detail. I remember it like yesterday.
(This is a photo of us in 1989)
I was four years old, it was in 1989. I remember watching my step dad yell at
mom. He was in her face, really close. He yelled and he yelled. I couldn’t
understand how he could be so upset over nothing. It started with a slap, then a punch. I was afraid, but not
for myself, for my mother and siblings. I walked into my bedroom to comfort my
siblings. My brother and sister (twins) were two years old at this time. I
closed the door and told them to play with some toys, turned on my Fisher Price radio and hoped they would get so distracted they’d ignore the screams
from our mother coming from the living room. Once they were situated I walked
back to the living room. I peeked around the corner and watched my mother being
slapped and punched. I watched blood leave her body as she tried to run from my
step-dad. He was getting more and more upset because she wouldn’t be quiet. He
keeping saying, “Shut up! Shut up before someone calls the police!”
I wanted to call the police myself, but I knew it would only
make her next beating that much worst. I stood there, watching and waiting for
him to stop. I watched him pick up a weight lifting belt and begin to beat her
with it. I watched her get beat. Each swing of the belt leaving welps, and
allowing more blood to leave her body. I watched her blackout, then continue to
get beat as she laid there lifeless. I thought to myself, “When is he going to
stop? How long is he going to beat her? He’s going to kill her this time.”
I ran into the living room and yelled at my step-dad, “Stop!
Stop! Please get off my mother! Please stop!”
His attention left her and came to me. He was upset I had
the nerve to say something. How dare I ask him to stop. How dare I yell at him.
He walked over to me and my beating began. My mom lay lifeless on the floor. My
attention stayed on her, as I got beat, hoping she would open her eyes, hoping
she would wake up this time. My
stepfather soon became tired, he was finished. He walked to the kitchen, sparked
a cigarette, and then washed the blood from his hands. He grabbed his keys and
left the house.
I ran to the bedroom and made sure my sibling were ok. They
were fine, listening to my cassette tape, while playing with their toys. Then I
went to kitchen, wet a rag, and began to clean the blood. There was some
bloodstains on the carpet that I couldn’t get up and that upset me. I could see
my mother was still breathing, so I knew she wasn’t dead. As she slowly woke
up, she said nothing. She walked to the restroom and closed the door. A few
minutes later she returned. She was no longer bloody but she looked like
another person. Bruised and swollen she gave me hug. She apologized for what he
had done. She said he was mad. She said she was sorry. She removed the rag
stained with her blood from my hands, we walked to the bathroom and she cleaned
me up. Wiping the tears while telling me everything was going to be all right.
Once I was “ok”, I went back to my room and began to play with my siblings. I
walked out every now and then, checking on my mom. She finished cleaning the
blood from the walls, carpet, and even from the weight belt she was beat with.
Then she went to the kitchen and made us a delcious dinner. We had dinner, took
baths, and got ready for bed.
Later, my stepfather returned. No one said anything about
what happened. Life went on. This was a regular day in our house. Things like
this happened all the time. I watched my stepfather punch, slap, pistol whip,
cut my mother with kitchen knifes, and that’s just the beginning. We were all physically abused over the next 16 years. When I was twenty years
old my mother finally found the strength to leave. She finally began to love
herself, realizing that no one deserved to get hit.
(My siblings and I in 1992)
This was really hard for me to write. I’ve only once been
able to talk to my mother about this, I’ve never been allowed to. No one in my
family wants to re-live any of these events. No one wants to talk about the
years and years of memories that I have stored in my head. This was just a
regular day in our household.
(Us in 2013 with my son)
Sorry it has taken me so long to update my blog. When my
husband left for the US Navy in March, it left me with a lot more time with
myself. I’ve had to learn to deal with the things that I have pushed down for years;
deal with the things I didn’t want to acknowledge, and to face my fears head
on.
Why did I decide to put all my business out here?
To be fearless. This is my biggest fear in life. Now that
I’ve put this out there, there is nothing that can hold me back.
The moral of this story is to be fearless. Do everything
that you think you can’t do. I remember being four years old, and standing up
to my step-dad, and getting beat for it. There is nothing that I will allow to
stop me from doing what I want to do in life.
Over the past few months I’ve stepped outside of my comfort
zone. Before I’d stay home if I couldn’t get a babysitter for my son. I was
afraid of what people might say. “Who’s that girl that brought a kid with her?”
“This is not a place for a child to be,” I pictured people saying. Well, I was
so wrong. My son has attended the “Beat and Snatched” launch party, Paper Frank's
“Pink Lemonade” art show, Trinidad James’s “10pc Mild” Listening Party, and the Atlanta Naturals “Sunday
Brunch”. While attending these events we’ve received nothing but love. My son
loves attending events with me. He has his camera in hand, as he meets and
photographs new people. (I’ll be
updating my blog with footage from these amazing events.)
With all of this said, I say thank you (again). Thank you for allowing me time off to “get it together”. Thank you reading all of this. Thank you for believing in me when I couldn’t believe in myself. Thank you for allowing me to face my truth, to grow, to value myself as a artist, understand my worth, and to be my best self.
The moral of the story is:
Always believe in yourself, have faith, and never let your
past affect your future. God gives the hardest battles to his strongest
soldiers, so keep fighting, you’re almost at the finish line.
Thank you for your time!
xoxo
Mrs. Tora Carter
#BeTrue
#BelieveInYourself
#DreamBig
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