THE MOST IMPORTANT: Diego Pinto

10 PHOTOGRAPHS, 150 WORDS ABOUT A TOPIC THAT REALLY MATTERS TO YOU AS AN INDIVIDUAL. NOT ONLY FROM AN AESTHETIC POINT OF VIEW BUT FROM YOUR HUMAN PERSPECTIVE. WORKSHOP’S FINAL ASSIGNMENT WORTH SHARING.

memories

Memories make us people; they are the pillars on which we are built, and every experience contributes to our perception of self, others, and the world in general. So what happens when those memories disappear? When looking back on yourself only produces static.

I don't remember my childhood. I don't recall when I first realized this absence in my mind, but it was after 2018. I don't think the memories left all at once, rather they trickled off and slowly evaporated, the world i grew up in was very different from that which my parents told me about, my world was one dominated by fear, anger, injustice and grief, now and then i get glimpses of that past, it happens when i can't fall asleep, I see those times we heard gunshots and had to quickly huddle in the only room without windows in fear of stray bullets, i see the time my brother got stabbed when someone was trying to steal his phone, and I see all those nights crying, pleading to any god that would listen to answer why?

Nowadays, I'm not sure what's left of me; my brain decided it was best for me to forget, and so it did.

paparo

Paparo is a small fishing village at the mouth of a river, its population doesn't extend past the 3 digits, and everybody there is connected in some way to each other. I spent at least 1 week every summer there until 2017, when my family decided to leave the country.

In that village, people lived off of fishing in the river and on the beach. There was running water and a very fragile electricity that would go out at the manifestation of any thunderstorm. The roads were paved, though cars rarely passed by, and everyone who died there was buried in the same cemetery.

It was very different from the busy capital. The streets were littered with trees that grew naturally and often claimed the sidewalks and pavement with their roots. Many of the trees bore fruits of some kind, and you could simply reach up, grab them, and they were yours. It was a simple village but one that stays very close to my heart as a sweet escape from the rest of my life. The village has fallen into some hard times lately, but still retains its character. I dream of going back to that village again when things are better.

Music

I used to make music. I haven't done so in a long while, and may have forgotten by now, but music was the first creative activity I remember doing. It started with a small recorder that my mom got me when I was around 9, then I got a very small keyboard that had 16 keys, each the size of a fingernail.

I had an audition for entering a magnet school of the arts here in the United States from Venezuela, I played Fur Elise and Rondo Alla Turca on that little keyboard, and somewhere over the rainbow on the recorder. I was accepted into the school.

This was the last thing that I remember doing before taking the plane to the United States. Those events didn't happen one after another, but the year before I left felt strange; days blurred together, waiting for December 29, 2017. I had finally made friends after being bullied my entire life, and would be leaving them now, I got to thinking about what moving would entail for me. My mental health started declining then. That's when I started lying to my parents when they would ask me how I was doing, and I said fine, they already had so much stress, they didn't need to worry about me.

Flight

I remember crying on the plane on my way to the United States, I was overwhelmed with emotions that I couldn't possibly express in this text; it was all of them, the good and the bad combined. It was around a month after this that I wrote my first poem

Powerless

As I watched from the window of the plane leaving my country behind, I was overwhelmed by conflicting feelings. I was finally free, free from crime, hunger, and that constant fear. Even still, something wasn't right. Why was I free? Why should I deserve this escape over others, the family and friends I left behind to vanish in pain and despair, and yet here I was. I should have been happy about leaving, but I couldn't stop thinking about those who couldn't. I had witnessed firsthand the injustice, and I knew very well what everyone I was leaving behind was experiencing. And there I was, in a plane, abandoning everyone. I couldn't live knowing what was behind me, all the suffering. I couldn't help but feel guilty. And as I watched, towards the buildings that now seemed minuscule, I realized that all I could do was watch.

School

I had my first day of school in August 2017. Thankfully, I already knew a good deal of English and was a good student. However, that wasn't enough to integrate.

They were nothing like me; the few that were from countries like mine had been born in the US, and no one had been through anything similar to what I had. I only made a single friend at that school, and he left the state in 2018. I wasn't bullied like before, but I'd argue that what happened was worse. I was completely socially isolated, no one ate with me at lunch, I talked to no one during free time, and no one talked to me beyond the mandatory group activities. Days passed, then weeks, then months, and I developed a feeling of hollowness inside me, a sinking feeling in my heart, one that grew and grew each day that passed. There was already something of that In Venezuela, though I always had something else to distract me from it. I would look in the mirror and dissociate, life didn't feel real, everything moved too fast and too slow, I deteriorated, but when my parents asked how I was doing, I lied to them, I made up friends and stories to keep them from worrying.

Solitude

Solitude can be addicting, the world hurts you again and again, and it becomes alluring to shut yourself off, run away from the outside, and try to deny more harm from being done. But as I've learned, this isn't a good coping mechanism. Sure, you may be able to prevent some damage, but you also prevent the love, compassion, wonder, and healing that this world has to offer

I retreated from everything for a long time. In despair, there was at least certainty; life was cruel, and there was nothing I could do about it. I built a shell of comfortable pain and hid in it, better to not try than to try and be hurt again.

I survived like this for a while, around 7 years or so. I've changed a lot this past year, doing a lot to move on from my past and heal. Though to be honest, sometimes, when it's late at night, I'm tired, and my head hits the desk, I think about going back.

Hospitalization

I have been blessed with a very good family, one that has cared for and provided me with as much as they possibly could. They did a good job of protecting me from physical harm. But they couldn't predict the psychological damage and the one I inflicted on myself.

In 2018, I was hospitalized at the Nicklaus Children's Hospital's psych ward, it was only for a week, though it felt longer than that. There were many other people with similar problems to mine, the majority around my age. I didn't interact with anyone other than the doctors; that was the first time I had someone to talk to about myself. My parents would have probably understood, but they were already so worried and stressed about other stuff that I didn't want to inflict any extra pain on them. I bottled my emotions up until I couldn't anymore, my current state became unbearable,

So I made plans not to wake up the next day

Return

My parents told me that they suffered a lot from me trying to take my own life; they said that week was the hardest for them, coming home from work to a missing son, an empty room, fading memories of a once-happy child, the child I worked so hard to keep as a facade had vanished.

I had never seen my dad cry before; he was and is a hard-working man, publicly reserved, but with a big heart. I had spent years without seeing him as he had moved to the US before my family to gather money to bring us here. This was only a year after arriving in the United States, he must have felt tremendous guilt for not being there for me. I don't blame him for it, I told him that, I don't think he listened

When I returned home, my family had made posters containing words about how they loved me, what they liked about me, and that they would always be there for me. I felt even more guilt, the photo is of one of my mom's posters.

Deterioration

Things got briefly better after the hospital stay, the drugs helped a bit, but then I regressed. I got better at lying. I know it was stupid of me to lie about my well-being; my parents would have probably helped if I had asked, but how could I take away that relief they got from seeing me ok? How could I make them feel like they failed as parents?

The only thing that changed was my coping mechanism. I buried myself in fantasies, daydreaming throughout the day. Reality was painful, so I did my hardest to escape it, whether it was video games, books, series, or movies, I spent all the time that I wasn't forced to be in the real world running away from it.

This is when my memories started to erode. I'm not sure why my brain did that, but I believe it must have been trying to protect me from the perceived threat that was reality, the past was painful, and the present more so, I was ignored by my peers, and that destroyed my sense of ego, to be perceived is to exist, but no one saw me, I was no one and slowly that became more and more true

Change

The times I faced the real world were hard, I remember I cried on the day of my graduation, not out of joy but misery. I agonized while hearing the speeches about the future, success, and community, knowing well that they didn't apply to me.

I was faced that night with how much I had missed out on in life.

After graduating, I convinced my parents to let me take a gap year, which I spent doing the bare minimum to keep them from worrying too much. One year turned into two, and I eventually realized that I couldn't live like this anymore; something needed to change. I don't remember what prompted this, but I had decided to give life one more try.

The first step was starting a diary. I realized how many memories I had lost and wanted some way to keep them from vanishing.

After that, I found a psychiatrist, then a psychologist, all on my own.

Honestly, writing this I feel stupid, this won't be useful for photography class, and it's way too personal for me to share. I don't know why I'm writing anymore, to feel self-pity? to ask for compassion? boo hoo, you are probably just a privileged kid that wants to feel like their life is so unfair and like they worked for what they got, pathetic, whatever you went through is probably exaggerated, it probably wasn't that bad, and you probably deserved it. I don't know what's left of me now, It's 3:30 AM as I'm writing this. I'm tired. Why did I even do this? I don't have 10 things with meaning in my life; I just started writing and got the idea for this stupid little sob story. What now? ... What now?

-Diego pinto

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