Scrapbooking Therapy

Therapy through Scrapbooks

By: Brandy Ford

Scrapbooking is more than just putting photos in an album. It is about telling stories.

I started my first scrapbook the day after Mom said she was having brain surgery.

“The aneurysm has grown,” she said.

I used to give Mom the Silent Treatment. I would ignore her completely; pinch my lips shut, walking away from her if I didn’t get my way.

Once she had rented a steamer and had spent hours steaming the wallpaper from my walls so I could keep it as a memento. It was covered with signatures from my friends. Mom was able to save each and every piece of it.

I began writing memory after memory and glanced up at one of my favourite pictures. It is of me, Mom and my grandmother. I am eight months pregnant with my first child.

It became clear what I needed to do.

I was going to preserve our memories and let my parents know how much I love them.

I was going to think of every little rotten thing I did when I was a teenager and make amends.

I started crying. My cries emerged into sobs. My sobs escalated into a howl. Then I was puffy-faced and silent. I was finally ready to begin.

I chose a simple piece of baby blue paper to start. I searched through my pile of pictures until I found the one of my parents holding my son, Jaevin, for the first time.

“Joy was the day I placed my newborn son in your arms and saw the love you felt for him.” I wrote.

“I’m sorry for every fight I ever had with Jesse”

“Thank you for welcoming Darren into our family and for instantly calling Jemelie and Joriana your granddaughters.”

I became obsessed with pictures and recording every little memory I had.

“Thank you for making us eat dinner together as a family each night at the table.”

“I’m sorry for making you worry when I didn’t come home on curfew.”

“I remember thinking that my parents were invincible.”

Words and photographs melded.

I worked on the scrapbook fanatically until the last possible moment.

“We’ve got to get going,” Darren said. We were all meeting at a hotel in Toronto before Mom’s operation.

“Hold on. I’ve got one more picture.”

It was the picture of Mom, my grandmother and me. Three generations of mothers and daughters.

I had completed my first scrapbook; and showed it to Mom later that night.

“I want to show you something,” she said. She had a small photo album in her bag. It held pictures of our entire family and artwork from her grandchildren. She, too, had needed to create a scrapbook.

The doctor operated on Mom for hours the next morning. Finally he came to tell us she was okay.
I cried when I saw Mom’s bandaged face, and I realized that my first scrapbook wasn’t completed. I had just started it and I will be adding pages to it for the rest of my life.