One of my papers; (invalidation, mother-child stuff)
Tezza
One night my feelings toward my mother changed forever. It
probably wasn't the first incident of it's kind, and it hasn't been
the last; it is, however, the one that stands out as the pivotal
moment when I realized that she didn't care about my feelings.
Although it was a long time ago, I remember it very well.
I was six years old, and my older sister was taking oil
painting lessons. The people at the studio let me paint along with
her free of charge, not knowing they had opened heaven's gate for me.
The studio was life-blood in my veins, and everything about it spoke
to my soul; the rows of easles, the paintings in progress that lined
the high ceiling, the smell of linseed oil and turpentine, the act of
creating art. My paintings were the typical fare of beginners, and I
received much help from the kind staff. There was the ubiquitous vase
with flowers, assorted fruits and vegetables, and my favorite, animal
portraits. This small collection was my treasure, the favorite being
a horse's head.
At this time of my life my mother was dating a wealthy man,
and like her previous boyfriends, he helped her to make ends meet.
Adam had a son just my age, and one night he was bringing him over to
our apartment for a visit. My mother had some news for my sister and
me.
"We're going to put all of your paintings out on the table
and let Adam's son pick one from each of you."
I didn't mind giving to people, not even my paintings, and I
had of my own choosing given a very good cat's head to my beloved
uncle. I did not mind giving a
painting to Adam's son; I had met him before and I liked him. My
horse's head, however, was not something I ever wanted to part with,
and it was foremost in my mind.
"Mom, I don't want to put out the horse head. It's my
favorite, and the best, and I know Michael will pick it."
She answered "Yes, we're going to put them all out, and let
Michael choose whichever two he wants."
I clutched the painting. "Please Mom! I know he'll pick the
horse, and it's my favorite, please Mom, no!" I begged and cried for
a long time.
It was useless. She took the painting from me and set it
out with the rest. By then I was obedient, and did not let her know I
was angry. Anger was not allowed. Inwardly I shook. I was furious,
but mostly I was completely unbelieving. How could my mother have
absolutely no regard for the strong feelings that I had expressed to
her?
They came, and Michael chose the horse's head first, as I
knew he would. It was the best of the paintings, and would have been
any child's favorite. I don't know which of my sister's paintings he
picked, and she does not remember the incident at all. Painting did
not mean the same to her as it did to me. Creating art was who I was,
and my paintings were a part of me. They represented my identity, and
my mother gave it away. I know in that moment I experienced a
material change in my heart and mind. I loved her less. More than
that, I knew that I would never feel obligated to respect her feelings
ever again.
My mother prostituted herself by exchanging sex and
companionship for money,
and that was her choice. She had no right to prostitute me, however,
to gain points with her boyfriend and his son, and that is exactly
what giving away my favorite painting amounted to.
Heather
acknowledging your feelings, I get the same here. Especially with my
illness...If you ignore it, it will go away - yeah right, no validation
whatsoever but she does change her tune and pretends to be all concerned
whrn other people are around. I totally relate to art really depicting
who you are and a way of expressing yourself, I am the same way, be it
with sketching, painting or poetry...I do find poetry the easiest to
"hide" from others though, I must've written close to a hundred by now,
mind you not positive ones but hey, I write what I feel. Don't give up
on your dream, keep up with the art. When art is connected to your soul
like yours and mine, it's the best form of all, it's unique and
individual and isn't that what it's all about in the first place, an
expression of your self? I feel for you, I really do.
As much as I hate to admit it, I do not love my mother in any way and I
don't think I ever will.
I wish you the best of luck in all you do, you seem to be an excellent
writer, give the poetry thing a shot, hey what have you got to lose?
Take good Care my friend,
Heather
Tezza
I have written some poems, but only a few when I was depressed several
years ago and off Prozac. My therp got me back into art when I first
started seeing him eight years ago. It had been ten years before that
since I had done real *art*, and getting back to it was slow but
joyful. His whole thesis was on creativity and early trauma.
Something like that. Anyway, he said that if you are artistic then
you have to do art or create in order to be happy/fulfilled. I agree.
I hear you about your mother. It's very difficult to love some
people, especially when they hurt you over and over again. My mother
can cut me down with one comment <<shudder>>. It's taken years to get
steeled against her, but when I am vulnerable then I have no defenses
against her, and she can tell...argh.
I can hide in my paintings, but it's frustrating when people read more
into them than is meant, but hey, that's art...you make it your own
when you look at it. My pdoc has a print of one of my traumagenic
paintings, and insists that it shows how tortured I am, and that I
must have been abused, blah blah blah. I keep telling him that my
deprived childhood was enough, and that the painting merely shows the
torture of revealing something about myself in therapy that made me
feel as if I would die to have anyone see me that way, even myself.
And besides, it was Zoloft induced (I totally wigged on Zoloft).
Thanks for the feedback, Heather. Nice to have a creative and
artistic friend.
--Tezza