|“The Way Home” Finished Painting|
Sometimes life is stranger than fiction. Life certainly gets interesting when you are truthful with yourself. Somewhere, deep inside our subconscious, where no one else can give you directions, where no teacher dictates right from wrong, where no dogma, definitions and simple answers can exist, there we can find the truth.
I began a strange and very interesting journey this month when I decided to write about my painting, “The Escape” in a post titled “Victim no More, Silent no More.” (03/10) Circumstances beyond my control compelled me to write about my own experience of domestic abuse and the therapeutic way it appeared in my art, revealing to me my suppressed emotions and memories. Writing about the painting, I exposed myself to public scrutiny with my own issues, many of which have been subjects of pain, shame and fear. I could not have foreseen the encouragement and insight that would bless my life as a result of the simple act of telling my story.
|A close up from “The Escape” There is a struggle and conflict in my heart and my mind, as I give away my power.|
In the original painting, I appear in several forms. One of these is a dog. I allowed myself to be treated like one. This is how it feels when you have lived through an abusive relationship. And so many of us stay, like a dog that returns to an owner who beats it. It is a dehumanizing experience, and looking at it as a part of my own personal history filled me with shame. I think of myself as a strong woman. Because I had memories of allowing myself to be treated in this way, there has been a fundamental disconnect in my own definition of self. It lead to a certain lack of honesty in everything I did. It split my self image into two parts, the one I cognized and the one I suppressed. In the original painting I am the dog, but I am also a bird fighting the dog. The figure who represents my abuser has his fingers in my head. The suppressed self image remains in this passive dog-state without power and without a real form. It is skeletal.
|In reworking the painting the fingers get pushed out of the dog’s brain and the dog and bird metamorphose into a new creature. This new image of self is not perfect, but whole and united, with yet to be realized powers.|
When I approached this part of the painting and saw what I was denying to myself, I started to remember parts of my life I had pushed aside and buried for so long. Some were horrific acts of physical and sexual violence. Others were moments of shame, when I supported my abuser and his actions with my silence. When I met him I was 20 years old, and I was a naive and idealistic young woman who was in a state of constant rebellion from the world I was raised in. I grew up with privilege, but I knew the world was unjust and was unable to accept it. I spend so much of my teenage years battling my father and anyone who considered themselves a realist. In my mind accepting the world as it is, unequal and unfair, was nothing short of treason to a higher sense of justice. My youthful idealism met many obstacles head on, and an undeniable one was the injustice of my own middle class childhood in a world where many have so little. My childhood starkly contrasted the world of poverty and violence my abuser came from. His pain pulled at my guilt as much as his violence transformed my innocence. That was the initial dynamic. He showered me with praise and adoration, while reminding me of my shame: my birthplace in an unjust world. When his behavior shifted from “sweeping me off my feet” into violence, rage and blame, I was left mute and paralyzed, like the dog on its back in my painting. I was dependent on his affection as the only redemption for my guilt. If I left him I only proved him right, life was easy for me and hard for him. I did just that and I never found a way to address that fundamental conflict in my mind and heart. How quickly and easily I went from rebellious teen to submissive victim, never leaving either completely healed. It has been a truth of myself I refused to admit. It has been the suppressed spilt. I couldn’t bear to see myself with that kind of unflinching honesty.