.
i write about my mother a lot here. i suppose it's one of the only places where i feel i can. i don't feel guilty for bringing it up here, the subject of her death and death in general. i don't feel ashamed of my big emotions here. i can have them, loud and unruly behind the ineffectual whiteness of the screen. no one knows if i am crying or not. everyone can imagine whatever face they prefer for me to wear. or they can look away. many people have and i don't begrudge them for that. it's been 4 years. eventually, people want to hear about something else.
.
i just re-read that paragraph and feel that it is a half-truth. i often feel guilty about how much i write about my mother's death. the last several posts here are specifically about that and i'm sure the majority of posts i've made during the last 4 years since her death are about it too or at least reference it in someway. i look at my blog sometimes and back away from it because i don't want to be that girl who's droning on and on about her dead mama, about her broken heart, about the tragic twists of her life. but why not? why am i ashamed? this shame is, perhaps, the thing that has made blogging so hard in recent years. for awhile there i seemed to only manage the courage for it when i was drunk and disgusted with the world, drunk and disgusted with myself. and for a moment, even i was afraid of those outbursts. i started wondering if i'd fallen it to that weird literary alcoholism where one believes they can only write if they've had a few drinks. i'd read back over my posts the next afternoon and feel the knife of shame in my gut but i wouldn't erase any of it. i wanted to let it stand. i wanted to be brave enough to endure my shame. also (dangerously), i was attracted to being a bit of a mess, repulsive. i was at odds with so many things and i wanted to force the issue of my pain, my disappointment, my revulsion. i also thought the writing was simply that damn good. i was willing to scare relatives and friends and the mothers of friends that i was in the midst of a total breakdown. it wasn't the intention of the writing. not at all. but if it was the result, so be it. i was trying to say something true.
and maybe i was unravelling a bit too.
of course i was.
2008, graduated from college.
2008, decided to end my relationship with my father.
2008, moved to Calistoga and absolutely hated it.
2008 - 2009, explored the possibility that maybe i was bipolar simply due to the fact that i could not get along in my new surroundings. this was encouraged by my partner at the time.
2009, my mother was diagnosed with pancreatic cancer.
2010, her cancer metastasized.
2011, my mother died. i was 30 years old.
2011, left Calistoga and moved back to Oakland.
2012, left a 7 year relationship that had been sexless for the last 3.
there's a lot in there to fall apart about. of all those things, my mother's death is the only thing i've really written about. at first, her death just made everything else seem so small and irrelevant. it was the biggest, most obvious horror. maybe it was also the most acceptable thing to write about, despite the overwhelming public discomfort surrounding death. no one really writes about the trauma of sexual neglect. at least not in the first person. not that i've seen. and not from the female perspective of being denied touch and how wounding that is. i'd be very interested in reading a text about that if anyone knows of something. and i'm still afraid to write about certain things, despite just sharing that secret. i'm afraid i'm going to make some sort of horrible, unforgivable transgression if i write about a past relationship, if i write about my father, if i tell the truth of what really happened, if i tell the whole truth about my mother, her marriages, our family, our undoing, our pain. despite my bravery, i still sometimes feel stopped. i censor myself. i don't want to dump lemon juice on the wounds of others. one of my biggest fears is hurting other people- a fear that has derailed the lives and selves of so many people.
thankfully, the only member of my family that reads here with any regularity is my sister. at least that i'm aware of. all my relatives on my mother's side, curious about my life as an artist, stopped reading here once the drunken 3am posts took over as the norm. long gone are the days of beautiful paragraphs about running with my dog down highway 128, through orange and red leaves, squirrels lobbing acorns at us from the tall trees, the scent of the vineyard crush filling the air. so idyllic. at least if that's all anyone knows, and that was all anyone knew for a very long time about my daily life in calistoga. i never let on about what a tortured, ignored, untouched "housewife" i'd become. i was so ashamed of myself and the deterioration i'd allowed to happen to my own life, my own dreams. i was ashamed of finding myself in a scenario that so horribly resembled my mother's 2nd marriage: man on the couch watching tv, woman reading a book in the other room. i remember so clearly the night i drunkenly confessed the sin of my sexlessness to my friend, Anne, while puking in the toilet at a mutual friend's house after having gone out and had one too many greyhounds. at that point, i'd been single about 7 months and no longer felt a responsibility to shield my ex from judgement. the reality of what my previous life and relationship had been burned within me, an awful dirty secret. in that moment, my shame burst forth along with all the booze i'd consumed and whatever i'd eaten that day. unstoppable. the next afternoon, hungover and dazed by the night's events, i felt embarrassed but also free. someone knew. someone knew my dirty secret and they didn't sneer at me. she sympathized and rubbed my back. i looked at the crust of vomit on my sequin jacket, called myself "a mess", and went home and wrote about it in my diary.
.
there were more deaths than just my mother's.
there are more deaths than just the physical.
perhaps i did "act out".
perhaps i still act out.
i won't allow another death to occur where there should be only one.
i won't be another girl burning her papers on the back porch, afraid of their power to incriminate.
.
Showing posts with label family tragedy. Show all posts
Showing posts with label family tragedy. Show all posts
Mar 22, 2015
Dec 27, 2012
girl, your voice breaks my heart...
.
the desperation is overwhelming. i know it inside and out. how many years? even as a young girl? how many silly evenings did i spend wishing on the first star for a way out? and now, with no parents to run from, i still identify with this eagerness. i spent too many years inside such hunger.
but now i live in a city. i know how to wait tables. there's nothing to run from these days. i can write poems in the evenings and dream in my lonely hours of hands in my hair, a man that might understand me or, at least, a song like this. i can read whatever terrible philosophy finds me. i can curl up beneath a blanket i made with my own two hands. just me and my crochet hook and a bit of yarn, just like my mama, just like my daddy. where the fuck did those two go? oh yeah, one died and the other decided it wasn't worth the trouble. life. and so i listen to this song and ache. people i haven't seen in a decade leave messages on my phone and my eyes sting with tears. but that was a different life. i'm not that little girl anymore. i'm not a little girl at all. i'm 32 years old. i'm grown. i've been thrown against the wall and come face to face with some shit that was way before its' due. and i'm not mad about it, just please attempt some understanding... i can't be younger than i am. i can't be 32 in certain ways. in certain ways, i'm so much older than that. how old were you when your mother died? did you have a stable job? did you have a spouse? did you lose a spouse? did you have children? were they grown? were they in college? see, when i was in college i was taking care of my dad. he's a quadriplegic. i would go to class and then race home to cook dinner, do the laundry and be a confidant. on the weekends, sometimes, i'd paint pictures that were sold in a gallery in san francisco. people only saw the paintings. they didn't see what went on behind them. i wasn't a good enough artist at that point. i didn't know how to make it apparent. i didn't want to. i've spent alot of years feeling very alone and very ashamed.
but not anymore. and no matter. it's just that i love this song. and while it plays i crave the same shit she sings of... that goddamn ache, that reprieve. just put your hands in my hair, kiss me hard and make me feel like none of this matters, that i am somewhere else...
....
at intervals, i feel like one big gaping wound....
or one big block of ice.
does it matter which? i still need your mouth. i still need your hands. i am still a human being, equipped with all the tawdry longings and secrets that most possess, and i still want a strong arm around my shoulder.
i play the old tunes that our parents put on the stereo when we were children. my heart aches something awful. not for what might have been but for what is. and in spite of how i feel tonight, i love us kids with such ferocity. they don't see it but we have been made so much more beautiful because of what we've come through, dear brother and sister. the task is for us to see it. and then, to believe it.
;)
.
the desperation is overwhelming. i know it inside and out. how many years? even as a young girl? how many silly evenings did i spend wishing on the first star for a way out? and now, with no parents to run from, i still identify with this eagerness. i spent too many years inside such hunger.
but now i live in a city. i know how to wait tables. there's nothing to run from these days. i can write poems in the evenings and dream in my lonely hours of hands in my hair, a man that might understand me or, at least, a song like this. i can read whatever terrible philosophy finds me. i can curl up beneath a blanket i made with my own two hands. just me and my crochet hook and a bit of yarn, just like my mama, just like my daddy. where the fuck did those two go? oh yeah, one died and the other decided it wasn't worth the trouble. life. and so i listen to this song and ache. people i haven't seen in a decade leave messages on my phone and my eyes sting with tears. but that was a different life. i'm not that little girl anymore. i'm not a little girl at all. i'm 32 years old. i'm grown. i've been thrown against the wall and come face to face with some shit that was way before its' due. and i'm not mad about it, just please attempt some understanding... i can't be younger than i am. i can't be 32 in certain ways. in certain ways, i'm so much older than that. how old were you when your mother died? did you have a stable job? did you have a spouse? did you lose a spouse? did you have children? were they grown? were they in college? see, when i was in college i was taking care of my dad. he's a quadriplegic. i would go to class and then race home to cook dinner, do the laundry and be a confidant. on the weekends, sometimes, i'd paint pictures that were sold in a gallery in san francisco. people only saw the paintings. they didn't see what went on behind them. i wasn't a good enough artist at that point. i didn't know how to make it apparent. i didn't want to. i've spent alot of years feeling very alone and very ashamed.
but not anymore. and no matter. it's just that i love this song. and while it plays i crave the same shit she sings of... that goddamn ache, that reprieve. just put your hands in my hair, kiss me hard and make me feel like none of this matters, that i am somewhere else...
....
at intervals, i feel like one big gaping wound....
or one big block of ice.
does it matter which? i still need your mouth. i still need your hands. i am still a human being, equipped with all the tawdry longings and secrets that most possess, and i still want a strong arm around my shoulder.
i play the old tunes that our parents put on the stereo when we were children. my heart aches something awful. not for what might have been but for what is. and in spite of how i feel tonight, i love us kids with such ferocity. they don't see it but we have been made so much more beautiful because of what we've come through, dear brother and sister. the task is for us to see it. and then, to believe it.
;)
.
Jan 3, 2011
staring
.
.
this blog was meant to be about art.
i don't think it was ever just about art, in the object sense of the word.
i don't think i've ever talked about art in a way that is isolated, separate from my life, my daily windings.
the deaths we withstand. the quake of it. the longing.
this blog will be about living.
what happens when a girl loses her titles.
the transitions. the slippages. the shudders.
a status of absence.
a Non-Daughter.
i told my friend the other day: my life oscillates between Magical and Horrible.
i think it might be like that for a lot of people.
a hunting we will go.
.
.
this blog was meant to be about art.
i don't think it was ever just about art, in the object sense of the word.
i don't think i've ever talked about art in a way that is isolated, separate from my life, my daily windings.
the deaths we withstand. the quake of it. the longing.
this blog will be about living.
what happens when a girl loses her titles.
the transitions. the slippages. the shudders.
a status of absence.
a Non-Daughter.
i told my friend the other day: my life oscillates between Magical and Horrible.
i think it might be like that for a lot of people.
a hunting we will go.
.
Jun 26, 2009
i have no answers or insight or relief to offer. give me yours...
this post has taken hours to write... and it's not nearly what it should be. i'm sure there are flaws and confusion all through it. i'm sure i've said it wrong.
but every now and then, it becomes necessary to talk about my private life here. every now and then...
i know that it's everywhere and that there's no real, dire need for yet another blog post about all the death in the news lately... and honestly, i need a bit of a break from it too... and honestly, i don't really feel ready or even equipped to speak about those deaths in any specific way... and honestly, i feel beaten up and weary and useless and confused...
and i feel this way because of the work i make. a lot of my work deals with death... and it all deals with loss in one way or another... with grief and identity and victimization and robbery and abuse and marginalization... a lot of really uncomfortable subject matter in general. and so the news of late and watching the world stop and stare and cry has effected my mood. i woke up feeling a bit lost today... dazed... like a piano has been dropped on me...
i called my sister and we talked for hours. conversations weaved in to one another and we covered as many topics as possible until the battery got too low and the call was dropped. we talked about grief mainly. how it is a different experience for everyone and yet there seems to be a culturally prescribed way to deal with loss... and a very dominant expectation for everyone to feel the same way about the same thing. it's not a moment to rock the boat or go against the grain in any way... all cultures have it to one degree or another... appropriate displays of grief are a culturally mandated thing... and it's hard to watch. at least for me, it is. i'm not pointing any fingers or making any judgements here... it's just that the prescribed model doesn't fit me and it feels bad not to fit in sometimes.
i'm coming face to face with one ethical or philosophical or emotional dilemma after another and it's a lot to contend with. my boat has been rocked. my grain has been splintered.
i don't know where i stand and i'm tired of thinking about it but i can't stop thinking about it and it's reminding me of leah's death. it's reminding me how i felt when i got the news and how, to this day, i'm still angry with her over a great many things she did during her life... cruel things, mean things, and lies.
and it feels mean of me to still feel angry, to harbour resentment...
she's dead.
who am i screaming at?
does all the crap from the past even matter? exactly what am i having such a hard time getting over? of what nature is my loss?
i don't want to become bitter. i never want to become so soured against humanity that compassion becomes impossible. i want to be compassionate and extend forgiveness and love and understanding...
leah used to say, "if you came looking for sympathy, you came to the wrong person". i don't want to be like that... but i know that i have been in regard to her life and her experiences... experiences that made her sarcastic and mistrustful and hateful and judgemental and manipulative. i've tried to take my knowledge of her and make it explain how she could do the horrible things she did. i've tried to excuse it all. i've tried to find a path of forgiveness. i've tried. and i've failed and failed and failed. i guess i'm not done trying...
but it's hard when your heart has been eaten by a person you loved and trusted and admired... a person whom you felt safe with, whose presence in your life was prized, a friend you wanted forever and talked with about being two old ladies together, laughing in our rocking chairs on the front porch and giving children a hard time...
it's hard when that person puts all your secrets on display... removed from it's context and twisted to get the biggest laugh. it's hard when you've been victimized by someone so close, so trusted, so elite in your life. it's hard when you've got no recourse, no power and no voice... no way to explain yourself because no one cares to hear it... the damage has been done and everyone believes the worst and no one cares about the truth. it's hard when you've been humiliated and used and your pain gets laughed at. it's hard to have your private life and emotions put on stage by the one person you trusted most in the world. it's very hard to know what to do or how to feel or how to forgive when then that person dies and you never had it out with them, never called them out on their bullshit, never defended yourself...
i never defended myself.
not really.
i chose to leave her life quietly.
i was tired of all the yelling and i was tired of defending myself against the opinions of strangers and co-workers, whoever. i was tired of the cruelty and i knew i couldn't win and that it'd never stop as long as i kept responding. i was tired and beaten down. i handed her the crown and i walked away. when she died, i hadn't seen or spoken to her in over 5 years.
5 years. i didn't think of her very often and i didn't care about what was going on in her life. i had no curiosity, not even the morbid kind and, as far as i was concerned, no news was good news. i felt betrayed. still. and i referred to her as Brutus in the corner of my heart and mind and memory. i did not regret letting go of the friendship. it'd hadn't been a real friendship after all. i did not miss her... but i really missed who i thought she was when we first met. i really missed the persona... the late night conversations and silliness and sharing and kinship i had felt... that mask she built from lies and deceptions- i missed it horribly.
and so today, the weight of all that hurt is back on me... and i don't know what to do with it or how to set it down. it feels like shit to admit that after all these years i'm still hurt and i still feel betrayed. it feels like shit to be mad at a dead woman... to still be afraid of her.
leah is the person who first exposed me to earth, wind, and fire... to de barge... to billy ocean... and to old michael jackson. i learned all the words to P.Y.T because of her... to make her laugh at karaoke. she would be in bed crying her eyes out right now if she were alive. she'd refuse to eat or leave the house or get out from behind her quilt. she'd collapse and stay collapsed for a week or two and call off from work and just crawl inside herself and hide. she'd be wounded by yesterday's news in a huge, horribly deep way. she'd have been traumatized and it would've taken her a long, long, long time to crawl back out of her cave.
i need to learn how to forgive her. i need to learn how to tell good, happy stories about her. i loved her best when she was in my life. i need to find a way to move passed everything else. it does no good to hold on to all this. it has no value anymore. some one's daughter is in the ground and i'd never wish it on anyone to have to bury their own child. no one. and my heart broke for leah's mama. it still breaks for her. i need to learn how to set it down and be okay and remember her in a better way and hold on to the good that was in her in spite of everything else. i think i'm finally mourning her... and i feel inappropriate and too late and my grain is flying all over the place- splintered and useless and adding up to nothing.
but every now and then, it becomes necessary to talk about my private life here. every now and then...
i know that it's everywhere and that there's no real, dire need for yet another blog post about all the death in the news lately... and honestly, i need a bit of a break from it too... and honestly, i don't really feel ready or even equipped to speak about those deaths in any specific way... and honestly, i feel beaten up and weary and useless and confused...
and i feel this way because of the work i make. a lot of my work deals with death... and it all deals with loss in one way or another... with grief and identity and victimization and robbery and abuse and marginalization... a lot of really uncomfortable subject matter in general. and so the news of late and watching the world stop and stare and cry has effected my mood. i woke up feeling a bit lost today... dazed... like a piano has been dropped on me...
i called my sister and we talked for hours. conversations weaved in to one another and we covered as many topics as possible until the battery got too low and the call was dropped. we talked about grief mainly. how it is a different experience for everyone and yet there seems to be a culturally prescribed way to deal with loss... and a very dominant expectation for everyone to feel the same way about the same thing. it's not a moment to rock the boat or go against the grain in any way... all cultures have it to one degree or another... appropriate displays of grief are a culturally mandated thing... and it's hard to watch. at least for me, it is. i'm not pointing any fingers or making any judgements here... it's just that the prescribed model doesn't fit me and it feels bad not to fit in sometimes.
i'm coming face to face with one ethical or philosophical or emotional dilemma after another and it's a lot to contend with. my boat has been rocked. my grain has been splintered.
i don't know where i stand and i'm tired of thinking about it but i can't stop thinking about it and it's reminding me of leah's death. it's reminding me how i felt when i got the news and how, to this day, i'm still angry with her over a great many things she did during her life... cruel things, mean things, and lies.
and it feels mean of me to still feel angry, to harbour resentment...
she's dead.
who am i screaming at?
does all the crap from the past even matter? exactly what am i having such a hard time getting over? of what nature is my loss?
i don't want to become bitter. i never want to become so soured against humanity that compassion becomes impossible. i want to be compassionate and extend forgiveness and love and understanding...
leah used to say, "if you came looking for sympathy, you came to the wrong person". i don't want to be like that... but i know that i have been in regard to her life and her experiences... experiences that made her sarcastic and mistrustful and hateful and judgemental and manipulative. i've tried to take my knowledge of her and make it explain how she could do the horrible things she did. i've tried to excuse it all. i've tried to find a path of forgiveness. i've tried. and i've failed and failed and failed. i guess i'm not done trying...
but it's hard when your heart has been eaten by a person you loved and trusted and admired... a person whom you felt safe with, whose presence in your life was prized, a friend you wanted forever and talked with about being two old ladies together, laughing in our rocking chairs on the front porch and giving children a hard time...
it's hard when that person puts all your secrets on display... removed from it's context and twisted to get the biggest laugh. it's hard when you've been victimized by someone so close, so trusted, so elite in your life. it's hard when you've got no recourse, no power and no voice... no way to explain yourself because no one cares to hear it... the damage has been done and everyone believes the worst and no one cares about the truth. it's hard when you've been humiliated and used and your pain gets laughed at. it's hard to have your private life and emotions put on stage by the one person you trusted most in the world. it's very hard to know what to do or how to feel or how to forgive when then that person dies and you never had it out with them, never called them out on their bullshit, never defended yourself...
i never defended myself.
not really.
i chose to leave her life quietly.
i was tired of all the yelling and i was tired of defending myself against the opinions of strangers and co-workers, whoever. i was tired of the cruelty and i knew i couldn't win and that it'd never stop as long as i kept responding. i was tired and beaten down. i handed her the crown and i walked away. when she died, i hadn't seen or spoken to her in over 5 years.
5 years. i didn't think of her very often and i didn't care about what was going on in her life. i had no curiosity, not even the morbid kind and, as far as i was concerned, no news was good news. i felt betrayed. still. and i referred to her as Brutus in the corner of my heart and mind and memory. i did not regret letting go of the friendship. it'd hadn't been a real friendship after all. i did not miss her... but i really missed who i thought she was when we first met. i really missed the persona... the late night conversations and silliness and sharing and kinship i had felt... that mask she built from lies and deceptions- i missed it horribly.
and so today, the weight of all that hurt is back on me... and i don't know what to do with it or how to set it down. it feels like shit to admit that after all these years i'm still hurt and i still feel betrayed. it feels like shit to be mad at a dead woman... to still be afraid of her.
leah is the person who first exposed me to earth, wind, and fire... to de barge... to billy ocean... and to old michael jackson. i learned all the words to P.Y.T because of her... to make her laugh at karaoke. she would be in bed crying her eyes out right now if she were alive. she'd refuse to eat or leave the house or get out from behind her quilt. she'd collapse and stay collapsed for a week or two and call off from work and just crawl inside herself and hide. she'd be wounded by yesterday's news in a huge, horribly deep way. she'd have been traumatized and it would've taken her a long, long, long time to crawl back out of her cave.
i need to learn how to forgive her. i need to learn how to tell good, happy stories about her. i loved her best when she was in my life. i need to find a way to move passed everything else. it does no good to hold on to all this. it has no value anymore. some one's daughter is in the ground and i'd never wish it on anyone to have to bury their own child. no one. and my heart broke for leah's mama. it still breaks for her. i need to learn how to set it down and be okay and remember her in a better way and hold on to the good that was in her in spite of everything else. i think i'm finally mourning her... and i feel inappropriate and too late and my grain is flying all over the place- splintered and useless and adding up to nothing.
May 2, 2009
not quite full disclosure...
sigh.
the past couple days have been alternately great and gruesome, fueled by live music and gin and wine and food and rain. i am worn out, not sad, but have been feeling a bit anxious for the last 3 or 4 days. i've been having strange, sad dreams that leave me feeling guilty and full of regret when i wake up. i've even been feeling the urge to pray lately (which is something exceedingly rare for me). and then i realized that i'm right smack dab in the middle of a very strange anniversary of mine- my college graduation. it is the day i became disowned.
i'd made a statement once that if anybody ever tried to get in the way of my art practice, i'd cut them out of my life quick and sure and without any regret...
and i found myself in a situation where i had to do just that.
i'd need to write a memoir in order to explain what happened... suffice to say that my resolve to become an artist had been tested in the most extreme and unbelievable ways that, at that point, all i wanted was to graduate. i no longer cared about grades or honors or anything other than getting the damn piece of paper. i was hanging on by a very thin string and was living in constant fear that a complete mental break would seize me at any moment. i'd begun having panic attacks... something i was not at all familiar with and it took me awhile to identify that that's what was going on. they'd hit, one right after the other, as i sat quietly on the BART train on my way to campus each morning. it felt like i was about to have a heart attack. the uphill walk from the BART station to campus would work to calm me down but the panic would find me in short order once i was sitting in class. i couldn't even keep track of how many bouts of this crap i'd suffer in a single day.
12 hours later, i'd fall asleep on the train on my way back home and, surprisingly, i never missed my stop.
i was preparing myself to become homeless. i actually wanted to be homeless because it meant i'd be out of the situation i was in. walking in the door to death threats and hunger strikes isn't a happy experience.
so i walked across the stage and got my little scroll and was almost immediately carted off 500 miles away to my mother's house. it was hard to be without jared but i didn't want him to see me lose my mind. he was in a very painful, angry place as well. the situation had re-opened so many things and ghosts and traumas for the both of us... so i made sure he and inga had a new place to live and then i left. they were safe and knowing they were safe was such a huge comfort. and i felt safely hidden from anything and everything that could hurt me at my mother's house. i slept and slept and slept and cried and cried and cried. i woke up to fresh coffee and i'd sit out on the back porch with my mom and we'd talk for as long as it took. my brother and sister stayed by my side and the full weight of the family history was dealt with... together.
all that talking and crying kept my mental slip at bay and i've been working ever since to bring normalcy and regularity and truth in to my life. it has definitely been a hard, confusing year but at least there's been no yelling, no death threats, no hunger strikes, and no deception. there's been lots of writing, lots of walking the dog, lots of painting and drawing and crocheting and reading and talking and (lately) wine with the neighbor.
and so i've been feeling a bit wild, a bit out of sorts, but also extremely thankful for the fact that my life today is nothing like what it was on this day a year ago. i'm in a much better place. i'm safe and healthy and generally happy. i no longer fear for my sanity and i feel optimistic and strong and capable. jared and i are happy and in love. both our careers are moving forward and our home is warm and safe and full of art and honesty.
the past couple days have been alternately great and gruesome, fueled by live music and gin and wine and food and rain. i am worn out, not sad, but have been feeling a bit anxious for the last 3 or 4 days. i've been having strange, sad dreams that leave me feeling guilty and full of regret when i wake up. i've even been feeling the urge to pray lately (which is something exceedingly rare for me). and then i realized that i'm right smack dab in the middle of a very strange anniversary of mine- my college graduation. it is the day i became disowned.
i'd made a statement once that if anybody ever tried to get in the way of my art practice, i'd cut them out of my life quick and sure and without any regret...
and i found myself in a situation where i had to do just that.
i'd need to write a memoir in order to explain what happened... suffice to say that my resolve to become an artist had been tested in the most extreme and unbelievable ways that, at that point, all i wanted was to graduate. i no longer cared about grades or honors or anything other than getting the damn piece of paper. i was hanging on by a very thin string and was living in constant fear that a complete mental break would seize me at any moment. i'd begun having panic attacks... something i was not at all familiar with and it took me awhile to identify that that's what was going on. they'd hit, one right after the other, as i sat quietly on the BART train on my way to campus each morning. it felt like i was about to have a heart attack. the uphill walk from the BART station to campus would work to calm me down but the panic would find me in short order once i was sitting in class. i couldn't even keep track of how many bouts of this crap i'd suffer in a single day.
12 hours later, i'd fall asleep on the train on my way back home and, surprisingly, i never missed my stop.
i was preparing myself to become homeless. i actually wanted to be homeless because it meant i'd be out of the situation i was in. walking in the door to death threats and hunger strikes isn't a happy experience.
so i walked across the stage and got my little scroll and was almost immediately carted off 500 miles away to my mother's house. it was hard to be without jared but i didn't want him to see me lose my mind. he was in a very painful, angry place as well. the situation had re-opened so many things and ghosts and traumas for the both of us... so i made sure he and inga had a new place to live and then i left. they were safe and knowing they were safe was such a huge comfort. and i felt safely hidden from anything and everything that could hurt me at my mother's house. i slept and slept and slept and cried and cried and cried. i woke up to fresh coffee and i'd sit out on the back porch with my mom and we'd talk for as long as it took. my brother and sister stayed by my side and the full weight of the family history was dealt with... together.
all that talking and crying kept my mental slip at bay and i've been working ever since to bring normalcy and regularity and truth in to my life. it has definitely been a hard, confusing year but at least there's been no yelling, no death threats, no hunger strikes, and no deception. there's been lots of writing, lots of walking the dog, lots of painting and drawing and crocheting and reading and talking and (lately) wine with the neighbor.
and so i've been feeling a bit wild, a bit out of sorts, but also extremely thankful for the fact that my life today is nothing like what it was on this day a year ago. i'm in a much better place. i'm safe and healthy and generally happy. i no longer fear for my sanity and i feel optimistic and strong and capable. jared and i are happy and in love. both our careers are moving forward and our home is warm and safe and full of art and honesty.
Mar 27, 2009
loss...
back on the painting train this morning. i've got another big canvas following close behind and can hopefully get it wrapped up within the next 2 weeks or so. i'm so happy to have so many things to work on right now. between painting, drawing, writing, and crocheting, i should never find myself with nothing to do and feeling bored that's for sure.
after working for a while on the next big canvas first thing, i finished this little painting that's been floating around the studio for a couple months:
untitled
12" x 12"
oil on canvas
angela simione, 2009
i can't quite figure out what the hell i like about this particular painting but i do. i really do. it's a bit nostalgic, a bit creepy, and hey, it's even got some color in it! :) whatever. ha! but the more i look at it, the more i like it. i may end up hating it by next week but for now i'm enjoying it. i've got it tucked in my bookcase. these twins are busy watching over my poetry collection... definitely something guard-doggish about this piece... in a "The Shining" sort of way.
maybe because of my own high level of happiness lately, the news about nicholas hughes' death the other day really threw me off balance. i had actually just been thinking about him a few days prior- about his reclusive lifestyle and how hard that must be... the fact that he lives a life of semi-anonymity... not quite a regular guy, not quite a celebrity, but infamous because of all the death and trauma that exists in his family... and the horror of having that trauma play out in public. i was thinking that i didn't know what he looks like... if he favored his mother or father in appearance... what color his hair is and if he and his sister resemble one another... how i know who he is but that i don't know a single thing about him...
and then two or three days go by and i read that he committed suicide. gone. and his sister is now the only living member of the plath/hughes family. she is alone. and she hates us. and i think she's right to hate us even though it hurts. and again- one more person there's not much any of us can do for... except leave her alone. i'm glad she's an artist and writer. i'm glad she has a husband to wrap herself up in right now. i'm glad she has places to go, corners to hide in, words to get lost in...
after working for a while on the next big canvas first thing, i finished this little painting that's been floating around the studio for a couple months:
untitled
12" x 12"
oil on canvas
angela simione, 2009
i can't quite figure out what the hell i like about this particular painting but i do. i really do. it's a bit nostalgic, a bit creepy, and hey, it's even got some color in it! :) whatever. ha! but the more i look at it, the more i like it. i may end up hating it by next week but for now i'm enjoying it. i've got it tucked in my bookcase. these twins are busy watching over my poetry collection... definitely something guard-doggish about this piece... in a "The Shining" sort of way.
maybe because of my own high level of happiness lately, the news about nicholas hughes' death the other day really threw me off balance. i had actually just been thinking about him a few days prior- about his reclusive lifestyle and how hard that must be... the fact that he lives a life of semi-anonymity... not quite a regular guy, not quite a celebrity, but infamous because of all the death and trauma that exists in his family... and the horror of having that trauma play out in public. i was thinking that i didn't know what he looks like... if he favored his mother or father in appearance... what color his hair is and if he and his sister resemble one another... how i know who he is but that i don't know a single thing about him...
and then two or three days go by and i read that he committed suicide. gone. and his sister is now the only living member of the plath/hughes family. she is alone. and she hates us. and i think she's right to hate us even though it hurts. and again- one more person there's not much any of us can do for... except leave her alone. i'm glad she's an artist and writer. i'm glad she has a husband to wrap herself up in right now. i'm glad she has places to go, corners to hide in, words to get lost in...
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