Scary Thoughts

What if your father raped you and you enjoyed it?  Or, to put it a little less explosively, what if you enjoyed the feelings produced when your father played with your body?  This possibility worries me tremendously.  It's odd because I remember so little of the actual events but I remember the feeling that sex was dirty and bad -- and that those bad feelings could arise in me pretty much anywhere and at anytime.

I can imagine that having my father's attention was nice -- no matter how painful, scary or humiliating.  I was so seldom noticed or touched.  I can also imagine extremely mixed feelings about being abandoned for my younger sister.

Two scenes trouble me at the moment.  I take them as evidence of the warped and perverted child I had become -- and they won't let me go.  I feel guilty that I might have allowed, liked or initiated connections that recreated the feelings with my father.  Which I can't remember.  So unsettling and upsetting.

One.  I remember sitting on the front lawn of the boy who lived behind us.  We decided we'd get married.  We were 4 or 5.  He kissed my cheek.  I have a horrible feeling now that I thought I knew what marriage was and it involved feelings and beds.  Because I'd done that.  A year or two later, he and I built a fort in his back yard.  We planned to sleep there overnight but then all of a sudden that was a horrible idea and his mother and sisters objected strenuously.  I felt so bad about myself and I still do when I think of that time.

Two.  Of course, at the cottage.  So very many occasions of wondering who I was, what I wanted, what was allowed.  My friend's cousin.  Boys from the other beach.  Noxzema.  My friend had Noxzema at her cottage.  I remember the smell.  And I remember one day when we were taking turns rubbing it on our bare backs.  Her mother put a stop to it.  We were in a room we seldom entered, the room with the window I was supposed to tap if ever Grannie was sick.  Which I never did.  Bad again.

Colourful

I had a colourful week at TSA.  (I guess I'm struck by so much colour because of my spring and summer of Life Drawing in black.)  In Art History I made another squeegee painting that is still taped to a board to dry.  In Collage I made two collages with found paper ripped off lamp poles and hoardings.  In Colour I made a colour wheel and attempted a few other exercises.  In Life Drawing we continued using three colours, one each for gesture, joints and mass.  I had to skip Painting for my nephew's wedding.  Here's some of what I did last week.

Stitched Up

This week I had a disturbing dream.  I was in a doctor's office having a minor procedure done -- removing a wart or something like that -- when I happened to see a drawing of what the doctor intended to do.  In a difficult two hour operation he was going to sew up my genitals.  I was horrified -- and not only because it was without my consent or knowledge.

When I woke up from the dream my first thought was of an operation to make me a virgin again.  That some man had thought this a good idea.  Value added.  I know this is actually done.  I also know that my father began exploring my body when I was very young, before I went to school -- so that he might think it a good idea to start afresh.

Another thought was of being stitched up -- a phrase used in police shows about someone who's been set up to seem guilty but is not.  This idea reverberates for me as well since it's only recently that I've understood that the trauma I endured was not my fault.

And then there's the idea of control.  Lack of consent or prior knowledge.  Shutting me up in every possible way.  Silencing me.  Keeping me from experiencing the life of an adult -- a girl, not a woman.

Sadly every one of these ideas has meaning for me. 

Trauma & History

Most of what I've written about my past on this blog would be fiercely disputed by various members of my family.  We can all agree that our maternal grandmother died at her cottage and that our parents are now dead.  After that, things become murky.

I have four siblings and we extend out now with partners, children, grandchildren -- so some dispute is to be expected.  "Sibling rivalry" or "Mom always liked you best."  But our history goes way beyond that.  Or so I believe.

My problem now is that the fragile existence of my family depends upon everyone believing the same thing -- nothing bad happened to us.  I can no longer go along.

Because going along with the idea that we are a typical family means that I must remain that smothered half-dead creature my parents made me.  And yes, I mean both my parents because my mother was there too.  I am sickened by what he did to her but at the same time I have to acknowledge that she was no mother.

What started me on this rant?  It has to do with communication within our family.  Insiders and outsiders.  And me.  I feel a pat on the head telling me I'm A-OK and "doing so well."  What does that even mean?  All the gushing about me doing well surely means that I haven't been doing well and that doing well is not expected of me.  Why is that?  Because I have been a mouse all my life.  And why is that?  Because of my sad personality.  Because that's innately who I am -- a mouse who has started to take a few art courses late in life.  How lovely!

No!  Not lovely.  Miraculous.

I find myself on the outside looking in.  Expected to be happy with the crumbs thrown my way.  If one brother says hello and what's new and then answers his own question, I'm meant to be content.  I'm expected to show up at family events and toe the line -- and I should be grateful for the invitation.  Because I am a mouse with slightly expanded horizons.

Ha!  Maybe I'm the rat!  I'm being asked to gloss over the reasons why my life has been such hell.  Such complete despair.  Because examining the reasons means shaking the boat of our fragile family.  But, sorry, I've been silenced way too long!

Smothered

My father was king of the castle.  Whatever he said went.  His control was complete and cruel and brutal.  He never needed a lot of persuasion to keep me in line since he'd all but smothered the life out of me.  I often wonder why I'm still alive.  My mother is not.  She endured a fifty year marriage to Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde.  She had been an active, sociable woman who spent years dying alone under his control.  For myself, I've found it almost impossible to emerge from under his thumb.  I've been afraid of people and relationships and my experiences so far have justified my fear.  But things have finally begun to change.  Signs of life are all around me.

Light & Shadow

I painted with acrylics yesterday for the first time ever.  Compared to watercolour -- which is all I know -- acrylics were novel and freeing.  Being able to add paint on top of paint and not make mud is great.  Otherwise I have everything to learn.  For the first day we painted a still life of white objects using two colours only -- white and umber.  First we mixed three middle tones.  Next we painted the composition in outline with the middle tone.  Then all the shadows with the same tone.  Then every area that was left in the lighter tone.  Then we could add darks and highlights.  We also learned about 3 vertical and 3 horizontal lines in a composition.  Where the middle lines meet is supposed to be the focal point.

This is my first acrylic painting.

Colour-Coded

Today I started my life drawing class.  My new teacher has a colour-coded way to begin.  Her method uses three colours each darker than the last.  She uses yellow, red and blue chalk and it's best to do the same.  It was confusing for me today but I hope that a new way will be good for my brain and my drawing.  The yellow lines are the initial gesture.  Red is for axis points or joints -- where the body changes direction.  Blue is for mass.  Today we worked especially on the mass of the rib cage.

Here are some of my drawings from today.

Art History

The 12 week fall term has started at TSA.  I persuaded myself to add a fifth course when a second section was added of a course I'd previously been unable to fit in.  All my courses this year are required but they're also all courses I want to take: Colour & Composition, Collage & Assemblage, Life Drawing, Painting (Acrylics) and Art History.

So far I've been to two classes.  Yesterday we played "Exquisite Corpse" in Collage & Assemblage.  That was fun.  We each contributed 3 graphite drawings of a head, torso and legs.  We've started another set using cut-out images from magazines.

In Art History we began with the Romans.  Next week is early Byzantium.  So, pretty quick but at the same time not labouriously slow.  Half the class time will be practical work.  This week we "created surfaces" by pulling paint across paper with a squeegee.  That was fun too.  These are the two I did.

I think the project related to frescoes, murals and mosaics but I'm not sure.  Anyhow, my week has started off pretty well.  Everyone has been open and friendly and I've been fairly calm.  I have to shop yet again for supplies -- gee, too bad!  Not.  I love art supply stores though I've just discovered that gouache paints might be the most expensive I'll have to buy.  Oh well.

Things not seen

For me the ultimate in don't-look-don't-see was the night Grannie died.  This event has become my reality check for things not-seen.  That is, I know Grannie died that night and I know that I saw.  Therefore, even if I can't yet see the pictures in my mind, no one can question the reality of my memories of that day as they question my memories about other events.

I've tracked my movements starting before daybreak.  I've tried to make sense of a day which I entered outwardly not-knowing that Grannie had died though I knew where to find her when I finally went back into the cottage with an adult.

I'll repeat that I was the only one staying with Grannie that week.  I was 10 years old and on my own.  It didn't occur to me to ask for help even though my friend's mother had told me to wake her up if anything happened in the night.  I knew better.  I knew never to look at Grannie in the night especially if she was not properly dressed.

I sat outside leaning against a huge maple now gone and stared at the sun rising over the lake.  I know I walked through the room where Grannie lay dead and yet when we discovered her several hours later I could only say that I couldn't find her in the morning.  And the story told in my mind was that I'd only ever seen her foot.  It was as if a screen shielded my eyes from what I wasn't supposed to see.  But I did see.  I need to see again.  And not just at the cottage but in the city house as well.  Everywhere.  I need to see what happened to me.

The sky was blue

I've been thinking a lot about seeing and not-seeing.  Looking and not-seeing.  Not being seen to look.  If I'd been condemned for looking, I found that as long as I hid my curiosity, hid my looking, I was more or less safe.  Safe from Grannie's sharp words?  Maybe.  Safe from night horrors?  Possibly -- if you count "still alive" as safe enough.  Still alive and yet, for a long time, unable to see.

Grannie saw everything.  I wonder now if I thought she'd even seen me in my bed in the city and the many things I had done there.  Not on my own, of course -- but it was probably my fault.  Maybe she knew it all.

One thing she saw at the cottage was the boy next door smoking.  She told his aunt, my friend's mother -- something my parents would never have done.  They couldn't even speak to each other or their own children.

My friend and I played together all day every day whenever we were at the cottage.  Her cousin, the smoker, circled around and sneered.  He was four or more years older than me which means that when I was say 9, he was 13 or 14.  A significant difference.

He was not happy about my grandmother telling on him.  One day he appeared suddenly from the bushes surrounding our fort.  His intent was to pay me back.  Before I knew it I was on the ground with my bathing suit off.  He raped me.  Sex and violence.  Even more horrible to remember that this was not my first time.

Because I have to remember that a lot of not-seeing went on at the house in the city as well.  It's not possible that my mother didn't know what my father was up to.  And maybe I thought Grannie knew as well.  No one did anything about it.  No one helped me.  I didn't even realize that was possible so of course I told no one about the incident in the fort.

No one -- including myself.  I had learned the art of not-seeing very well and for many years I simply forgot.  I always remembered seeing the sky.  It was clear blue.

Life Drawing

Two fifteen minute poses ended my night.

Life Drawing

Next was a couple of sets of ten minutes poses.

Life Drawing

I went to Friday night drawing at TSA last night.  The new term starts next week and I'm a little nervous but also excited.  It was good to go to a drawing session before the chaos of next week.  Here are some gestures and 5 minute poses that started the evening.

Mirrors

While Grannie was still alive I most often shared a bedroom with her.  My older brothers would occupy a second and my parents the third bedroom -- later with a baby or two.  I remember a time when I was at the cottage with Grannie and my older brothers.  I rushed in at dusk one evening to ask if I could stay out longer.  She grabbed me, held me close and said that I could stay out if I promised to go right to sleep and not watch her as she undressed.  Then she added in a menacing tone, "I seen you in the glass."

Those are the only words I remember Grannie speaking.  I've listened to my parents argue about whether or not she had a Scottish accent -- she'd come to Canada when she was 18 -- but I couldn't say.  I do know that those words terrified me.  I was supposed to be asleep by the time she came to bed but falling asleep was never easy.  I guess I was awake one night and watched transfixed by her enormous corset and pills washed down with sherry.  But now I had to worry as well that I might be a pervert -- since clearly that's what Grannie had seen.

A child pervert.  Doesn't seem possible except that it was, very possible in my case.  By then I'd had many nighttime experiences that I should never have had.  It would be easy to believe that it was all my fault.  Easy to believe I was a dirty, horrid, little girl.  And so it goes.  That's how it happens.  That's how it starts -- a lifetime of "low self-esteem."  Distorted body image.  Self-loathing ...

No surprise that I've never liked to see myself in mirrors.  I avoid them.  I didn't have one at home.  Only recently has it dawned on me that as a result I don't really know what I look like.  This feels odd to me and not right especially now when juxtaposed with art school.  I enjoy life drawing so much.  Surely I should be able as well to see myself?  So off I went to Canadian Tire and brought home a full-length mirror on the TTC.  I've tried drawing a few self-portraits but so far haven't managed much of a likeness.  I'll keep trying.

Pocket Books

Lately I find I can only read mysteries and even then only mysteries of a certain type.  Most often they are British and ten or more years old.  Sometimes Swedish ones as well.  My sister has a few volumes of the right type that she lends to me.  This weekend she brought me a Dalziel and Pascoe by Reginald Hill from 1999.  Just the thing.

Until I got to thinking.  I know that my sister has many books that belonged to our mother.  I know that she even has the book that my mother took to the hospital almost ten years ago to read during her convalescence from surgery.  I know that my mother never read in the hospital as complication upon complication ended with her death.  Could this be the book she'd put in a bag with her reading glasses?  I think I can see a book on the table beside the hospital bed.  Her suitcase stayed or was put back into the trunk of my father's car along with her wheelchair.  By the fifth day after her surgery the horror was such that she begged my father to fetch her wheelchair and take her home.

My mother kept lists of the mysteries she'd read and ones she'd read about in the drawer of the table beside her chair.  Her chair was in the living room of the condo where my parents had moved from the home where I grew up.  The chair she seldom left.  The condo she seldom left.  By the time she went into hospital my mother had been virtually house-bound for many many years.  She used her walker to get around, sometimes sitting on the seat and pushing herself crab-like backwards down the hall.  She received a specially fitted wheelchair about a week before the hospital.

I have a few of the lists my mother left behind.  My sister and I knew to look in that special drawer.  Along with coasters there were nail scissors.  A loonie or two to reimburse my sister when she dropped by with a chocolate bar or other sweet.  Tiny newspapers cuttings.  And spiral note pads for her lists.  In one were her calculations working out the then current ages of her five children.  Shopping lists though she never went to stores.  Medications.  "Dilaudid 12 mg."  Lists of mysteries to read.

I remember my mother reading from my earliest childhood.  At that time she'd have smokes and a "quick" coffee close by.  She twirled her hair as she read.  By the time she was in the condo she needed reading glasses and both my parents had stopped smoking.  But still she read a lot.  She read the daily papers and listened to the news on the radio beside her chair.  She preferred paperback to hardcover.  She always called them pocket books.

Life Drawing

I stayed for two more sets -- 3 ten minutes poses and then a ten and a fifteen minute pose.

Life Drawing

I went to the drawing session on Friday night.  As usual ten one minute gestures and 3 five minute poses began the night.  I felt more comfortable right from the start than I had the night before.