Hidden secrets


A lot of the time, when I go into dark gear, people ask me why I write this stuff and put it out on the blog.  Well, I write it because I have to get it out.  It bothers some people because they think that some things should be kept secret, locked away.  They just don’t realize that the longer it stays stored the more it chews away and attacks your healthy psyche.   Then of course we get those who will berate me or give me a bit of a talking to for dwelling in the past.  What some don’t seem to realize is that the more you don’t face your demons, be they in the past or the present, they will eat you up whole.  Of course, we don’t live in the past, how can we when we are in the present, but we have to deal with those things that cause us to think in an unaligned way.

We have to fight our demons, look them dead in the eye and spit on them.  If I think back I realise that I lived my younger life under acute stress conditions.  My paternal father instilled a very great fear in me.  I had to keep secrets or my whole family would be damned.  I was never to say.  I tried once to say, but I was looked at with eyes that either did not want to believe me, or they did not want to know, or I was not worth doing something about it.

I got used to living in a nervous state, always watching his expressions, trying to know what to expect next.  Of course, this is impossible to do with a psychopath, they are a little unreadable.  So, when still a very young girl, I started drawing pictures of people, their faces, every little expression.  Sometimes these people I drew were very evil, and even I, the drawer of the picture would shudder.

The father hated my drawings.  I would draw in pencil and on any type of paper or board I could find, but he, when I was at school would “correct” my drawings with a blue ball point pen, fix the stuff which he thought was wrong.  I could not erase the ink of that blue pen of his.  He disliked my drawings, maybe because he saw pictures of himself there, and yet others thought that they were good, but they always looked at me queerly.  I knew the look was because the pictures were not all sweet and flowery, the way little girls should draw.  I was so angry when the father “fixed” my drawings that I tore them all up and threw them away…

Now some many years later, I go all dark and moody, as I do sometimes.  I paint now, not draw, but I don’t like them if they have not been sold or given away, I break the canvasses and destroy the work.  The simplest thing that occurred to me yesterday was how stupid I am not to realize why I have this urge to destroy my paintings so much…

photo credit: Gabriela Camerotti via photopin cc