Today I saw this blogger come to visit me so naturally I had to check her out. At first I thought it was a blog by a psychotherapists and was ready to click off the page because I don’t read blogs by them. There’s no moral objection, it’s just that reading the entries of a therapist makes me question my own. Is he out there with a blog? Is he talking about my case, on and on. So, I don’t read blogs by therapists. It messes with my head. But I saw an entry that changed a few thoughts concerning my mother.
When an Almost Tragedy Strikes Due to Mental Illness
I can’t tell you how much I needed to read this entry. I thought my sister and aunt were lying saying they called the police for help but couldn’t get it. It didn’t seem logical. They said she didn’t “present” when the police were called so they did not take her for treatment. I thought, how can that be true? How can she turn symptoms on and off? But the truth is, if I step outside my emotions, and think about the laws today, then I can see why she was not forcibly removed from the home and given treatment.
It is all so completely unexpected, unknown to me in any way as I separated myself from that family for a reason.
I keep spacing out. I stop typing, cover my face with my hands and rock. I come back to with my eyes closed, head down and just pound away at whatever comes out. Somewhere in here I’ve mixed together my anger, regret and love for one of the most evil people I’ve ever known.
She, barbaric in nature, cruel with her tongue, demeaning, crushing with a glance and tearing apart by ignoring me. She was my mother and she should have had dignity. I know that is contrary to the senses. All she’ did, all the emotional deaths my sister and I died were as a result of her rejection, name calling and torment. All all of that came from my mother who should have been able to keep her dignity…..dignity. I can’t even think of her as a woman babbling, paranoid, unkempt. that’s not the woman i know. i know a well dressed psychopath.
One would think I’d have every detail of that moment etched in my mind with every bit of accuracy. But memory isn’t always 100% accurate. Some memories are very accurate and others have all the accuracy of Wikipedia. I’m not saying, don’t trust your memories, I’m saying memories are complex.
Memory, especially memories 30 plus years old, can blend with other memories. This fact has me questioning my last entry about being shot at close range with a rifle. I looked at it and thought, that can’t be right. Even a 22 that close would have shattered my toes. I would have had to seek medical treatment or I would have bled to death. So what kind of gun was it?
Sneaky devils. Evil spirits, unclean. They crawl all over everything like maggots on a pile. Don’t trust it or turn your back to it.
Cats bite. Yuck, they give me the shivers. I can’t do cats.
Dogs jump on you. They bite.
I never had a pet as a child. I am afraid of them because I don’t know what they’re going to do.
You know how Mother feels about cats.
Yes, I do. I remember the pot of boiling water ready to throw on a cat seen on her patio.
You are older, but your strong personality hasn’t changed. Always loud, heavy handed, big gigantic grin while singing praises. I looked at you with disgust. Even while drunk on the religion of the week, you still found time to harm in ways that can not heal without years of help. You are disgusting.
The 31st is the memorial. She said she wants a big hug. Uh, I don’t think so. Don’t ever touch me! You make my skin crawl.
We talked for an hour. She kept saying that I’d been on her heart for weeks now and that God moved me to call. Well, as I understand it, God is the source of all good gifts. That being the case, he wouldn’t have sent you someone who is a hair’s breadth away from hating you.
The first thing I notice about her face is that she has a slight smile and a rather hopeful appearance. The tree branch hair goes up and down. What I find interesting even more than a hopeful look is that I used the color yellow on her face. That’s the last color I’d use on the face. Noteworthy too are her blue eyes and blue lips.
I have used the same art therapy color symbols for over ten years. My color symbols for yellow shows a feeling of disgust, filth, humiliation and garbage. My color symbol for orange is ambiguity with blue being inalienable rights and dignity. I routinely add tree branches as hair or trees on top of the head. Trees and other symbolisms are explained in the Art Therapy Gallery.
Double Therapy Page available
Side two of the painting is normal for me. It fits right in with general feelings of dissociation, sadness and despair. However, the girl with the orange mask appears totally out of character. Continue reading
My sister kept my secret.
She was the only person who knew I could fly.
I could fly around the tree in the front yard that bloomed for a few days then dropped its petals like a dream.
It was the tree with choice switches,
the tree I could see from my bedroom window as I listened to the song ‘Take Me Home’ by Phil Collins.
But, take a look at me now.
it’s me, Jordan
English is my first language but other languages were heard in our household, specifically Spanish and the use of American Sign Language. We spoke Spanish in public which felt very strange.
My grandparents loved Spain and Mexico, with their different traditions and culture. I never asked why they loved Spain. I never asked about murals or volumes of books I was too fearful to examine. I was intrigued and rather impressed with their professional bar in the basement with imported liquor and liqueur. I never asked why it was constructed or if other houses had a full bar like it. It’s not as if we were a communicative family. We used language and threw ourselves into culture to fill empty space, deflect attention and scatter harsh truths. We were avoidant. We did not share our inner most thoughts, feelings and desires. Seriously? No!
In my grandmother’s house, I can see the room so clearly and see the wall of bottles the same as if you were in a pub. The bar was just as long, the stools just as tall. You couldn’t help but be drawn to that area because of its mystique. On a wall to the right of the bar was a large needlework, signed art piece of a second stage bullfight. The craftsmanship was amazing as it captured, stitch by tiny stitch, the despicable act of a bull in its long, drawn out, painful murder.
“I do hate Amaretto.”
“There’s a green bottle in the back that no one has ever opened. I bet it’s beautiful.”
In another turn of looking everywhere but at ourselves, my mother took my sister and me to the Deaf School to learn American Sign Language. My sister and I ate it up. We loved it. We took those classes for a long time. I remember each student having to sign for the instructor. I messed up but I tell ya, there’s something beautiful about that language. There’s something graceful and dignified about Sign Language.
When I realized my mother was falling behind in that skill I took off on learning it. It was awesome to have a language to use with my sister that my mother didn’t thoroughly understand. This removed her ability to manipulate and pit us against one another.
When my sister was being abused in the other room I not only counted the lashes with a dowel rod but I listened or that one phrase, that short sentence that meant she was just getting started. “You’re just like your sister.” That meant I was next. Lying in bed, in total darkness I’d listen and wait. If I heard her sing I knew we’d sleep through the night untouched. If there was no song we were in for a very long night.
Since the integration of The People Behind My Eyes with my artwork, I’ve continued trying to make improvements. I’ve attempted to simplify where possible, clean up links and rearrange galleries.
Several galleries have been renamed and reworked, one gallery was deleted and 4 added. I’ve updated the primary About page and included a statement page concerning my desire to keep separate from hatred and division. The statement page called Community Sensibilities is nested under About Me. The menu bar at the top will come in very handy when viewing Sundrip.
* Available Art *
* Featured Art *
Art for and About Children
Nature and People
The menu bar at the top will come in very handy when viewing Sundrip. You’ll be able to visit the location you choose without having to search all over the place. Checking categories and tags will assist individuals who desire to read on a certain topic within the site. Of course there’s the part about buying artwork. You’ll find that information by clicking the link called Galleries. That’s the Frequently Asked Questions page.
Even though there are changes with more to come, much will remain untouched. I will continue to blog about the recovery stages a survivor of abuse cycles, as well as the potentially debilitating effects PTSD and Dissociative Identity Disorder can have on a person’s life. The constant changes as the result of chronic pain associated with Lupus, Fibromyalgia and Spinal Stenosis will accompany entries about my therapy sessions, art therapy and interpersonal relationships. To be sure, my art will continue to be influenced by all these things.
As for the stability of the website itself, my Web Mistress and her hubby are working on moving Sundrip to a more stable host. This should take place early next month. Dream Host hasn’t been the most fun I’ve ever had.
Thank you for visiting SUNDRIP – Art for Life.