Sundrip Journals
Since the therapy appointment where we talked about my uncle shooting me and the cab driver with the gun I’ve wanted to do nothing but paint, so that’s what I’m doing. What I’m painting is pretty much the same thing with a few variations. I figure since the image is gradually less and less intense I’m accomplishing what I’ve set out to do. I’m painting the pain away. Through acrylic on paper I’ll paint a different outcome. I’ll stop brush strokes when I feel better.
fma
“Goodbye old friend,” that was the cab ride home from therapy. The cab ride to therapy was much more intense and rather fear inspiring. I usually have the same cab driver which works well for me. Although Cabby Negative and I have our clashes he is for the most part reliable and on time. I finally got him to give me a call when he can’t make it so I’m not surprised when another driver shows up. He called me Tuesday to let me know Mama Cabby Negative is ill and he needed to take off. I can’t blame him for wanting to be with his 88 year old mother during surgery.
After he called I had to decide if I was in good enough physical shape to drive myself. Since I wasn’t I went ahead and had another cab come. When he showed up everything seemed normal. I got in, asked if I could smoke and was given the go-ahead. I tried to roll my window down a bit but it didn’t budge. He told me his job is dangerous and that he has sole control of the locks and the windows. He refused to unlock them.
I told him that I understand his job is dangerous but while he feels secure I can’t help but be alarmed that I’m locked in a cab with an armed driver. His not so well concealed gun was under a black pillow which rested under his arm. I lit my cigarette after he rolled the window down about 3 inches. Continue reading ‘Autopilot’
I basically painted a combination of my uncle and me. The figure is shown with it’s hands in the air. His/my hands are covered by two flowers which often represent emotions too strong to safely state. I painted the checkers from the cab as well as an abstract Tampa palm tree. The face is done in purple, pink and blue with one eye. I’m not sure why there’s only one eye.
This piece is a combination of two separate occurrences. The first is of being shot in the foot by my uncle which was discussed in therapy a few days ago. The second part of the painting is when I was picked up by a cab driver who didn’t do so well with hiding the gun he carried for protection.
In this 3 x 5 sketch I have my back to my sister secretly passing her a flower. In the drawing we’re reaching out to one another trying to connect without our abuser knowing.
As much as my sister and I did without my mother knowing it seems only reasonable we could have tried harder to be friends without her knowing. Let me correct that, SHE should have tried harder. We were after all sisters bonded by blood and abuse. Surely that was enough in common to be able to stand the sight of my presence.
In therapy today we talked about how being abused didn’t just rob me of my childhood and destroy early adulthood it robbed me of having a family.
I no longer have contact with any of them but it’s my sister I long for the most. Sometimes it hits hard that I miss her and other times I wonder why on earth I miss her. She herself was an abuser. Back then it didn’t matter, I just wanted my big sister. I go back and forth between loving and hating the person I remember. I go back and forth between making her an angle and see her for what she is.
This is so wrong because family should not do these things to one another. If anything we should fear strangers not the parent in the other room or the sister one door down.
fma
“Goodbye old friend.” That’s what Corey said to me when I got out of his cab today and came into the house. I felt horrible, stupid even because I didn’t remember a word of what he said he and I did in school together. He said we’d been good friends despite running in different crowds. He said he was a “nobody” but I was one of the “beautiful people,” the “famous people” he called them. I remember I was popular but I hung with a lot of different kids and didn’t really attach myself to one single group. As he kept telling me about things he and his friends and I did together in class I thought to myself, he’s got the wrong girl. But then he told me about my unmistakable trademark of a black beret and a Pentax K1000 strapped across my chest day in and day out. He commented on the high top converse I wore back then. I looked down to see the same style on my feet today. I just smiled.
This is a follow up to the entry Mother’s of Inner Children. Other than that there’s no introduction paragraph.
I’ve tried to keep my word with my little ones. I’m able to keep it in most cases with other people but I use to routinely break promises to my inside kids. It took a bit before I stopped doing that. I mean heck, they’re part of me and I have little respect for me so why keep my word to someone I have little respect for right? I’ve tried and have been very good at keeping my word. Sometimes when I tell them something they’ll say to me, “Say it out loud.” They know if I say it out loud it’s final. It’s a promise and I’ll go through with it. They stay on me and remind me that they matter and count and that respect is not an option with them, it’s a right.
In recent times I’ve changed how I manage giving things away or tossing things out. Their stuff was always the first to go. I didn’t stop to consider that they’d want it or how they’d feel about losing their things. I simply acted but now I respect their personal belongings, their personal space and how they feel about their belongings and boundaries.
One of my little one’s doesn’t want me to post photos of one of her dolls because it’s hers and if everyone sees it then it makes it less hers. She wants this all to herself. Even if it makes no sense to me I don’t post photos of her stuff. I lose nothing by respecting her boundaries but I gain a whole lot.
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