Content – Alluding to sexual abuse. Talking about knowing my family for more than just their abuses.
I’ve got an apartment inspection tomorrow morning. The biggest stressful part is not knowing approximate time they’re coming. I also have to getting Joe in his crate. It usually goes smoothly but for some reason I get nervous just before an inspection.
I started working on a rock painting. It’s almost done. I like doing tiny paintings because they help me focus. I find rocks outside just laying there, screaming for some paint. Lol. I happily oblige.
I’m fighting sleep. It feels like if I let go and go try to go to sleep, I’ll drown in the onslaught of thoughts and memories.
No one is here that will hurt me but I fear I’ll feel that hand and then there we go.
Its late and I’ve stopped painting. I’ve got to wake early arrange my paint area neatly.
For some reason, at midnight I’m thinking of my grandmother’s type of art. She drew faceless people and figures drastically out of proportion. I never got to ask about the murals she painted in their house. I never had the opportunity to open up about her art experiences because like my own mother, I was trying to survive her abuse. Only now do I wonder about her art.
Did my great-grandmother support my grandmother’s art? Was my grandmother a late bloomer with art or was she driven from a young age, like me? Who supported her art to the point that she’d have enough confidence to paint large murals stretching several feet?
My grandmother played the piano. She also crocheted and sewed. I think I have the answer to my question, she needed art and expressed it in several mediums.
How sad to never get to know her due to her own behavior. I thought I didn’t fit in the family. I thought I had nothing in common with them because I couldn’t see past the abuse and anger. I felt isolated and odd when the truth is, I’m an artist just like they are.
My grandmother was an artist, her sister worked with plaster sculptures. My 3rd Aunt was an artist. I’m an artist. There’s one in the family line under me. It’s safe to say it’s in the blood.
Knowing this gives me a sense of belonging, and gives me a few clues to who my family is past the yuck.