Out of the Gutter Art

   Have you noticed that I’m not very good at this? I am kind of disorganized right now, a little creativity here- a brick wall there. Everything makes me cry this week, and I have absolutely refused to finish an important painting.

   Locked up tight, not telling myself why, not really sure what happened to do this to me. So, let’s find out:

1. I haven’t talked to a therapist in months, still mad that the last practice decided not to take my insurance after months with a helpful therapist. I tear off my mask, rip open my heart and pour my pain into the room in front of these people who seem to comprehend. I want them to fix me, absolve me, tell me the horrors I lived and committed are all in the past. Diagnose me, dawn you. Let me in on the secret of my monsterhood. Because I still remember being one. And I hate her, the me that I was.
2. Maybe that’s where this is all coming from, again. Still… from the girl I became after all the abuse. The hateful, angry, vengeful girl who swallowed the child I was and hid her deep, oh so deep in her chest that I couldn’t hear her voice for 25 years. The psychologist said the disappearance of the susie-child was a survival tactic. That many victims of childhood SA and R do this to stop feeling the pain: I remember laying in the grass in my backyard, I’m about 6 or 7, gazing up the sky. Suddenly this question comes into my consciousness, “If I were to disappear inside myself, would anyone notice I was gone?” I recall that this thought startled me, but also kind of felt nice. I could just go into hiding. Safe.
3. I guess I did it. The change was so profound. I wasnt afraid any more. I was angry. I hit something with a comb that I threw, and mother noticed. Asked me if I had done it. I lied. She left the room. Left me with the awful anger.
4. I love her so much. She’s been gone 16 years now. March 21, her birth and death day. I was with her, took care of her during her illness, sang Irish Lullaby as she lay dying. Fourteen long days of active dying after 3 years of awful suffering. I stayed by her side nearly every minute, praying, singing, remembering, comforting. She waited till the minute I fell asleep to leave…the nurses said that is common. And she had told me previously that she had prolonged her life with the horrible chemo, for me. She used to tell me that she lived vicariously,  thru me. That her life had amounted to nothing. Imagine that. I know that I grieved long, and deep, the pain is still there if I linger too long in the sadness of death’s grip. But my faith set me free from the finality of death, for I know, more deeply, that my God has undone death. My faith.
5. Am I living my faith like I promised God I would? Is my sin piling up? My sensuality, my woman-ness, my lust, my swearing, gossiping (my greed for ice cream)…my longing for touch. I can’t earn forgiveness, it is His free gift as long as I repent, turn around, seek His mercy and try again. Oh, I try, but sin grows as does my waistline. I dont feel attractive or wanted anymore. I dont like my older self. My fatter self. My crippled self. I am angry again, like the comb-throwing child. It seems that my actions are designed to punish myself for being a woman, for being fallible, sinful…human.
6. Does any of this make sense to anyone? Dear reader, dear doctor, please say you understand. My words echo into an empty room, an empty blog, a blank canvas..
7.    I cried 2 nights ago, for my dead ex-husband. A broken man who had spent more years of his life in prison than he did free. And our 7 years of marriage was the longest stretch he had ever had in the free world. I loved him beyond reason, believing love was ownership and taking his blows as payment for belonging to him. But in my world that worked both ways, and after he was arrested one of his lovers confessed to me she had been with him for 2 years. 2 years. And she wasnt the only one by no means. He was beautiful then. He was supposed to be mine. I still burn when I think of his infidelity, even as I know how sick and addicted we both were. But he went to prison for 15 to life, did all 15. I divorced him 2 years in.
8.   I had gotten clean, and turned to God. Learned about domestic violence, the cycle of abuse, and began to believe I was never going to allow a man to abuse me again. I’ve not had any opportunity to test my resolve in many years. But I didn’t allow myself to love him anymore. I cut him out of my heart. Until 2 nights ago. When I let out all that pain. I’m not mad at him anymore. I wish I could have said goodbye. He overdosed, alone.
9. So, all these crazy emotions.Washing over me in waves. I dont completely understand why I’m struggling, but writing my feelings down has helped in the past. Perhaps I can have a bit of relief now, maybe I can pray now. For him, for me, for Mom. For everyone heartsick and lonely tonight.
10. Maybe that little girl wants to come out into the light again. I think I will ask, and hold her hand so she’s not afraid…

  (The train traveller named Paulie would soon explain the meaning of this phrase…)

   Fatigue takes on new meaning when you are on the road. You develop a bone deep weariness that is never absent- because true rest from sleep is now forever absent. One must truly keep one eye open at all times. There is danger and predation everywhere.

   *I am grateful to have survived my time on the road. All these decades later, I wish I could tell Danny  (not his real name) how glad I am that he loved me, that he protected me and took care of me. I really loved him, and hope his life turned out OK. My research has been unable to locate him, although I have seen posts by other family members.*

   As we trecked across Tuscon that day, we were tired and hungry. There was a large police presence near the interstate, keeping us from hitchhiking out all that day. From previous experience, we knew not to rub the cops in Arizona the wrong way. They didn’t like vagrants or panhandlers in their towns, and didn’t mind locking anyone up who looked at them cross-eyed.

   By this stage in our travels, Danny and I were very brown, but the sun had lightened our hair; his from mouse brown to blonde, mine from dark brown to light auburn. And neither of us carried any fat from miles of walking each day and lack of regular meals.

  We had been sitting behind some warehouses, trying to stay cool under a Tamarac tree, when we heard singing and laughter. And oh, man, something smelled good. Like chicken , cooking on a grill. My stomach gurgled, I sat up straight, hungry. Danny had already locked onto where the delicious odor wafted from, and he motioned me to stay still while he investigated.

   He soon came back, picking up his gear, motioning me to follow suit. I gathered Binky (my kitten) and my bags and trotted after Danny. I saw the ragtag bunch of guys, their dark silhouettes highlighted by the small campfire crackling in front of them. They looked up curiously, seeming surprised at my female presence. A lanky man with dark eyes stood unexpectedly, and offered me his spot on an upturned 5 gallon bucket. He wore Army fatigues and his dog tags tangled. He introduced himself as Paulie, and motioned towards a wizzened little one-eyed man.

  ” This here’s my travelling partner, Sleepy.”

   Sleepy wiped his mouth and offered the hand to me,

  “Mornin’ little sister.”

  “Morning, sir,” I replied nervously, ” This is my husband, Danny.”

  Danny stepped up and shook Sleepy’s hand, nodding hello. You could feel the fact that this man was the leader. We were now in their world, and we would follow Sleepy’s lead.

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