In this day and age we all seem to want to present ourselves as perfect and morally righteous - or outraged, when really we are all flawed. I too polish my 'appearance' (dull writing is unacceptable) or at least my sentences, but I hope not too closely (close ups are important when being authentic - pores and all) and I think my close friends would say, that who I am in print, I am in life - basically a bit of a sardonic wag that nevertheless thinks about the deep issues - is there a God? What is a #Christian or a #Muslim? Who the Dickens is #Trump or #McDonnell anyway? What is right and what is wrong in this situation? - like the rest of us really. As I have begun, to a limited (safe?) extent, opening up the book of my life recently and revealing some of my past, the strong pull of self censoring has been trying to drag me back up to the shiny surface of things rather than the depths of them. This comes after a long period of relative (s'cuse the pun) silence, due to my mother and co's 's actions towards me since 2015, which precipitated a long period of depression, anxiety and PTSD that I am now medicated enough to cope with. Only art and bursts of poetry have featured. I couldn't write more, partly due to debilitation, partly due to the stalking of a family psychopath who polices my every word such is his sick obsession of me. The truth that is still being unearthed about my past was so ghastly (beyond what my body remembers), that I have been reeling from having to look at it, never mind digest or process it.
Writing has always been my primary processing tool. It is the way I draw from the deep of imagination, and the way I make sense of how I think and feel. And also how I have since I was very small made sense of and reflected the world. Crucially it has helped me deal with and process trauma; it is present even in the drawing, painting and sculpture. Writing has always made sense for me. It is difficult at this time, as I must write around what has been a primary focus in my life since 2015, when my saying no to further abuse and the ensuing (pun intended) pursuit of justice. I can't write in detail until I am through the court case I am currently preparing for - court proceedings are public, thus the details will be in the public domain, and can then be accessed. However, the issues I speak of were made public by my mother and a sibling and family in 2015 via Facebook posts, that were whipped down by my mother when I challenged them, but they precipitated the now very public actions of my family that resulted in the case I am bringing. I have now had almost three years of coming to terms with the public nature of my family's abuse, but the point is this. I neither wanted nor chose this, but the irony is that this exposure, horrifying though it has been (did the acute stress bring on the disease?) is going to help me. It was time that it was all exposed and dealt with appropriately.
When I was in my former family, my way was always been to try and talk about what had happened to me (I was not the only one who suffered two of the types of abuse I suffered but the family denies it all). But I was the only deep sea diver. No one wanted to swim with the sharks that having had a feeding frenzy, were out and about on the surface but had perfected the art of covering the fins that made children and women bleed. For those of you that know astrology, I was the only goat amongst water signs. They didn't know what to do with this strange butting (But why?) species. So they set about 'killing' it. Caps, however are stubborn and they keep 'but?ing) in large letters. Given my mother brought everything out in the open, however nastily, I am still getting used to the exposure. Previously, I colluded with the family in that I never spoke about what had happened outside of the family, and even then, only following my first breakdown when everything spewed out at once like crude oil. The analogy works because even though the oil was black, it carried with it, even in my acts of confession - the pure oil of healing.
To be continued...
