Therapy got intense there for a bit. I had one session where I could barely breathe, because I felt like I had to talk so fast to get everything that bothered me out. At the end of that one, my counselor asked that we would talk about my molestation at the next session, because she was concerned it was just beneath the surface and causing my mind to race.
I talked about how I thought it affected me, I talked about when the memories came up, but I couldn't say the words. I tried. And I tried again. I realized I had never even thought the words. I couldn't even replay the video in my head. My counselor suggested that I write a letter to my molester, and then do some sort of cleansing ritual with it -- whether it is to burn it, or send it, or whatever I saw fit.
I couldn't do that either. When I spent time trying to pinpoint why, I figured out that it was because I wasn't sure whether it was my brother's fault, or just something bad that happened that I was taking out on my brother unjustly. I talked to my husband about this, and he said: well, write a letter to Evil. Or, hell, just write down what happened. Do something.
So, I wrote the story down with the purpose of turning it into a piece of art. I sat down and just wrote stream-of-conciousness.
Something amazing happened: I realized that he brought me downstairs. I realized that I never took off my clothes. I realized that I was forced to touch him. I had no idea what was going on. I definitely didn't want it. And he knew what he was doing. I realized that my mother almost definitely knows it happened, and may have sent my brother away because of it, and since then has misplaced her anger over everything onto me.
None of it was my fault. It was entirely his responsibility. He was old enough to know better, because when I was at that age and realized what happened to me, I knew it was wrong.
I took what I wrote and printed it onto a page of paper. I spent time finding a quote about evil that resonated with me. I found it, and cut the words of the quote out of the story of what happened. Every cut I made into the story felt like excising a cancer. I felt lighter at every swipe of my xacto knife. It was a meditation on the quote through the fabric of this terrible thing that happened.
I took what was left of the story and pressed it in paint. I used a mix of colors that are not dark or moody, but have a tension about them when together. I put the painted paper on a canvas. I want the story to be accessible, just below the surface. When I showed my counselor, she was worried that I covered it in paint to symbolize burying it -- but that's not at all how I think of it. I wanted the story to come out of me and be subjected to my will. It's like writing on the cast when you've broken your arm: you aren't trying to pretend its not broken, but you are trying to take what it is and make it beautiful. I wanted to be able to make what I wanted of it. I put the story on backwards -- my version of turning it inside out, finally taking complete control of it.
I pasted on the words I cut out into the quote: "Very few people see their own actions as truly evil. It is left to their victims to decide what is evil."
Since I created the painting, it has become a source of refuge. When I think about what happened, I think: "I've been through that story. I know what happened, and I hold no culpability. I cut it to pieces. I turned it inside out. That story is mine, it is no longer just something that happened to me."
I don't know what I'm going to do with the painting. I feel weird hanging it up because it remains quite personal, but I feel weird putting it in the closet because I don't want to let myself be ashamed of it. I don't want to burn it, because I want to be able to look at it when I begin to forget what I've learned.
I brought the painting to my counseling session last week. I told her the story. No tears. No hesitation. I just said it. I showed her the painting. She asked if I had anything else to talk about. I couldn't think of anything...just brought up a few little tiffs that my husband and I had three weeks before, and that's just because I was reaching for something to talk about in the awkward silence.
Then, 10 minutes before the end of the session, we ran out of things to talk about. She told me that she wasn't going to schedule me for another session, because the use of a person like her is best when one needs to work through things, and I had this major breakthrough, have all the tools to deal with things that come up and am using them. She said to set up an appointment whenever I need to talk to her about something, and wished me well.
It's scary, but I know she's right. I feel like I'm getting out of a mental hospital. I'm a little bit scared that I can't handle the real world any more, without a therapist to back me up.
But, the truth is, I'm happy. I'm less irritable. When I am, I know why and I address it. My work isn't taking over any longer. My husband and I just went through a stressful move, and we didn't have a single fight during it.
Dear readers, I think I am approaching recovery. I'm not there yet, and I'm sure I have months or years to go. But I can feel that its nearing.
