Awakening and Emerging

A Sightseer's Guide to the Layers of My Self

Our personal identities are a series of layers, constructed by a multiplicity of things seen, felt, remembered and inherited. Just like a painting, where the initial textures from the first layers of paint affect all of the subsequent layers, our personal histories and buried traumas have a deep influence on who we are today. Multi-layered in process and meaning, the final surface of a painting is a fusion of concealment and revelation. Layers transcend their boundaries. It is in this moment of ambiguity, where new impressions assert themselves and sharp edges dissolve, that the painting begins to breathe.

This series of paintings maps the multi-layered, ineffable experience of my inner world; it is an unveiling of a self-protective cloak to explore what it is to be human with all our frailties evident.

Awakening

A synthesis of fragility and resolute expressiveness, ‘Awakening’ depicts a figure who carries with her the weight and pathos of existence. This is the existential predicament of someone who grew up in the wrong context, acutely aware of a situation that she could not imagine her way out of. Traumatised in captivity with no escape, a sense of impending doom looms in the shadows. Behind a façade of invincibility, she holds within a deeper knowing. This is a self that’s awake and aware, simultaneously begging you to come closer and warning you away.

Although parts of her remain frozen, time-capsuled in the essence of this place, she has continued to grow out of disruption. This is the triumph of durability, the refusal to be laid low or to yield. This is human determination operating against every kind of adversity. She will rise up.

You've Been Asleep

When I bring all of the disrupted and abstracted layers of my life together to see how they coexist, I realise that trauma has cut me off. It was a cutting off from myself and a cutting off from others.  The inner citadel that I have built is the tangible artefact leftover from a vandalised childhood. Kept underground with no sunlight, these unsteady foundations are both vivid and murky and it is here amongst the crawlspace whispers that trauma memories remain. These parts of myself remain dormant, pervasively unseen, cemented over many times and buried underground. They seep out through the sleeplessness and shadows, and although they can be contained, they are yet to be archived.

The adult figure in this painting is standing in the realisation of an apocalypse; the complete destruction of her world as it was once painted. The origins of the word apocalypse can be roughly translated as an uncovering and ‘the lifting of the veil’. Understanding the word apocalypse in this way, it is a revelation of something hidden, concealed and unspoken. It is the ability to look more closely within as well as without, in order to see more clearly the roots of strife and the sources of beauty. Rather than spinning away from the breakdown to reassembly as if it were a defeat, the invitation is to travel inside, to consciously enter the darkest places of our hearts and minds. 

Emerging

“Once you have tasted flight, you will forever walk the earth with your eyes turned skyward, for there you have been, and there you will always long to return.”  

--Leonardo da Vinci

‘Emerging’ is about the desire to rise and to go beyond personal limitations and to be free from past experiences. It is never too late to change our narratives, to assign new meaning to what once was and to what may be. The more we look the more we see. There's always another layer that can be painted over, with different colours attached and shifting qualities of light. 

Maybe you can see me now. I am the one climbing toward the light, where there is room to breathe and permission to exist where I have always been.

When I was 12 ...

There was never a clearly defined ‘end point’ to my dad’s abuse. There is no clear memory of the last time I was at his house. I never walked out of that door thinking that was the last time it would ever happen. I don’t remember the last time I was raped by him. I don’t remember the last time he took me to the stables for other men to rape me.

But there was an end.

It came unexpectedly one night. A random knock at the door, interrupting the sleepover I was having with a new friend from school. We were supposed to be watching a movie, but in came my dad. Drunk. Making himself at home even though my parents had been separated for close to a decade. I saw the moment it dawned on my friend, something’s not right here.

Could anyone read my face? He pulled the phone cord out of the wall and the message was clear. There would be no calls for help. There would be no escape. This was a hostage situation. Nevertheless, the movie kept playing. We sat there, pretending it all away, but the storm was not to be pacified. I don't remember it all. He sat right next to me. Leered all over me. Took my glasses off my face and stretched them over his own. After several hours of palpable terror and him dominating the show, my mum somehow convinced him that the rest of us needed to go to bed. I lay there quietly on the top bunk, knowing that my friend could hear the violence happening across the hall as well as I could. Silent hot tears of shame and rage, and then a sudden snap. I was not me. I was not in my bed.

An abrupt awakening to a part of myself I had never known existed. I flew at him. Lunged, attacked at him from behind. I don’t know exactly how, but I pulled him off my mother. A small 12 year old girl who’d starved herself for years had somehow been possessed with enough physical force to stop him mid-rape. Mid-rage. My fury was bigger than his. I wanted to hurt him. Wanted to kill. He took a step back and we both stood there in that dark room. He no longer loomed large. His face read like a mix of shock and anger and a registering. Was this the first time he had ever seen me? I told him to get out, to leave now. Did I spew out a string of other words, or did they just stay in my head? How long did we stay there, staring each other down before he picked up his clothes and left? I don’t remember, but just like that, he was gone and the front door was locked behind him.

I never went back to his house.

Yet, I carried the fear with me as I stepped into this uncertain freedom. Who could trust that it would be as easy as that? That I wouldn't be forced back there somehow? I could never let my guard down, never fully believe that my world was a safe place.

***

Around the same time in my life, I became quite intrigued by mythology from various world regions.  I discovered a well-known Greek myth, the story of Persephone, Demeter and Hades. There are many variations of the story, but here is the one that resonated with me then: 

Demeter, the goddess of harvest, had a beautiful and precious daughter, Persephone. One day, the young Persephone was playing with the daughters of the Oceans on the fields of Sicily when she beheld the most enchanting flower she had ever seen. The narcissus had been planted there as a trap, and it attracted her away from her guides. As she stooped down and plucked the flower, the ground opened underneath her and Hades, the god of the underworld, charged violently out of the chasm on his four-horse chariot. Persephone shrieked as Hades snatched her up with one arm and deflowered her, leaving the plain scattered with flowers of every colour as he dragged her away to be his wife in the underworld for all eternity.

Only Helios and Hecate, the three-faced goddess, hear Persephone's cries. Persephone is shortly made queen of the sunless world, but grieves for her flowers, the sun, and her mother.

Distraught and desperate, Demeter searches high and low for her daughter. She travels to the farthest corners of the Earth, searching for nine full days and nights without ever stopping to eat, drink, bathe, or rest. Rain and snow fall and the winds howl as she bewails the loss of her daughter. Finally, on the tenth day, the goddess Hecate tells Demeter that Persephone had been carried away to the underworld.

Demeter Mourning for Persephone (circa 1906) by Evelyn De Morgan

Enraged by the news of Persephone's abduction, Demeter declares an indefinite leave from her duties as the goddess of harvest and fertility, with devastating consequences. It is at this point in the story that Demeter realises her full strength. She will not relent until Persephone is released. The Earth turns into barren wasteland, and people are starving everywhere. Reluctant to see the Earth he rules wither away, Zeus sends Hermes, the messenger god, down to the underworld to order Hades to let Persephone return to her mother's earthly domain.

Before leaving the underworld, Hades tricks Persephone into eating some seeds of a pomegranate, the mere act of which binds Persephone to the underworld. This means that she will now be obliged to spend a part of each year there. Demeter embraces her daughter upon her return and restores earth's fertility, but when the time came for Persephone to return to the underworld, the earth became colder and less fertile. Seeds, like Persephone herself, are buried underground. In the Spring, Persephone reemerges and the Earth's crops come out into the sun once more.

The Return of Persephone (1891) Frederic Leighton

At its most fundamental level, this is a story about a mother who will stop at nothing to protect and retrieve her beloved daughter. Initially powerless and inconsolable in her grief, it is Demeter who does something never seen before in Greek mythology when she dares to defy the will of Zeus. Not only does she live to tell the tale, but she very nearly wins the battle.  I think for my 12 year old self, this story represented a wish ... for my own mother to rise above and have the ability to seek out, love, parent and above all, value me. I wanted someone to keep me safe.

Stepping into the fire

This time of year, I usually find myself in a much more 'free' space. There is room to breathe. I am calmer and more creative and a lot more present. And usually with all that extra energy and enthusiasm, I just step right away from any of the trauma that has taken over my system at other times of the year. When I'm in this positive space, why would I throw myself back into the abyss that I just worked so hard to crawl out of?  

Conceptually, I know there is a repeating pattern for me and that at a certain time of year things become more intense, so the goal would be to pull some of that out now and build my tolerance to the distress.  My therapist tries to sell it to me by reminding me that we can approach it slowly and that I have control over how close I step, and that I can always back out ... but I have been so resistant. To me, it feels like there is a door with a raging fire behind it. So you can approach that door as cautiously as you like, but you can't just open that door and let a little bit in. The second you get close, it's going to come out at full force.

And so we practice that. What's it going to take to step out of that resistance? To acknowledge my fear and then go there anyway? She's introduced parts-work and I've had a mixed reaction of wondering if she's suggesting I have some kind of DID that I'm unaware of, to agreeing that even if it's kind of weird, I like working with weird ideas and it seems like it could fit.

So what's it going to take to approach this door with the raging fire? Can I personify or access any part of me that would be able to take on the heat? And what would she say ... what story would she tell? 

Will you look at them all down by the horse stables? A whole mob of them, sitting around on tree stumps and stools, a steady flow of voices as they consume their cans of beer. There's nothing extraordinary about any of them. It's mostly a bunch of middle-aged men in their 30's, 40's, 50's. Completely ordinary men. I don't know what they actually talk about, probably boring things. They're my dad's friends, and he makes me call them all uncle as a sign of respect.  

I know what I'm there to do, but I usually just try to stay away. I wander off by myself and visit some of the horses in their individual stalls. I feel sorry that they're not out free in a paddock somewhere and I'm always surprised by how calm they seem. Aren't horses meant to sense fear? 

There are a couple of other kids around somewhere. My brothers, and occasionally there's another girl I see. I don't know much about her except her name. She's a skinny kid with dark hair. Just like me. But I'm not like them though. When we first get there they usually run around and play like it's all normal. I don't think they have any idea what's really going on. I think they're stupid. 

My dad has a friend, his name is Belg and they say it's because he's from Belgium ... but I think it's really because he's fat and eats too much sausage. I hate him. Belg has been to my dad's house before and he's often at the stables. 

There's a small storeroom with saddles and bins of horse feed. Concrete floor and hay. One of the times I went in there, there were kittens in a little box in the corner. I was playing with them when Belg came in. He stood in the doorway and there was nowhere to go. He called it making love, the things he did. And then he left me in that room and someone else came in. And then maybe someone else. I don't know how many on the same day. 

And then when I would walk out of that room they would all be there. Sitting around like nothing had happened. The sun would sometimes be shining. Just a normal day with a normal bunch of adults. Talking. Laughing. My dad would be sitting there and he would get money out and wave it at me. "Come get this," he'd snicker. Pocket money, he called it. For having sex with all those uncles.

The part that was in charge during the chunks of memories that I do have was a protective part. The affective feelings that she shows up with are anticipatory fear, and I imagine, anger. She is in charge literally, "I am the boss of me." She is always on guard and taking everything in ... all of the sensory details around her, and she's trying to read the people around her and calculate her next move. She sometimes does this on purpose, and tells herself that come Monday morning she will tell someone. She thinks she would rather die than have this happen again. She's oppositional, "Get the fuck away from me," and "Bring it on," are thoughts that she has in those moments.

She is determined and she is brave. Sometimes abusers will tell her she's a bad girl and she feels shame and disgust ... but she will stand her ground, no matter what. She is the one who can look the devil directly in his eyes and say, "You can't make me." She'd rather bite chunks out of her own inner cheek than show any reaction to pain. Do whatever you're going to do, but you can't make her cry.

I would imagine that when she goes offline, during all of the things I can't remember, that a 9 ... 10 ... 11 ... 12 year old girl would feel terror and helplessness. I think she would feel trapped and unable to escape the things happening to her body. I don't think she would want to be there at all.

I don't like parts of myself

I really don’t like the more guarded and serious parts of myself. It feels like that side of me is stuck in a perpetual holding pattern, often circling around with multitudinous thoughts and feelings that never quite find a place to land.

This part is a perfectionist who knows how deeply flawed she is. She struggles to express anything and can come across as measured and fairly even. She’s self-conscious and doesn’t like to take risks. She doesn’t like when the focus is on her. She wants to blend in and often feels a lot of pressure because she knows she is not who others expect her to be. She is over-controlling of herself and is terrified of strong emotion. She says she “doesn’t know” when she is overwhelmed or filled with self-doubt. She’s overwhelmed and filled with self-doubt often.

She tends to think about feelings instead of feeling feelings. This part thinks that she is protecting. What she is doing is helping to avoid an extreme range of emotion – out of a wish to never be like my dad. She’s aware of the paradoxical nature of her behaviour … a limited ability to express emotions also draws some parallels in her mind. She wants to change and doesn’t know how.

On the perpetual search for self and authenticity

It is sometimes said that the four greatest and most influential Portuguese literary figures of modern times are Fernando Pessoa. Pessoa, whose name means ‘person’ in Portuguese, had three alter egos. He actually wrote under many names, but several of them were ‘heteronyms’ rather than pseudonyms. Not only were their writing styles completely different; they had entirely different world views, different aesthetic sensibilities.

While attempting to reflect on how I would define authenticity or what it means to me, I found myself drawn towards a poem by Ricardo Reis, a heteronym of Fernando Pessoa.

Para ser grande, sê inteiro / To be great, be whole:

Para ser grande, sê inteiro: nada

Teu exagera ou exclui.

Sê todo em cada coisa. Põe quanto és

No mínimo que fazes.

Assim em cada lago a lua toda

Brilha, porque alta vive.

To be great, be whole: nothing
Of yourself exaggerate or exclude.
Be all in all things. Put what you are

Into the least you do.

So, in every lake the whole moon
Shines and, soaring, lives.

This poem speaks to me about the importance of integrity and of being what we are - not more or less - and perhaps showing up with an acceptance for where we’re at in that given moment. The self-acceptance piece is what I’m still working on.

I believe I probably grew up with a skewed and fragmented self-concept and no amount of introspection has helped (yet) to truly reconcile my inner reality with my outer reality. Self-censoring and concealing or masking parts of my self is such a deeply engrained behaviour for me that sometimes am not even sure which aspects are true - If I am so self-aware, how can I be so unaware? If I like the perception that others reflect back to me, why does it not rest easily within?

Once I started school, I clearly remember the split feeling of two entirely different experiences of self: an outside persona who presented as confident and capable, and an internal experience of self-hatred and self doubt. In my mind, only one of those things could be true - my entire self concept was built around dichotomous thinking; an internal struggle that was probably amplified by having a mother with borderline personality disorder and a father who is most likely a sociopath.

My observation of my parents is that they were both pretty good at 'fooling others' on a surface level, and I believed that was the explanation for why other people liked me. They didn't know me, I was pretending to be someone or something I wasn't. I often dissociated from any emotion, particularly when I was in my dad's presence. Instead, I tuned in cognitively and watched him closely. How could someone who displayed a complete lack of empathy or remorse be able to charm people the way he did? As a child, I wondered how it was that someone that I knew to be bad was perceived by other adults as 'good'? I took that a step further. All these bad things are happening at home, but people believe that I am good. How do you reconcile seeming exceedingly confident and capable, yet suffering terribly in silence? I felt that what I was presenting to other people was 'a cover-up.'

Self-presentation and impression management is an ordinary part of everyday interactions and we all show different sides of ourselves in different contexts, but sometimes the act of 'not putting all of my cards on the table' feels deceptive. Sometimes I worry that the disparity between how I present myself to others and what I'm feeling on the inside means that I'm still not being authentic.

So here are my confessions: I am more sensitive than I ever let on. I'm highly tuned in to everything sensory and I'm habitually filtering things out or finding ways to manage the intensity (It wasn't until I found myself having to support both my children in finding ways to manage their own sensory overloads that I realised that perhaps this wasn't how most people experience the world). I am hypervigilant: hyper-aware and hyper-alert, constantly scanning my environment and tuned in to subtleties that seem to go unnoticed by most others. I think I try to add depth and complexity into relationships, so another layer in my mind is constantly analysing every emotion, thought, interaction, event ... both while it's happening and then retrospectively. 

Every now and then I catch a glimpse that there may be a gradual shift in some of the fundamental ways that I see myself (thanks years of therapy!) and I am learning that it's possible to make space for all of these things. I am trying to step away from self-erasure and self-compression and just 'be'.

“But I am not perfect in my way of putting things
Because I lack the divine simplicity
Of being only what I appear to be.”
― Fernando Pessoa, Poems of Fernando Pessoa

I am never "only what I appear to be" and maybe no one else is either. Being ‘real’ is a process. I love the children’s book, the Velveteen Rabbit, where the Skin Horse says to the little Rabbit, “Real isn’t something you are, it’s something you become.” 

Wild Geese and Wonderment

The summer that I was 9 I spent a glorious week staying with my maternal grandparents. My Nanna had a special way of being able to evoke magic in the most ordinary moments.  One of those magical moments from that summer was with Mary Oliver. She wasn't actually there, of course, but the impact her words had on my grandmother have stayed with me ever since.

"Every flower has a meaning, it's like poetry." I had been dutifully following my Nanna around as she harvested the lavender in her garden.
"Well, I don't like poetry. It's boring." I may have rolled my eyes. Nanna took off her gardening gloves and knelt down next to me in the dirt. For just a moment we looked at each other in silence. Her mouth remained a tight line, and I couldn't read the rest of her expression from underneath her glasses and the wide-brimmed hat. Her laughter broke the silence. "Oh but darling, what a deprived child you are!" She stood up and motioned for me to follow with the empty bucket.

I'd always marvelled at the stark contrasts between each of my grandmother's personalities. My dad's mother was loud. Boisterous and a little rough around the edges. I'd learned quite an extensive list of swear words from her. On the other hand, Nanna was very old fashioned and rather prim and proper. She always wore floral dresses, went to church every Sunday and spent the rest of the week playing housewife, singing soprano and imparting gems of wisdom. She paid great attention to the finer details, and she held my hand tighter than anyone else.

On this particular occasion in her garden, she lost me for a minute. Her words cascaded around me, but I was taking in her softness and the intricate details of the embroidered lace on her flowing blue periwinkle dress. When I tuned back in, she looked brighter ... happier than I had ever seen her. I felt an unfamiliar lightness as I watched her prance around the garden reciting Mary Oliver's poetry: "We belong to the moon and when the ponds open, when the burning begins the most thoughtful among us dreams of hurrying down into the black petals, into the fire, into the night where time lies shattered ..."

It's a moment that has stayed with me my entire life, so it is with deep gratitude and wonderment that I reflect on what Mary did with her one wild and precious life. I have just finished the painting below after hearing of her passing. 

Wild geese everywhere are flying for her today.

Christmas Art