There is fire running through my veins. And I'll say it in paint.
Dearest Doodle Soupsters,
There is fire running through my veins.
I just went on a painting rampage. Bold strokes. Frustration. Anger pouring out of me with each squirt of the paint tube.
I don’t know how to express this, other than to paint it, other than to sing it, other than to scream it, other than to holler nonsense words.
I want a catharsis. I want a release. I want it now.
And who wouldn't?
Who among us can live with this fury without wishing, longing, to be done with it?
Sometimes, I wish I could cut out the part of my brain that remembers. Sometimes, I wish I could feel light like a butterfly dancing in the wind. Sometimes, I wish I could be the wind itself, to rid myself of my humanity, this terrible ache inside of me. All of these wounds, remembering, remembering, remembering, remembering, endlessly remembering!
This is why it hurts something beyond awful into the cruel that as I took another step into freedom, into embracing my true and whole self, I was pulled back into this grief, this fury I can barely wrap my brain around.
My back is tight and I cannot stand up straight. My back bending under the weight of what I have been forced to bear.
Healing doesn’t care about what my mom wants, what my parents want, what my family wants, what society expects, what people often forget and ignore and misunderstand.
Healing doesn't skip over the uncomfortable and inconvenient.
And I want healing. It’s what I’ve always wanted. And I was blocked, and blocked, and abused again and again.
Sometimes, I feel trapped in this cycle and I just want to be free.
I just want to be free!
In healing, I find the strength to be firm, to be honest, to understand that being kind isn’t the same thing as allowing others to steamroll over us.
I can’t hide this anymore. I won’t hide this anymore.
This is the truth: my mom showed up at the Clio Art Fair. First thing on Sunday as I walked in, I saw her. And I ran out. I took deep breaths outside. And I re-entered. I faced her.
She said she was just there to buy my work. And I said firmly, “It’s not about that. If that was truly the reason, you wouldn't have showed up here.”
I turned her away …
Here’s the thing: I could have ignored my truth. I could have chosen to believe her, as I have many times before.
I could have explained away the increased flashbacks and body aches and confusion swirling inside of me and tried to pretend.
I could have suffered in the silence that was never silent, as I did before.
And then, before I know it, I’m stuck again. Before I know it, I feel disconnected. And then, I have to again strengthen my boundary.
And then, again, my heart has to break in a bajillion pieces all over again, all over again.
And still, these words don’t suffice. I can’t spell out this grief, this anger, this awful pain.
I can’t put words to how empowered I felt doing the art fair and performing my music at the fair and how much it hurt me not just that she violated my boundary again, but that she did it there. There.
And so, I’ll say it in paint …
Burning, aching, not breaking,
Nicole Sylvia Javorsky
P.S. Music Corner Related music for today’s bowl of Chicken Doodle Soup … listen to my EP, “It’s time for me to thaw.”