I paint a straight, horizontal, grey line about two inches thick. Within the line I paint a few red thin streaks here and there. Under the grey line I paint another line. This one is a least five inches think and red, very red. The bottom of this red line slowly fades out into nothingness. I paint a tiny grey figure within the red just before it fades away.
These are my words this night at my therapy session. Even as I’m painting I still have no verbal words that go with what I am painting in such a crude way. But I slowly find out how loaded with meaning this particular painting is.
With my therapist’s patient and gentle prompting the words slowly start to form along with some realizations that I’ve always known but never acknowledged. And along with that some realizations that seem to be new but deep down know is truth. And trust me, I’m not happy with any of these insights.
The grey is the sadness/grief I seem stuck in these days. It’s linear, flat and mostly contained. The thing is though, I haven’t been only stuck in the sadness ‘these days’. I have always been stuck in this sadness. The grey figure, the baby, feels like it was born in sadness. I have been sad forever.
The red is hurt. It is the base for the grey. It is even in the grey. The hurt is large, three times as large as the grey. The tiny grey figure, the baby, feels like it was born in hurt. I have lived in the hurt always.
And with this painting began the slow, halting conversation about the hurt within, about the grief within. The beginning of saying ‘yes’ this is a part of me. Parts I can’t ignore any longer.