20th June 2018
What is your trauma though? That's what I want to ask. I don't feel like I care about others. Maybe they're just the wrong people, but I assess them, and while I assess, I am unfiltered in conversation, but that doesn't mean open. That doesn't mean trusting. I assess, and they warm to me through the open-ness. They warm to me, they feel warmth from me and they are in for the cruelest break when I detach from them oh so suddenly.
Like now, I have not changed, but I am not receptive. I don't want to talk to you, all of a sudden. Oh so sudden. It's confusing, and it's technically me initiating this non-interaction through inaction, but it's still no-one's 'fault', there's nothing 'wrong'. To me. And I cannot give a reason for it. I don't think I need to anymore. I thought I did, I thought that if I could, maybe it wouldn't happen at all. But it does, so it happens, and that's all fine.
If you could decide your purpose, what would it be? He asks me this, at my lowest point, as if such a hypothetical could matter. Is it not the same as asking, "if you could be another person, who or what would that person be?" It is hopeless. Futile. If I could be someone else, I would be just another person, who would also wonder what it would be like to be someone else. You see? I wouldn't exist, and the other person would. It wouldn't matter. If you could be a person with a purpose, what would that purpose and person be? That's what he's asking me. And I don't want to play ball, because the whole base of the question is impossible. So I let it hang there.
"And by the way," I think to this man, "you don't seem to know the problem with looking at someone's art, and making an off-the-cuff statement. It was ignorant and insensitive, BUT YOU DIDN'T KNOW." Look at me, still reining in my anger, because the all-seeing eye is forgiving, and the all-seeing eye says, "everyone is only existing at themselves, how could they know?"
But people flip over much less. Can't I get angry? Isn't that my right? I never let the anger out at others but just to myself in measured bursts. Writing captures the fury that art couldn't. It could try but, from me, FURY demands many words. Many many words.
You looked at my drawing, and in your ignorance and frustratingly well-meaning awkwardness, you said, "that part looks like balls. Like, testicles," while pointing to a specific part of my drawing.
You pointed to the FISTS. The fists I draw as large circles, like the head, the outlines of which overlapped in a pattern on my forehead. The fists. The hands that did what they did to me. Ha. Ha. They look like balls.
Those hands worked a teenage body into hysteria and fear. Those hands did things, the head and those hands. The fingers worked away at my genitals furiously, because it wasn't tenderness that caused pleasure. It had to be speed, and pressure, and persistance. Those hands were so persistant. I screamed and laughed and sobbed and wailed and protested, and he would continue through it all.
"That means it's working," he says.
So I learned that this is what pleasure was, it doesn't matter what it feels like, if it even feels good - this is what it is and you have to get used to it. Life is what happens to you, you don't get a choice.
So thank-you, for your unsolicited opinion on my drawing which you gave so freely and gleefully. I'm glad you can find some amusement in those fists, the hands that did what they did, because I sure can't.