Tag Archives: becoming freer

Circular Logic of Tail Chasing

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At some point, perhaps, I will learn. I will finally, for the last time, put myself and my finances through the process of having something investigated only to emerge from that process poorer, more frustrated, and with the answer I already had: I have Ehler’s Danlos Syndrome, and I will never feel “good” again in my life.

I spent $139.00 clams to get the MRI of my shoulder last week. That’s a nice pair of boots, or almost halfway to a pair of BedStu boots. (I KNOW RIGHT?) I had to go in to work late, and the tech was running late, and someone else there wanted to talk to me about my stalker sibling’s made up medical problems (because they are WAY more interesting than real problems). The tech assured me the doctor’s office would have the results the next day.

The short version of how obtaining the results went can be summed up thusly: PCP’s office decided not to answer their phones all day the next day, PCP was out of town, I got the results Friday via a text of the report he got faxed to him. There was a lot of anger, frustration, tears and cursing during this process.

The results? AC arthrosis, which is the same as arthritis except the word arthritis indicates inflammatory change and arthrosis is degenerative change without an inflammatory process. Just in case you wanted to know that. Here are other fun facts about this:

  1. PCP doesn’t think this explains the pain.
  2. I think it might.
  3. There’s nothing, not a goddamned thing, to be done about it.
  4. PCP wants to now go through the whole process again, but with my neck.
  5. But there’d be nothing to be done about it.
  6. And it would cost me the other half of those boots up there.

When will I learn? This time? This is how it is always going to work:

  1. Something hurts.
  2. It hurts all the goddamned time.
  3. I have to modify my life.
  4. IT DOESN’T MATTER IN THE SLIGHTEST THAT WE FIND OUT EXACTLY WHY.
  5. The answer is always this: I have EDS, and I will never feel good again. The end.

Oh my, yes, that is a negative outlook, I agree. But it’s also true. The other thing is, why do I feel like it’s more legit if I know the exact why? Part of me was wanting a torn rotator cuff even though that would be career-ending. OH. That’s why–I am looking for what I feel will be a legit enough reason to leave my job. Thing is, I already have a legit reason, because I have EDS, but I want an iron-clad out, not a soft, hard-to-explain, I-don’t-look-sick reason. I want something that is so clear that I don’t even have to admit to myself that I might be leaving simply because I work with one of the most impossible people in the world and I am starting to give up on the idea that I can win,and also, I am tired of this person taking so much of my energy when right now, I have trouble carrying my own belongings into work each day.

I can hardly carry my own shit, and once I manage to get inside with it all and put it down, I spend the rest of my day with a micro-managing tyrant with the tact and professionalism of an angry rhinoceros. I expend HUGE amounts of energy trying to buffer this person, in whose hands my leash was placed (after FIVE YEARS of working to get it out of their grip) by the new Department Chair, who has no idea what sort of monster he created. The rest of us do, because we all admired how hard it was to get myself off the leash in the first place and that the monster had finally been shrunk down just a bit.

We talked a lot, the spouse and I, about whether or not I can or should keep working. Let’s face it; this person is not worth what I am spending on them, and, despite the money and time and Dr Googling, my shoulder still hurts. And it’s not going to get better, any more than my hands, or my back, or my neck, or my ankles, or my wrists. Will I choose to remain trapped in the rough waters of this medical system? Or will I decide to liberate myself from it, from angry rhinos, and from feeling like I should hang on just a little longer? I don’t know yet, but the trend is going in the Give Up direction.

My Job and My Heart

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This has been a rather unbelievable week, and I promise I am trying to condense as much as possible. Theater is interesting business, especially since this job is the only experience I’ve ever had with theater. I sometimes feel like an anthropologist.

There is a lot of expectation that a director owns the creatives (“creatives” being the set, lighting, costume and makeup designers). A director has some tacit permission to be a complete asshole and demand, as my husband has characterized this week’s event, “the the stage go up in the air and spin around and also laser lights and the audience should go up and spin around too because that’s MY VISION.” Creatives are then supposed to kill themselves trying to make this dream come true, and if they do balk, traditionally there’s a lot of shouting and name-calling. Things are a bit difficult when it comes to academic theater, as we are not just doing theater, we’re also teaching, meeting with various committees, etc.

We have this tenure-track faculty member; wait, let’s just unpack that briefly–so in academic theater, a director who is an asshole can also eventually get a forever job, which translates to being a blessed and protected asshole.

Okay, so this director, whom we will refer to as The Retarded Child Emperor (a term Bill Mahr used to describe George Dubya Bush), is deeply insecure and very difficult to work with. He’s mean, he’s manipulative, he’s inappropriate, he’s dishonest. I have prided myself as being one who has worked with him several times and very successfully. I am one of the very few who has managed this. I was proud of this fact, but I also knew that it wouldn’t last forever, because someone who will say hateful things to you about other people will also eventually say hateful things about you to other people.

We have a new Department Chair, who is friends with The Emperor, and that was cause for concern. The Emperor is desperate to create the illusion that the Chair has his ear on all things, and that he is the Chair’s right hand man. So that’s the set up. Here’s how it played out.

The Emperor is directing our first show. Last semester he and I, in passing, had this conversation:

TRCE: Hey, I want to do this makeup thing with Gamma Rays (shortened play title) where a character goes from old to young to old again. Do you have any students who are really good at aging makeup.

Me: Are you kidding me? They are terrible at aging makeup, but that’s an interesting idea, I’ll keep my eye out.

Fast-forward to this semester:

I see a rehearsal report that shows that the actor will have 11 minutes to go from old to high school aged, and then 4 minutes to go back to old. Other factors I didn’t know: the actor is very dark complected (and black don’t crack because the epidermal layer is thicker the darker your skin, so wrinkling is far less prevalent in that population), the show will be performed without an intermission, and the audience will be seated on the stage. I email The Emperor and say, very nicely, that given the time frame, I think we won’t be able to re-make her up at the end and we’d need to rely on other visual clues like wig, glasses, cane, etc. The Emperor replies only that he wishes to meet about it.

We meet. He tells me that we’ll have 11 minutes, not 4, to re-age her. I point out reservations about this. He says, “I don’t want the usual college garbage we get here.” I wonder what he smokes to make him think that insulting your creative (who has done stellar work for you in the past) is a good way to proceed. I again assert my misgivings about this, and also ask for further clarification. He wants the 20 year old actor to look like she is 100 years old. He wants her to look like she’s 17, and an entirely different person, for the other character. Then he wants her back to 100 years old. In 11 minutes. He will not accept my concerns and wants it his way, period.

I leave the meeting feeling set up. At the same time this is happening, I am having increasing heart problems. My blood pressure, traditionally low, is too high. My pulse is insane irregular. I am waking up at 1:00 am, pounding heart, thinking I might die of a heart attack and worrying about this stupid makeup gimmick. Monday morning I send him a very polite, very clear email about why this is not possible. I don’t say, “I won’t do it, it’s stupid,” I say, “I can’t do this. Here are the reasons why” I copy the new Chair into that email. My blood pressure is higher than it’s ever been and my pulse is 118 and wild.

The world is consumed by a ball of fire. The Chair emails me that he is meeting with The Emperor. Then he emails that The Emperor will handle the makeup effect himself. The Emperor comes down to my office to ask if I am still doing the other makeup for the show. I say yes, of course, also, no hard feelings, I felt it was best to give him my honest assessment. He says everything is fine, of course, and then snidely slips in that “The Chair and I looked at your concerns but we don’t think it’s such a big deal, we’re talking to other people about it.” I am displeased to have my professional opinion treated dismissively.

The next day I get an email from The Chair suggesting that creatives should not “abandon projects” and should “respect directors” and “embrace an exciting challenge, not simply dismiss it.” My pulse rockets to 125 and I feel like I’m dying. I send The Chair a howler of epic proportions. My pulse never goes down all day as we exchange emails wherein he says he is shocked that I would send such an email to him and I respond that I am shocked that he would characterize my actions so negatively and he says no, that was a positive email and I say “abandonment” is not positive and he says maybe we should not do this via email and I say fine. We set up a meeting for Thursday because I am to be out of the office Wednesday. Right before I leave to go to the cardiologist, he sends me an email saying that he and The Emperor have met, and they feel I should be removed from the creative team altogether.

The cardiologist gets a splendid picture of what is happening to my heart. “Can you feel all the extra beats?” she asks me. She started me on a different beta blocker (Lopressor ER) and told me to come back in two months, or sooner if I felt I needed to. She is EDS-savvy, and I feel like finally, someone is going to take my heart seriously.

The next day I email the chair, detail how stressed-out I am, tell him I am starting heart medication and will take sick leave. Then I chose to worry that perhaps I am in early heart failure, which can be another post entirely.

When The Chair and I met yesterday, he was FURIOUS with me, and this is a guy who doesn’t really do negative emotions. I find myself in the position of being liberated from a yoke I’ve carried my whole life, as I realize that I don’t give a flying fuck that he’s angry. I am willing to be fired over this, and I am right. Through the course of our meeting I show him all the email evidence of my attempts to work with The Emperor. He acknowledges that he was only viewing this through The Emperor’s side, and did not have all the facts. I finally make him understand that The Emperor has triangulated this, and neatly manipulated The Chair into being his instrument to bully and retaliate against me. The Chairs mentions that now, well, he’s kind of pissed of at The Emperor.

I shake like a leaf during this meeting because my disobedient heart is not good with even minor stress right now. I point out that I am physically ill due in part to this situation. He asks if I would be willing to come back to the team, and I tell him I don’t know.

He later met with The Emperor, and I suspect that The Emperor realized that he’s made a serious mistake. The Chair then asked that we meet together (he, I, The Emperor). When we do, The Emperor opens with a groveling apology, and even gets teary (he’s an actor, though…). He begs me to return to the project. I say that I am unsure, is he willing to compromise? Suddenly he becomes the personification of Flexibility. The Chair even weighs in with further compromises he thinks The Emperor needs to make. The Emperor rolls on his back like an ashamed dog. At the end, where I would normally feel badly for the person apologizing and want them to feel better, I instead say, “You need to know that your behavior over this was really hurtful to me. I have never given you less than what was possible, and you went into this treating me like I had. I don’t understand why you took that approach with me, and I don’t want it to happen again.” There was further groveling. He made the excuse that an interaction with my co-worker fueled his perception and I stopped him. “I’m not my coworker. You know how much I try to make clear that while my co-worker likes to claim all opinions held by her are held by me, that’s not the case.”  He understands that now, it appears.

So now I have a puzzle to solve, but I also have four days off before I have to really tackle it. And I have to deal with the fact that the beta blocker makes me nauseated all day long and I’ve already lost five pounds since, uh, Wednesday.

Dizzying

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I’ve had several break-throughs this past week or so, and it’s almost like I fell into a rabbit hole and came out a different version of myself.

  1. I realized that in response to the structure of my family, I chose, at the age of six, to be the person who would be perfect, and who would make everything okay for everyone. Did you make a decision that hurt my feelings? I won’t tell you, it would make you uncomfortable, it’s okay. Do you have inadequate social skills and monopolize conversations? It’s okay, I will suffer through rather than call you on it. There are a million examples, and I’m in the process of setting myself free. It’s scary but also liberating when say, I’m on the phone with my MIL and she is detailing the various possible locations of the dining table in RVs and I think, “It is not my problem that you are inept at conversation.” OMG IT’S NOT MY PROBLEM. I interrupt the moment she takes a breath, tell her the things that I think are news on our end, tell her that we are thinking of her and that breakfast is ready so I must go. I’m not, ever again, sitting down to a cold meal because someone wanted to tell me how the weather has been everyday this month.
  2. I read this post and saw myself therein. I need to pace myself on a long term basis. This means that my activity level should not spike and bottom out, but remain more constant. I can’t push myself to the edge anymore. At least as much as it is possible–working in theater this over-activity business is kind of “how we do things ’round here.” This is difficult, because it means letting go of the “maybe that was the last flare up” mindset. This is a permanent condition. So easy to write, yet so very difficult to accept.

A result of examining both my people-pleasing at the expense of my own happiness and my tendency to over-activity–both of which are things that hurt rather than help–I did something really out of character. I had a thought, “It would be so cool if I could afford to have an assistant in my studio, even a few hours a week, to do some of the stuff I can’t do, but also stuff I don’t want to do because it takes away from the number of spoons I have to do the things only I can do.” This was followed by the realization that having done away with massage, I am saving nearly $400 a month. I CAN afford to hire an assistant, at $10 an hour, for four or five hours a week. So, I did.

I’m panicking a little now, because this is tremendously new territory for me. My assistant starts Friday, and my goal yesterday was to start a list of what she can do for me. I choked, man. I sat in my messy, chaotic studio and couldn’t figure out what to have her do–because, as I told her when I interviewed her, I am not entirely sure what this will look like. It’s hard to give up control of my creative space in any way, and hard to direct an able-bodied person to do things for me. She completely understood that, and now I am trying to fully understand that, and figure out a list of things for Friday. It’s much harder than it seems, because there’s a lot going on underneath the surface in terms of my own acceptance of my condition and limitations.

I am sure I will make it through, I am sure I am doing the right thing for myself and I know it’s okay to feel like I’m embarking on a trip with no itinerary. We’ll get to the destination we need to get to–we won’t be left floating about the ocean with no sail. Fingers crossed.

Skirting the Edge

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More drawings.

6 30 2015

Then:

07 01 2015

Then:

07 01 2015 a

Here’s where I went awry, because I started thinking about audience. I got a lot of positive feedback on the first one with these two women, so then they wanted to say more so I drew this one. But then I loved it even though it felt unfinished….so I colored it:

07 02 2015 color

Meh. It lost depth in photography/editing, which is always true. I also don’t like the tooth of the paper I am using–and it’s not what I normally use when I color and complete a drawing. This stuff is a cheap drawing paper, and most of my work is finished on a vellum-finish bristol board–so it’s a lot smoother. I wanted a sort of sensual, private moment versus the more public, circus/audience sense I get from the first drawing with the striped costumes. It’s not pleasing to me at the moment.

See? Too much thinking–that’s not the point of the exercise.

Onward.

Drawing Board

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I learned to sew as an adult and as a result I carry no hang-ups about it. I don’t worry that I’m not good enough or that I’m doing it “wrong” or wasting my time. My father started trying to teach me drawing when I was six. He started with vanishing point perspective.

It was all downhill from there.

I internalized all kinds of criticism and hang ups and insecurities about drawing. I’ve talked about a lot of that already here, so it’s not necessary to rehash it. As aware as I am, though, of how wrong most of those notions are, I am still constrained by it. So, this summer, in between major medical bullshit and the like, I’m doing some drawing. Just drawing, just whatever I want, no rules.

Here’s the first three:

6 22 2015 6 24 2015 6 25 2015

I like them–and that’s the only thing that matters.

What Time Off?

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I was asked to make a Day of the Dead-themed Victorian walking suit for a show that will spend two years traveling to various museums. For the first time in my artistic life, I have not only failed to submit my piece early, I have missed the initial deadlines. Inspiration showed up late in this case, but I think it was worth it. Initially I made a Victorian-esque skirt from some of my extensive collection of Our Lady of Guadalupe fabrics. Then it all ground to halt. Digging around in a cedar chest filled with -Ray’s things for a class I was teaching on the topic of DIY-clothing (upcycling, transforming, etc) I found a jacket that I had made for her from two vintage blouses that featured an appliqued skull on the back.

In looking at that, and some other things I had made for her, I realized I was ready to let these things out of the silent tomb of the cedar chest. I wanted to transform them, then release the back into the world. I took the tshirt she sent me with the logo of their band, which I designed, and cut the logo out, hand colored it, and hand appliqued it onto the skull jacket:

Victorian Altar Process 1Victorian Altar Process 2Victorian Altar Process 3

Then I appliqued elements from a gorgeous quilter cotton that was full of Mexican folk symbols (and some skull fabric leftover from my purse-making days) as well as drawing root elements by hand with alcohol-based markers and a Tee Juice marker.

Victorian Altar Process 5Victorian Altar Process 4

Next, I drew in a cat skull with bony wing elements and painted them gold.

Victorian Altar Process 7

Then I decided that everything needed embroidery. Everything.

Victorian Altar Process 8Victorian Altar Process 9Victorian Altar Process 10Victorian Altar Process 11

Next  came the bustle. I used as the bottom layer a capelet I had made for -Ray from a vintage apron, that included hand made flowers and a portrait I drew of her sewn into the pocket. Over that are layers of a vintage linen with crocheted corners, and the top layer is a rotten Victorian collar. For height I made two sort of bum rolls out of related fabrics. Then I drew, appliqued, embroidered and painted everything.

Victorian Altar Process 13Victorian Altar Process 14

I will save the rest of the photos for a second post.

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Since that’s not enough to do, I am also volunteering as the Costume Designer for a production of Chicago that a good friend and co-worker is co-directing. The concept is that the show is being put on by a group of convicts in a modern-day women’s prison (shades of OITNB). Thus, they are all dressed in gray prison clothing which the actors have to try to make look sexy without a lot of options to remake things. If you doubt this possibility, think back to being in high school and shortening your skirt by rolling the waistband after you went to school, or tying your shirt so that some midriff showed. It’s working quite well. Also, though, a lot of their costume elements need to look like they made them from a limited amount of available materials, so I have now gotten very good at making fedoras and boaters that look like they are made from food wrappers and boxes:

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There’s also a derby hat covered in Dum-Dum wrappers for Amos as well as a bow tie and lapel flower of the same. The third boater, not pictured, is a Cheese-Its theme.

We go into Tech this week, and then, possibly, I will reclaim my summer break and actually get to relax and enjoy some of it.

Famous last words, that.

Like The Star Wars Trash Compactor

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I am having a hard time with having lost Boris (our small Mexican dog with the big Eastern European name) and doubting my choice to let him go. Not in any rational sense; on paper, logically, I know I did the right thing. But in my heart, I feel sorry and sad. I hope he understands; but maybe not–I’d love a world where animals had the same treatment as people, but would I love that because no one would get euthanized for having run out of quality time, or because people wouldn’t have to suffer for so long, either?

I just know that I really, really miss that little guy, and I am responsible for his absence.

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The trip to Chicago was really emotionally hard, and the key piece of that was understanding that I can’t depend on my spouse to advocate effectively for me when he is in his place of origin. On one level, I get it–he reverts to his kid role, he’s overwhelmed, they are extremely difficult. On the other hand, I’m angry and disappointed. I really am on my own, and since that is true, I will never go back with him to visit them unless something is really wrong on a deathbed sort of level. I can’t put myself through that. If they come here, as they have threatened, I will go out of town. I’ve given a lot to them over the years, and they’ve taken a lot more than they’ve given back, and their son can’t set good boundaries with them. So, I will have to set boundaries to take care of myself.

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Long after I am gone, I am sure medical science and genetics will evolve to determine how mental illness–or at least the propensity for it–is passed down. Borderline personality disorder runs in my family, and while I am sure the process is somewhat akin to alchemy more than straight genetics, it means that right now there are two Borderlines running about– each from a different generation. That’s just my mom’s side, too–there’s also depression, anxiety, alcoholism, sociopaths, suicide, self injury and drug problems coming from both sides. The question maybe is how do any of us make it out alive? When you know that someone is ill, and you’ve proven to yourself that you cannot help them, you have to detach and protect yourself. Sure, their behavior isn’t personal, it’s pathology, and yes, they are in tremendous pain, but that doesn’t mean you should allow them to hurt you. The moat is in place, the drawbridge is up. All signs say, “Go away.”

You’ve reached the boundary, you’ll need to turn back.

———–

One of my tenants called me today, in tears. One of the roommates’ mother had committed suicide last night. Walked out of the room from an argument with her kids and killed herself. The tenant who called me kept saying she was sorry for burdening me and I told her she wasn’t, I care about her, it’s a horrible thing. I reminded her to take care of herself so that she can keep on being a good friend to her roommate. I told her that her grief is valid, and doesn’t need to be measured against the roommate’s. Gosh, there’s enough grief to go around, really–you won’t run out, or take someone else’s, go ahead and grieve. I suggested that she not judge anyone for how they act right now; grief does strange things to a person, and suicide is like knowing an asteroid is coming to vaporize you–maybe then it might seem rational to ask about how much the house is worth or what should be done with the cars–those are solvable problems, whereas the asteroid is just this terrible thing hovering above your head. Maybe it’s not possible to look right at it; at least not at first. I told her we’d cover the rent if it was late, not to worry.

I revisited, for a moment, Ray and Ruby and John. But then I let them go back to their places. You never get over it, I told my tenant, but you learn to live with it. It takes a long, long time.

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The theme is who do I have to take care of, and how much? I have to take care of myself. I have to take care of my child. For ten minutes on the phone I can take care of my tenant. I do not have to take care of people whose mental illness could cause them to harm me. I do not have to take care of people who have no space in their lives for me. I do not have to take care of people who aren’t doing their work.

The shrink said that when we’re about to refine something, or pass to another level of understanding, just before we get there it feels like the walls are closing in, and the problem is everywhere. All around me demands are being made for my attention and energy. People want me to put them ahead of myself. So each time I say no, I’m moving forward. No, you cannot come to my house and ring my doorbell a million times and pound on the door. No, I won’t go on a trip where I will be lonely and ignored and pushed beyond my limits. No, I will not act as a buffer for you to avoid your family.

She also suggested that I probably need a really good cry. This is also true, but a far more elusive beast.

On Getting Out of Jail

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So, I alluded to a bad thing that might happen, and it did.

I spent about two days panicking and then, all of a sudden, I realized it actually didn’t matter at all. I’ve made my choices based on what’s best for my health and well-being, and it doesn’t matter what happens, those choices are solid. Now, less than a week later, I am hardly thinking about it at all, which is a place I once thought I’d never get. I’m okay, I have a plan, I’ve got this.

Which is good, because as much as this other situation might want to hijack my life, I’ve got some pretty big fish to fry of my own. Mainly, my hands. At least twice a month I am in enough pain to lose my composure and seriously contemplate more than just my daily almost-a-bottle-of-wine pain management routine. The same problems remain, though:

My PCP is a nurse practicioner in WAY over his head, and we had several medication fumbles last year such that we both know we need someone with more expertise.

I live where Medicine Comes To Die.

I have, literally, no options in my place of residence.

The Shrink is retiring in September.

Once again, I’ve set up the summer as a time to fix problems so that I can go back to work. Instead, what it needs to be is that I need to try to solve some problems, not for work, but for me and my life. The answers are no more forthcoming, though.

The bottom line being, my hands are my life, and they have begun to hurt all the time, and that is just way more threatening and deserving of my attention than just about anything else.

In An Ongoing Series of Small Steps

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I mentioned in my December 31 post that I continue to be somewhat stuck artistically when it comes to drawing. Nothing will change overnight, and I doubt that sudden change would even be that healthy, really. However, I’ve started spending some time each morning pinning illustrations that I like to this Pinterest board. I zip through really fast, simply pinning anything that speaks to me at all, pushing away the little voice that says, “But that’s not consistent with what you have already pinned” or “You pick the same image over and over again” (this critic also likes to point out to me that I buy the same painting over and over again). I just pin. Pin, pin, pin, immerse, pin.

Immersion. Getting lost in it. This morning I read this post by Terri Windling, whose blog I follow and lurk at, and admittedly often skim because she writes a lot, and a lot of it is about writing, not drawing. I have long understood that perfectionism is, indeed, a problem for me. Starting my art journal late last year was intended to help with that–a completely secret thing where it doesn’t matter what I draw. Even then, I relentlessly critique it. I force myself to cross out a word I spelled wrong and NOT tear out the page and move on. I resist the voice that suggests that my composition lacks balance on the page. Somewhere, underneath that voice, I know that what is valuable; visually and otherwise, is the journal in its totality, not a page with a weird space at the bottom, or a crooked drawing.

As mentioned in her post, I also know exactly who I take into the studio with me; my father. Oh, my father, who encouraged me to make art and then relentlessly, endlessly criticized it and me. All of those events are taped and neatly filed in my brain and I can take them out and relive them anytime. I would like to stop doing that. I would like, very much, to un-invite my father to my work. To close the door before he steps into my studio. My secretiveness about my artwork stems from him pawing through it without permission, sometimes even taking things and adding to them. I drew all the time as a kid, sitting on the floor at the coffee table with a sketchbook and pencil, and my dad sniping constantly, questioning my process, my subject matter, my choices. Eventually he won, and I stopped drawing at the coffee table and took it to my room. And then years later, I would sometimes stop altogether, sometimes for months or even for years. I still do.

I have let go of perfectionism when it comes to sewing, though, so I sew all the time. My father doesn’t know a single thing about sewing, or about costume design, for that matter, and he knows very little about me as stitching artist, because he died before I found this world. He can’t enter this part of my life, he’s never been here before. Other critics, my co-worker who can sometimes be scathing, even, don’t bother me. I can see their jabs as simply their own insecurities, and I know I am very, very good at what I do, even as I have so much to continue to learn. Which is not to say that I don’t sometimes catch myself, particularly at work, wanting to start my project alone, secretly, so no one can question what I am doing, or apologizing for an imperfection before anyone else can criticize it. But I am much, much better at letting go of all of that where sewing is concerned.

Drawing is a lot closer to my core, it is a much more vulnerable process. I took so much of it into my own interior that now it has trouble getting out into the world. I think I took it prisoner when I meant to make it safe. That is something I would like to manage this year; I’d like to let it out of jail. My art journal, my other work, they are all little releases–a little work-release as it were–but the full-on jailbreak is still ahead of me. Terri’s post mentions several keys that might unlock some of the locks, which is very positive.

Tiny, Tiny, Tiny steps.