Technicolor Illusions...

I feel alone. I have never felt this way before, in my soul. Granted, I have been alone since I was a kid, not wanted by what was supposed to be the most important part of my life, but I was distracted. As a kid I was always exploring, getting into new adventures never caring that my mother threw me out of the house from time I woke up until the time the sun went down. At night when the rest of the family was watching television I was in my room, alone, but dreaming and creating new adventures in my head. I would draw those thoughts out, paint them with colored pencils, technicolor illusions. As I grew up, I became reliant on my times alone with my self and my thoughts. It was a way of defying my mother, or defying the obstacles that she lobbed in my way. Little grenades of discontent. I created alone, she could not touch or harm them with her words or her regrets. I would never let her into my head to see these things that made me so happy and artistic. She would have used them against me. It is sad that I recognized this at 6 and 10 years of age.

The happiest moments in my younger life were when I was working with my hands, creating little forts with the biggest branches my little arms could carry, painting with the mud, making a sanctuary for my thoughts. When my parents starting sending me to art schools, I was invincible. Determined to keep my head above water for one more day so I could paint with pencils and chalks, oils or acrylics, on paper or canvas. Always at my happiest, they would take it away. As punishments for being a mischievous and excited 6 or 15 year old kid. It was a weapon for my mother, and not that big of a deal for my father. Once again alone, forced into the abyss of my thoughts. My father never wanted to believe I was alone, he saw it right in front of him, but he was surviving in his own way. My mother could have cared less what the effects were. I was always back on my feet, no matter what bruises to my ego or my body were there, determined to have them see me. Recognize my eternal state of melancholy was not just my nature, but what they were creating and trying to overcome by hearing the words I LOVE YOU.

I don’t remember the exact age I stopped painting and drawing, but somewhere in my late teen years. Probably my senior year in high school. I had to find a new normal. I still never felt alone. Weird. Even when I was kicked out of my house and dodging shadows in the streets did I feel as empty as I feel now. I know now there were people who knew of my situation, scrounging for food, sleeping under bleachers or life guard stands, and did nothing. I still didn’t feel alone. I was living, surviving and for some odd reason enjoying it. Maybe I picked the right friends for those times to help me get through it. A new family. I can’t remember a lot of their faces but I remember they let me feel needed even if it was to hear their pain and help them through it. To be the recipient of their soliloquies.

I have experienced lots of tragedies in my life. The suicide of an ex-boyfriend, death of my best friend, my own near death from overdose. Even when my mother and brothers decided I didn’t need to be a part of their lives in any way and cut all ties with me did I ever feel alone. It wasn’t until a recent addition to my life in the way of a new friend lost his lover, whom I never met, did I begin to feel this way. At the memorial service I began to realize I have never truly felt the unconditional love that these two people had for each other. Sure, if I were to leave this Earth quickly and tragically I would be missed but I wouldn’t have someone other than family and a few close friends at my funeral. No lover with a broken heart. Someone who completely understood my quirks and my indecipherable smiles. Someone who encouraged me in the mornings when we woke up next to each other. Someone to make me soup when I was sick. Someone who saw me. Maybe this sounds selfish, and I should be happy with what I have got. However, I can’t help but feel that some of these family and friends I feel love from might be a part of my life for superficial reasons. I have them there to validate me. Validate my existence.

I think I am doing something wrong. I have been painfully open to unconditional love since I was a child and yet, it seems out of reach. I still keep my head up, I still trudge on through the discontent that surrounds me. Still happy to be alive, ready for my next adventure, excited to create. I have started painting again, albeit with a new medium. I listen to people, give advice, make people feel people feel beautiful on the outside, so that they can start feeling beautiful in the inside. For once, I want to feel selfish. This isn’t a proper thing to ask for I suppose. Some people in this world end up alone, and are ok with it. If not downright happy about it. I don’t want to be one of those people. Until my selfishness is satisfied, I will create and hope. Most of all I will dream. Dream that all the trials and tribulations were not in vain, and were placed on my shoulders for a reason. Its ok to dream.