 I learned to do something from a very young age because the temperature dropped in my childhood house hold: Channel. Focus. When you grow up around difficult people or very authoritarian ones which mine where: I had a escape hatched I used an it was Art. Still is today. You can't yell, scream and protest like a normal human so you retreat into your head. It's really very normal response. I felt lucky my whole life to have discovered art at such a young age. I might have not been able to say out loud what I felt but refocus my attention to something else. If I didn't like how unhappy things where: I'd draw pictures of happier times. Or what I wanted them to be. Or I'd listen to music that lift me “out of it”. Change my mood all together. Instead of focusing on something I could do nothing about... I'd go to my room at 8-9 years old, crack open my newest Disney book. Read it. Then spend a week drawing the whole thing over & over until I had a exact copy. I didn't trace. I practiced. I concentrate on it instead of my parents somber moods. It was a overly serious house without a lot of lightheartedness. I choose to focus on something that would make me happy instead. Like being able to do what Walt Disney could. It redirected my thoughts into something productive. An much like giving yourself round of personal therapy all the time. In grade school, I got picked on a lot because I was really shy. Withdrawn. In third grade, the class bully decided it was my day to be picked on. Picked on me because of my pants, ran around the indoor recess taunting me, so I just went down an sat at the table an started to draw Bambi from memory. He came over to the table, snatched my drawing out of my hands: Started to make fun of it, an couldn't. Wait a minute, he said, “Is that...” all stunned. An I said, “Yea, it is: Now leave me alone.” Then, instead of taunting me: He took the drawing around to every kid in the class showing them what I could do. Suddenly, the little freak was my best friend. He wanted to sit by me. Ask me to draw him things. Informed a few other bullies not to pick on me anymore. Etc. Every time he'd brag on me, I'd turn red. I really didn't want attention either way but didn't mind someone appreciating the work I had put into being able to draw that well. It felt nice to be appreciated for what you could do. So, I kept working on it. Art. Drawing. Focusing & Concentrating for long hours. When, the family would sit down to watch TV at night: I'd have my drawing books open, learning how to draw a realistic horse. Or Cow. Once I had gotten that down, I moved on to drawing from pictures. I'd draw lions, tigers, and just about any animal you could think of. I loved animals. An I wasn't happy until I finally drew a monkey, that had a certain gilt in his eye. A warm glow. His eyes smiled. I didn't consider myself a “good” artist until I could do that. Convey that with pencil. I spent night after night focused on it. We had moved up to IL, an I had learned to kind use that as a way to keep bullies off my back. An it usually worked. When the new kids could see I had something to offer, they tended not to pick on me. It helped me make friends. I use to draw an paint things for them. As practice. So art really was my saving grace. My savior. It gave me a way to escape the drudgery of growing up feeling like I was living out Cinderellas life. I'd clean a four level house, I'd cook, do the dishes, counters, floors and trash. I did everything but the laundry. For some odd reason, thank god my mother never made me do that too. Weekend days where spent, painting apartments an painting storm windows. Over an over. An at night, I'd double down an work some more on art. It kept me sane. It kept me focused on the best part of myself. What I could do right, instead of what was not. My parents where critical people. Especially my mother. Nothing was every quiet good enough, or perfect enough. But I could go in my room, turn on some music an focus on something I was good at. Concentrate on what was right about me, not wrong. It made me a workaholic very early on. It gave me a way to express myself, for some odd reason my parents never paid much attention to. Even when I won ribbons and contest. Disigned Yearbook covers. It didn't matter much to me, whether I had their approval or not because others did recognize me for who I wanted to be seen as: Myself. MY work. Not theirs. Them not really giving me kuddos for it might be why I've had some mental block that I could not make a living as an artist. I don't know. It's a topic, I'll probably explore. Their in ability to say “good job” might be the whole root of my mental block about money & art. They where just not very emotionally supportive about it. They supplied the paper, sent me to a few art classes in town but generally bitched about the cost. So I tried not to ask for supplies to much until high school an had to. When I started painting murals, is when I got a reaction. It wasn't pleasant either. I was really into music. I really really admired Stanley Moore art on Journey album coves. I reproduced just about everyone of them on giant 4 foot murals. He's know for Grateful Dead art too. Journey was a pretty positive type of music to listen to actually. I mean I liked heavy metal too. It could have been worse lol but my dad went off about it. I was just learning to draw people. I was a teen, of course I was going to pick good looking guys to draw. An that's when he noticed, came down to my room tore every single poster off my walls: Screaming at me. All this! Is gonna go, he said. It wasn't okay with him. He went to grab my mural of Journey's “Escape” album cover I had painted that was HUGE. Pointed at it hostile as hell, “That can stay” an wouldn't touch it but when we moved to a new house, all those murals I did but one “disappeared”. My mom said they where in storage. Then said she couldn't find them. No one every has confessed to where they went. I landed up in another high school Junior year. Which in a weird way was alright by me. I had just got done taking every art related class I could an by going to the new high school I could take another two. An I worked on faces until I moved out. Not as much as I had before. I got a boyfriend. Was a teenager. Got distracted. Got kicked out of the house. I lost my focus on Art. Didn't pick up my pencil or paints for years. Instead I focused on business, management, computer programming. But Art is what taught me: if you want to get good at anything... You have to focus on it. Concentrate. Practice. It's the biggest key to art & life to me. Where your attention goes, you become.
0 Comments
 I grew up on a farm, outside of a small town in Missouri in some ways they where the happiest years of my life, an the worst. Depending on which part of it I want to look at but the reason I'm writing this to tell my story. It's not actually here to complain or focus on all that was bad that happened to me. It's to examine where some of my beliefs came from, an reroute them. Because what you believe you become. Or can hold you back. So I have had to look at some of those painful memories to see if they stuck. An they didn't, an I'll tell you why they didn't. I had plenty around me that encouraged me to be my biggest brightest self. They invalidated the your unlovable aspect that could have stuck with me had I choose to believe my mother at age four. It just didn't stick. I knew she was wrong. An I believed that deep down all my life. I just buckled down on what I was good at. It started out as a way to stay out of trouble actually. Art. It became one of those household of been seen, not heard. Later in my life, I figured out I was kinda sound sensitive myself. Maybe because of it. But I enjoyed quiet as a child. Sitting at the table, drawing was enjoyable an it didn't set anyone off. I could be just what I was. A kid. An as long as I was “good” there was no drama in the house. So, although I was an active kid that enjoyed outside a lot: I learned from an early age to sit still. An focus on something else. My dad came in one day, while I was sitting there drawing a tree. An instilled something in me: That's great he said but then the criticism came: but can you draw something else besides a tree. I'm not sure he meant it critically either. He just saw I was stuck on one thing: Trees. He said, “Your trees good, but can you draw me a house?” I had never thought about drawing a house before. So, he sat down next to me an showed me how. He didn't do it for me. He instructed me to draw a box, then a triangle. He was working on my shapes with me. That is how much I remember of my childhood. Details like that. Who was actually teaching me things. He walked away, an I drew windows in it an he was pretty proud. An that's probably when I decided to become an artist because I've been doing art since as far back as I can remember, an being rewarded for it on a emotional level the more I improved. “That's a nice house” An he's the one that got me thinking, what else can a draw: An off I went with it. Next came the dog, the cows ect an it wasn't long after that, I saw Disney's “Alice in Wonderland” an got inspired. I sat and watched in awe cause it was all drawn. An they moved. Its really the first animated cartoon I saw. They weren't on at our house. We didn't have Sesame Street or any of that. It was a very rural area that only picked up three channels. I wanted to know how they did that. I really did. I was seeing how far drawing could take someone. So, I really became all about it. Plus, it kept me out of trouble. It was a winner to me! I'd still go outside and play with my dog, run but my time in doors became all about drawing and stories. “Alice In Wonderland” was one of my first real novels I read. An still, my favorite. My dad, use to sit on the couch an teach me my colors. We'd go through the whole box, while he'd show my infant sister as well. They where good memories. Anything associated with stories, learning or art where the best of memories. He'd watch Captain Kangroo with me before we would get dressed. He'd go over whatever lesson, he was teaching drinking coffee. Then we would get dressed, head over to my grandmothers to eat breakfast. I'd go hang out with Pappa. So my childhood wasn't all bad. It was after four that it got difficult an that is when my grandfather passed. That's when the tension happened. Looking back it's understandable as an adult. It was a huge loss for all of us. There was a lot of pressure on everyone. My dad, took over running the farm. My uncle moved in to finish high school. My grandmother moved up north to work to support the farm. An no one was in a good mood, most days. If not down right pissy, you'd say. I myself didn't understand what happened. I was four, an no one talked about it. He just disappeared. Poof! Gone. An I remember having a conversation with my dad about what it. What do you mean, he's in heaven? Can't you call him? Tell him to come home? You can call grandma, why can't you call him? An I'm sure the conversation was difficult on my dad, cause I got pissed. An kept demanding someone call him. An at some point, my dad said well here: You talk to him an handed me the phone. He can hear you, he just can't answer you. He's with God. Well who's God? An why won't he let Pappa talk? So he called my grandmother instead. Here you talk to her for a while. An that would take my mind off it I guess. At some point, my dad wouldn't let hold the phone anymore like that. An told me I could talk to him without it. In my room. So I would. That was my introduction to God, Prayer an Spirit. Later, it when my grandmother returned from up North. She took me out on a drive and explained “Heaven” to me. I didn't much like the concept. But I continued to draw. It was the best way for me to be with everyone so upset. Quiet. The adults around me needed it. An I guess his passing made me grow up a little more serious then other kids. Shortly after that, my sister was born. An the dynamic in the house changed like it always does. I was no longer the center of attention, but that was okay. I kinda liked this idea of a child around. I've liked babies since I was a tot. Everyone kinda cheered up. Including me. An life moved on. But I really was into art. An my grandmother took me to see Snow White in theaters. It was my first movie. I was blown away. You could do all that drawing? So, I've always thought about drawing & stories. It was just instilled in me from a very early age. Books, stories, drawings...all of it. I wanted to grow up an do that! After the baby came, my mom decided to redecorate my room or our room. Not sure which. I was entering Kindergarten an she decided to go with Precious Moments stuff for the theme. I use to play she was a great artist who did that. I'd sit an try to redraw it until I had it as perfect as the one on the folder. I'd spend hours in my room doing it. I didn't want to just draw stick figures like my grandmother taught me. I wanted them to be as cute as the figurines I saw down at Hallmark. As cute as the baby was. An I'd focus all my attention on it. I'd play I was that great of an artist. An even worked on what “my signature” symbol should be. That's how into the idea I was of being an artist & story teller I was. Still am. I'd play that all the time. One playtime ritual revolved around a suitcase. I played that a famous artist had stopped by. Painted an oil painting on it of a VW bug, traveling. Which actually was a famous ad back in that day. That it was worth millions, an he just gave it to me and my dad to protect. An inside was my mom's typewriter. An I'd take it out, pretend to type my story then draw the artwork for it. I'd pretend the “bad guys” where trying to break in to our house an steal it. But they didn't know how special it was. An when I got sick couple of years ago. This is the kind of stuff, I was thinking about. My playtime stories. Rituals. Things I would do as a child. I spent a lot of time trying to learn how to use my mom's typewriter. I think I knew how to type before I actually could read very well. It was just important for me to know how to do that. It's what made books. An she would let me do it, as long as I didn't mess up the ribbon. This is the kinda of stuff artist think about. Getting back in touch with your “magical thinking” My kids where all upside down, when I got sick because what I was talking about just didn't seem to make a lot of sense to them. It made perfect sense to me: I was the one stuck in my own head. An I might have been starving an hallucinating, but I was rediscovering myself. I just wasn't communicating so well. I don't suggest starving yourself to death as a way to creativity. I've never believed in the starving artist notion. Even though, I was literally at that moment. I only suggest looking back at your childhood as a way to get to the root of why or where you got that notion in your head. I was surrounded by successful art. In books. On Tv. In Movies. Magizines in my childhood. So, I really do have to rethink this “poor” notion. It might have been watching my family struggle with bringing the crops in. How important that was to our families financial future. Farmers are poor part of the year, rich the other. An they have more equity then most do... Yet there was this image of poor struggling farmers out there. An in the 70's banks where taking farms away from people that had several farmed the same land several generations. It was a legit worry for my own family. I didn't grow up with this notion we where poor. Just that it required a lot of work. I grew up with stories of when my grandmother was poor, struggling to over come that. An how the whole family had. I grew up with my father, going on strike an marching on Washington over the way farmers where being done. Him warning other's in his community to get out, or invest in something else before you loose it all. An that's what he did. He sold all the equipment, the cows an even my dog an moved us up north. He was well worth over a million dollars. We were not poor. It was just invested. He took that money an bought rentals to support the farm land. He didn't farm it anymore. He rented it out but held on to it by doing something else with the money. So, I'm not sure what got stuck in my subconscious that you couldn't make a living at art. Or where it came from. It might be I just got taught you couldn't make a living at something you love. Because my dad actually loved farming. He didn't really enjoy fully being a landlord. Not like he had farming. So that might have been why I choose to go into a different field other then the one I loved. It might not actually have anything to do with art. Or if you can or can't make a living at it. An this is why you have to go back into your programmed subconscious an see what's going on there. What lessons you learned watching your parents grow up. We always had enough. We might have not been living like the Rockfellers but there was food on the table an clothes on our backs. So, you have to look at what you learned about work or money from your childhood. An when I look back, my mom had a habit of telling us there wasn't enough money for this or that. But looking back, there was plenty of money for what we needed. So it's a nasty habit mentally I got from someone that didn't mean to instill it I don't think. She always had a fear there wouldn't be enough. Not that there was or wasn't I think an passed that on to me. That thought. It's part of budgeting to last a year on a farmers salary. It's just the nature of the beast. Same as getting through to the next weeks check. It was just a habit of hers to tell us kids. There is or isn't money for this or that. Or we only have this much to spend. That probably made me a great manager. I didn't over shoot my budget as one. But it might have made me always think we where poor when we weren't. So, it's how you choose to look at something. An you have to examine it or it's going to effect your whole life. Money's a funny subject for me. I've had money, I've not had money. An I don't tend to look at wealth the same as most of the people I know. Successful or not. Money to me, I guess because I watched my parents under so much pressure from it: Seemed like a burden. Not a joy. An when you don't have enough of it, it most certainly can be. My hang ups regarding money might just all go back to the time my grandfather passed away. Before that, people worked an did what they where suppose to create money. They didn't worry over it. They just did it. So my four year old self might have been running my whole money show my entire life, prepare for the worst that could happen. That's kind of what you do, budgeting. Prepare for the worst. Hope for the best is kinda deal. Go without somethings, while you have to get them later when you can afford to. I'm not bad with money. I never have been. I can make 30K go a lot farther then most. I just tend to view wealth not just as something material. Happiness, satisfaction, resources factor in. What's the point of being “successful” if your whole family is miserable in the process weighs heavily for me. Not that I don't understand the road to success. I'm surrounded by successful people, in one form or another. But like the “Artist's Way” brings up, you have to define what success means to you as an artist. It wasn't starving. So, when did this notion I might be one if I choose a art career take root? Where did it for you? This is one of the reasons I got back and rethink my childhood. Not only is it a source of getting back in touch with your creative self, an your “magical thinking” You can pull up a bad weed that got planted there in your subconscious at some point. It can block your road to success. I want to pull up by it's roots. It's a bad seed. I'm just not seeing in my childhood where that got planted. Other then my father selling the farm, an taking away from it you couldn't make money doing something you love. You might have to find something else you like doing to make a income. That just might be it for me, an has nothing to do with can I or can I not be successful artist. It might have been why I became so interested in business management. I actually love running businesses. PNL's turn me on. Out performing ever gas station in the Rockford area, use to give me chills. Good ones. When the gas guy would call, an say hey Dana, want to get into a price war today? I'd be oh, hell yea! I enjoyed it. Competition. It's fun to me. So, it might not be a fear of being an artist. Or not making enough money at it. It just might be, this is the right time in my life to presue it. When it doesn't matter if I make money at it or not. That's a nice bonus. But it's not the main goal. Just a side product of it. It might have been because I witnessed great aunts & my grandmother not get into art until they where older an had time to. When raising their children an obligations where already meet. At any rate. I got over whatever fear of it was holding me back, when I took the photography management job. An that fear of instability, seems to be there regardless of what career I'm in. An it's just something you have to scwash like a bug. An get past it. I think that fear for me comes from some place else that has nothing to do with money or art. I don't know a successful person that hasn't had to face that fear, an over come it. Regardless of the career path they choose to be in. You have to face whatever is holding you back. So, I've pretty much set myself up, now where I can do art regardless. Without worry. An the only thing that seems to get in the way of it is, a few peoples approval. I don't actually need to do art. So, what's holding you back? I tried as much as I could to stay home with my children at least until they where the age of five. I did this because the basic personality is formed by that age. The video above says age seven. My logic was, if I could be the best parent I knew how to be they would have good lives. See, I always wanted to be a good mother. I mean we all do but for me it was even more important because I felt mine had failed me. I was exposed to things I shouldn't have been. Done ways that just where not right to do to a child. I'd like to say my mother did the best she could. An maybe that is true. That is the best she could do, but my inner child says no because it will always go back to remembering what she did to me. When my father disciplined me, it made sense. If I did something wrong, I might get spanked but there was a reason behind it. Not that I'm absolving him completely. He was heavy handed at times an there is that one time he locked me in a closet for a full day. I have not forgotten. It was wrong an it shouldn't have been done. I told him I hated him. Actually screamed it because I thought he was hurting my mother. They had been in a fight, kissed an made up an he was tickling her an I thought he was hurting her. So, I got very defensive of her started screaming at him. He was playing. I wasn't. He had a belt an kept snapping it at me, joking around. But being threatened wasn't a joke to me. An when I screamed I hated him, it got serious. He whipped me. Locked me in a closet in my room. I stayed there what seemed like all day crying. But I did understand why he whipped me. Screaming you hate someone isn't something you should do. My mother did nothing. It was the first time, my father and I had not gotten along. Normally, we did an I was pretty much glued to his side. He was more of a mother to me, then my mother. He dressed me. Feed me. Ect. An I was pretty mad at him for doing that to me. All over a misunderstanding. I defended my mother, but she never came to my aid for doing so. An that is pretty much how she's always been. Expecting me to be there for her, when she never was for me. At some point my dad had a little sit down with me an explained, he wasn't going to spank me, he was just playing until I did that. I as best as a little kid explained I wouldn't have done that if he wasn't scaring me. I didn't agree with my dads instilling fear into a child. Even as an adult, lectured him that was the reason him and I where not as close as we should be. Because we where close when I was a little kid. But at least his discipline had some predictability to it. I actually had to do something really wrong to get spanked. An truth is, there is a difference between a spanking and a beating. An most of the time: his where spankings. Not beatings. My mother on the other hand, was totally unpredictable. You just never knew what was going to set her off. With my dad, I knew what would land me into trouble for the most part with him. So it was never my dad, normally that had me walking on eggshells growing up. It was her. An she stated recently to my daughter, she doesn't know how she ended up being the “bad guy” cause she was always at work. The trouble never happened when she was at work. It was what mood swing she was having when she got home. There was no predicting when she would go off. An her spankings where not spankings. They where temper tantrums. They where beatings. I can name three times, my dad beat me: Not spanked me. It was wrong but it was limited. With her, I just never knew what was coming. I didn't have to keep track of his mood, but hers to survive. An that's the truth of my childhood. I walked in fear of setting her off. When I was maybe three? Four. Before my siblings where born. She told me to go outside and play. I went out, swung on the swing set. Got bored, came back in for something an she screamed at me to go back outside: I started to an she grabbed me, started beating me with her fist until I was down on the ground. Screaming at me: I told you to stay outside. You never listen. Then she proceeded to kick me into a corner of the kitchen between a wall an the cabinets. Screaming she should have never had me. She never wanted me and kicked me so hard in the side. I couldn't breath. I still have that pain in my side if I try to run to hard or much. Then, when I was about to pass out, she lifted me up crying saying she was so sorry. That was a beating. An I've never forgotten it. Or the difference in my parents styles. An it's complicated because you do love your parents. An as a child you try to understand that shit. When you never really can. I made a vow to myself, never to be that way with my children. An wasn't. I wasn't perfect but I never beat my children. An it was rare of me to loose my temper. I'd go sit myself in Zen mode, time out if one of them was pushing me to my limits. It's the best I could do. I just really did not want to be my mother. It stuck with me, that just wasn't any way to parent. The unpredictability. The worrying about mood swings an what would set my mother off. Once was over lent on the floor. You just never knew. It was kinda like having to always be the adult in the situation. Taking care of an adult child. Who had melt downs and temper tantrums all the time. My dad saw it. Once, she got on to me about something, don't even remember what an he stopped her an told her: No, listen to her. She's the one making sense not you. An it happened all the time at our house after DCFS. My mother never really forgave me for DCFS. She would say it was my dad saying this or that, but truth was he's not the one that kicked me out of the house before I finished high school. She was. Threw my stuff all over the front lawn. That kinda of stuff wasn't my dad's doing. Yet, when you'd speak to her later she'd say “he's the one that told me to do that”. I just don't believe her anymore. I use to be pretty protective of her. I'd help her when no one else would anymore. Then she'd turn on me again. Just like she would when I was a child. An you get sick of that. You love them because they are your parent but you don't want to be exposed to that kind of behavior all the time. I'd like to say she doesn't or isn't aware she's doing it an on some level she's not but on another she is. It's kinda like dealing with a snake, you just kinda never sure when it's going to bite you. One minute she's all lovey dovey Next, she's back to a hateful, bitter old hag spitting out vile to you when no ones around to witness it. I use to report in to my grandmother, literally just so you know: This is what happened this time. I didn't do this this or that. I had someone in my life that believed in me, could vent to about it. An life went on. Cause everyone in our family knows how she can be. Nice one minute, trying to destroy you the next. It's just the way she's always been. An once I left home, it didn't really effect me much. I just learned to help her to a degree from a nice safe happy distance. She didn't really involve herself to much with me or my children anyway. She refused to help an I was kinda grateful she didn't want to. I raised my kids, with the help of my grandmother. Someone I knew, wouldn't go off half cocked like that. Someone that had patience. My relationship with my siblings is strained at times. They have been since I left home. They where fine before that. Other then typical spats between children we all got along fine. I don't know what was told to them during that time period. I'm sure I was made out to be the bad guy. We for the most part got a long fine after my parents divorce but they where used like a bargaining chip at times against me. To keep me involved in a situation I really didn't want to be apart of anymore. My youngest sibling is ten years younger then me. She was like my own child in some ways. I bottle feed her, held her, dressed her, fed her, cooked cleaned an did all the things a parent should do for their own child. I ran our household, not my mom. She worked. An that is the only good thing I really can say about my mother for the most part. She's good at her job. I'm sure there are other t hings. I mean she can be kind when she wants to be. She can be a lot of good t hings when she wants to be. The keyword is: Wants. It kinda comes an goes regarding me an I've just learned to accept that. She's like a child. A spoiled one who will act out if she isn't getting what she wants. When my father passed away, she moved in with my sister. She packed up her house an gave me my baby picture. It was my mother's way of saying she was done with me. An I was perfectly okay with it. She's banished me so may times over my lifetime this was nothing new. What I didn't really expect was to have trouble with my siblings. We had all pretty much gotten along just fine since the youngest moved out of her house. There is a strain there now between us all. An the only time I've seen it like that my mother was behind it. Everything in the estate was getting divided pretty equally and fairly up until her involvement. My grandmothers estate was divided without a hitch. No problems what so ever. There have been issues with my dads. As if I where never born. A lot of low dirty tricks played. Tricks my dad or grandmother wouldn't have never done nor tolerated. An for the most part, I've let it slide. An here's why: There was a point in my life, where I landed a huge bid job. The person specifically told my mother to call her girls to do the job. My sister didn't want it. She already had two jobs. I took the job. When my mother found out how much the job was worth: She demanded I pay her $5000 for a finders fee. She didn't find me the job. The woman just didn't have my phone number. My mom, was all take the job, take the job. I'll help you. Cause I wasn't even sure I should take the paint job it was so big. Had to be done in a certain amount of time an I had no crew. NO no no, take it: Ill help you. She showed up for a hour. Had a melt down, shit fit and left. I did the job, when I got paid she'd call me harassing me to pay her for work she didn't do. If I didn't pay her, I wouldn't see my younger sibling. She wasn't going to talk to me, blah blah blah. I finally got on the phone, called my father: told him what was going on and asked his advice because she's my mother. WTF, you do with that? He listened, an basically said “Just pay the miserable bitch” That way you never have to worry about if you did something wrong. So I did. She never earned it but my conscious slept well at night. I never had another involvement with her financially again. The just of it was, both him and I where worried about my younger sibling over in that house with her. If she had enough or the things she needed. So I paid it. It was ransom, we both knew it. Emotional blackmail. It's what she's done her whole life. He was sick of it. I was sick of it. An that conversation went a long way in repairing mine & his relationship. Cause it was clear, he was not the one doing this. It wasn't his behavior but hers. He could have asked me for a loan at that time, could have used one actually an didn't. An the one time I did loan him money, I did it without his permission because it had to be done. He actually got pissed at me for it. Thanked me but pissed all the same he was taking money from his kid. They are different. I saw him trying to put back together his family. All I've seen since he passed is someone keeping us all arguing. She seems to enjoy us all not talking to each other. An sits around like the innocent one. I really don't get what she gets out of it. Other then some sort of feeling like she's in control if we don't. An truth is, I don't really care anymore. I'd just like the lady to get out of my families lives. Because I'm not buying mrs sweet an innocent. Or poor me. I've gotten sucked back in too many times too when what I really want is for her to just leave me the hell alone. I love her but I don't want to be around her. It's like dealing with Dr Jekyll and Mr Hyde all the time. One minutes she's there for you being loving as hell, next she's using your relationships with your siblings or your kids. Threaten you in private, then playing concerned parent to the world. It's about the most frustrating relationship you could ever have with a parent. An it's not just me she does this with: If she doesn't like something my sisters are doing, she'll get on the phone an try to get me to go parent them for her. It's put me on the defensive in personal relationships half my life, an my life has been best when she wasn't much involved in it. I can't even be myself. It's like it's forbidden. If I'm in a relationship and happy, look out: Here she comes. She's going to point out every rotten thing she can come up with to whoever I happen to be with. An if it doesn't work: Well, she's just got you rapped around her little finger. Do you know, how many people I've dated she's done this with. I've lost count. She keeps tabs on all my close relationships. Ex's that I don't even talk with anymore. It's smothering. It's kinda obsessive. Down right unsupportive of me as a daughter an just plain weird. An I am just at wits end with it. The more I try to just stay clear of her, the more problems she causes me in personal relationships that matter to me. Their have been several times, I've just thought about moving as far away from her as I can. Cause I just really don't know what you do with someone like this anymore. It's a toxic relationship. An every time I get over it. Move past it. Forgive it and get on with my life and heal. Poof! There she is again. An I feel sorry for her all over again. Find myself trying to repair a relationship that really can't be. Its not the relationship that's a problem. She's my mother an I love her but I am the target of her anger an have to remember that. She's not capable of loving me in a way that is healthy. She's just not. I accepted this fact about her a long time ago. Probably when I was fourish. It's not that there is anything wrong with me. Nor more then their was that day she beat me like that. This problem, was her problem not mine. An as an adult, we have to re parent ourselves. I did all that cause I know those tapes in our heads can get stuck on auto pilot if we let them. I'm a decent person. Always have been an way more forgiving then I should be. Way more tolerant of peoples quirks sometimes then most. An even screwed up people need love. An I've tried to love her without getting side swiped in the process. From a distance, an sometimes that puts distance between me an others there shouldn't be any distance with. My mother got on a kick, I was a bad parent. If she could prove I was, then she could redeem herself she wasn't. She started the same kind of campaign she did with my younger sibling. False claims where made to DCFS, while I was in the process of moving to another house. Using my siblings against me wasn't working, so lets try the her children. My daughters father even said it: I just thought the whole thing was a get even for you turning her in to DCFS. Bingo On the day I was suppose to go back to court. I was sick an just kinda said, you know what. I'm not going. I'm not going to let someone use my own child against me. I am not going to keep being put through this crap had been going on since my father passed. Let my daughter stay over there. Then at least one of my kids will learn what they are like. Not that I wanted her in harms way. My mother hasn't tried to lay hands on me since I was pregnant with my oldest. She went to attack me, I defended myself an she's too old to physically harm her. Let my daughter get a real glimpse of it. I'm going back to work. Then I'll resolve this. So I did. At first she was, why do you hate her: She's such a sweet lil' old lady. I don't hate her. I don't trust her. You'll see why. An recently she had to be moved over to my other sisters house to finish high school. Why? Because my mom is running behind her back to my sister about what a terrible kid she is. She's not. She gets good grades, on track, in choir an works. She's a pretty busy girl. But she got caught doing one thing wrong, which really in the scheme of things: Is her just being a normal teen an it got all blown out of proportion. Instead of being grounded for a reasonable time, she was grounded for months. Her phone taken away so she couldn't communicate with others. Same old physiological shit my mom pulled on me after DCFS. So I called my other sister an asked if she could stay over there to finish high school. Away from my mom's parenting. Her depression has lifted. She's back to her normal joyful self. My mom called once after that an hissed on in the phone about what a terrible kid she was an I just told her to go parent her own children. Cause I'm done. Just done. Mess with my kids. I dare you to. My kids aren't stupid. They can have a relationship with her if they want. They are all pretty much full grown an can make their own choices. If she tries to come between me an them: They will see through it eventually. My oldest just came up here an told me: I think money is just how she loves. I don't think she knows any other way to be. An she doesn't accept you for who you are. An I told her that. Even defended me on my moms “She's crazy” kick. So, I don't have to be around it any longer. I love her, but I don't like her much. She keeps yelling at me: “I'm a good person” Okay fine, your a good person. An she can be at times. That's not the part of her that always has me watching my own back when it comes to her. She has some need for mommy approval from me. Which is odd. It always has been. I've chalked it up to her mother passing when she was young. Or however her mother was with her. I don't know, she won't talk about it. Never has. An you can't help someone who never really deals with their core issues. An those all go back to before age five or seven. I know what my issues are. Every sore spot in my childhood. I found someone who could mother me positively. So when I think back to my childhood those are the memories I focus on. My mother resents it. My grandmother mothering me but I'd be a mess if it wasn't for her. Those childhood tapes would have got stuck in “unlovable”. It is because of her I know that I am. I could go on an function like a normal adult. She's the one that got me into art. It helped a lot in my childhood keeping me quiet an still, so I didn't receive wrath. It made me productive in a environment that wasn't very emotionally stable. Truth is I got kinda use to sitting calm in the eye of a storm. It made me learn to focus on something else instead of what could be bothering me if I had let it. It was therapeutic. My biggest vice growing up. It help me re direct my own thoughts away from harmful emotions. It gave me away to channel them with out being punished. It set me free. It gave me a outlet. A way to reprogram myself while going through stuff I really shouldn't have been put through. I'd go draw mickey mouse instead. Use my imagination to dream of better. I lived in my head a lot. An even back then told myself: She's wrong A lot. I had my pappa, grandmother an others letting me know I was loveable. I was valued. All the time, not just part of the time or when the mood struck. My mother is trying to tell others I'm bipolar. I'm not, but she might be. It would explain a lot of what she's put me through. I deal with depression and PTSD but it only acts up when I'm resubjected to her behavior. They say, you have to cut toxic people out of your life. Even if they are family. I've tried that but what ends up happening is I have to cut others out of my life because of her. I just don't know what else to do with it. I'm fifty something years old. I haven't had to deal with this kinda nutty behavior in 30 years. When I did it was short spurts. Toleration. I know she has her issues but at some point isn't she suppose to be an adult by now? Why must she keep projecting her mommy issues / orphan shit on to me. An that's really was it is, a projection. My mother doesn't really know me well. Nor, the few she gets on board for these kicks. Most that have been around for any length of time, knows she gets this way. Many have been tolerant of it. She has a couple good friends, an seems content enough with her work & life most of the time not to bother me. An I guess that's the best you can hope for. I wish she'd get real help for whatever the real underlying issue has always been. It was there long before I came along. She's old now, an probably never will deal with the issue. I've pretty much accepted that. But she wanted to know, why I feel the way I do. An my kids wanted to know, so here I am writing about something I dealt with a long time ago. My moms issues. It's not that she's unlovable. She just makes it difficult when you always got to worry about how your going to get burned this time for getting involved. Love just shouldn't be this hard. It's just easier to stay away, then to be drug into a bunch of drama.  Roughly, after my father passed. I got pissed off at my mother. She said something to me, that just didn't gel right with me in my grief. Another did as well, after my grandmother passed. Grief is a touchy thing. I knew I needed my space right from the start to process mine. It might have been selfish but it was a lot better then lashing out at someone because with grief comes anger. An I try to keep a tight lid on mine. I wasn't going to take mine out on someone, an didn't want to deal with another's either. To me it's just private. Especially when you have complex feelings about the one that passed. I use to call my father an “asshole”. Because at times he was: I got this from my grandmother. Not that she taught me to think of him as an asshole. It's just the word she would use for all of us if we where being “difficult”. It's the only swear word she would use. An to her, we where all “assholes” in some shape or form. Even I was. It's kinda a inside joke. You would have had to know her I guess. It's kinda like Betty White swearing. You just can't help it. It makes you laugh. She got mad at me one day when her an her boyfriend where arguing in my house. Something that never happened with her. I intervened an told her, they couldn't argue in my kitchen. Right or wrong to me really wasn't important. My kids where home. No arguing. An she turned to me an said: Why, you little asshole. An stomped out. Something she never did with me, an that's when I knew something was wrong with her. Really wrong. He was still standing in the doorway, all befuddled and confused, an just looking at me like: Where the hell did that come from. Because she never acted like this, ever. An that's when I told him, somethings wrong. You need to take her to the doctor. If you don't, I'll call my uncle. Somethings wrong. This isn't her. An it wasn't to long after that she was diagnosed with cancer. She really wasn't herself. She was physically sick. It was effecting her personality. She had a lot less patience then she normally had. It just wasn't her. He told me later after she passed, a decade maybe that at first someone: He wouldn't say who tried to say she was crazy. An at first, her whole mental state was being looked at instead of what could actually be wrong with her. He even got confronted by the doctor, asking about it an defended her. Because that wasn't the issue. My grandmother had always been clear headed. Sharp as a whistle. I agree. I talked to her regularly all through my life. An knew, the problem wasn't ever her marbles. She was a smart lady, always had been. An until they found out what was physically wrong with her, she was a little more short tempered because she was tired. She was sick an she needed medical attention an care. Once, they found out what was wrong, an started to get some of that. She was herself again. There was a reason she was acting the way she was. A physical reason. She never was crazy. Not once. A psychical health issue / problem can alter one's state or attitude. When your not feeling good, your just typically not going to be your most chipper self. When he told me she was put through this, it angered me. Immensely. To me, it's abusive. Someone, an I don't know who attacked her basic character, while she was sick. It didn't last because that's not who she was. An, they didn't know her that well either. You would have to be close to her to notice, something was off. It just wasn't how she would normally react. Wasn't her style. Two to three years before my father passed, he was in an accident. His girlfriend had passed of cancer, he was grieving an his friends took him on bus trip to a casino. They where trying to be helpful. Cheer him up, or help him grieve. He never should have went. His grieving should have been done close to home, around those who would watch out for him. They talked him into it. He got shitfaced, an fell walking down the bus steps. He hit the back of his head. Hard enough to cause blood to pour from his ears. He was knocked unconscious, an someone at the scene gave him mouth to mouth. When I arrived at the hospital, he was conscious an scared to death. I held his hand, all though it. Talked to him calmly. Kept him calm. Calmed him down. An he held onto my hand as tight as he could: Because we both knew it was serious. It could be the end. He had a giant size hole in the back of his head. It was serious. They put him in a coma induced state. His brain was swelling. He might never wake up from it. Only time would tell. We wouldn't know the extent of the damage until he woke up. If he ever did. It was the only way to give it time to heal. He was in a coma for nine weeks. He did wake. When he did, they warned us: everyone reacts to it differently. He would at first be in the mental state of a child. Some come out of it sweet as pie, others difficult. It would be a long road back to himself. It would take time, an he might not ever make it back to being fully himself. It would depend on him. He wasn't crazy either. He had a physical condition that made him take a step back into his mind. He came out of it disoriented, an shock-lying peaceful. Happy. An it was actually a glimpse of the child he had been. He even joked around a bit. Not much because he was clearly exhausted. We wheren't even sure he was going to be able to walk. But the minute I knew he was going to be alright is when, me & my uncle had pushed him into another room: He looked out the window – pointed to a big school building across the street: An said, “I think I use to own that”. We both kinda laughed. Not at him, with him. He didn't ever own that building: but he was remembering he owned buildings. He was reconsigning the area. Somewhat. An I think, we turned him around in the wheel chair an showed him the building he did use to own. It helped. It was a good sign. Then, he told us not to put him in wherever they planned on taking him. He didn't want to go. He recovered. But during that period, they could have called him paranoid too. When your minds not functioning well, but you are remembering there are some people you don't trust with your life: It can come off that way. He agreed to go to physical therapy just long enough to make sure he could, walk, talk an do the things he needed to do: but he didn't want to be locked up in there any longer then he had to be. He was afraid. For couple of reasons, which to me was healthy sign actually. He was remembering the shit cost money. Money he didn't want to blow any longer then necessary. He could walk, talk an do the things he needed to do to take care of himself at home. He had a huge fear they would keep him there longer then he needed to be. An a huge fear, a few close to him would try to force him to stay as well. That he'd be locked up an couldn't get out. Back to himself. It wasn't paranoia. It was a legitimate fear. There where a few, trying to insist he stay. He didn't want to for several reasons. An I don't blame him. He was aware enough to know some where going against his will. They wanted what they thought was best for him. More time in recovery was recommended by the doctors. He wanted to finish his recovery at home. One that didn't come with a huge hospital bill. To me, he was getting back to himself. An his fear of getting locked up in there was real. It's not paranoia if it's happening to you. He made my uncle promise not let them lock him up in there. He'd stay another week but then you come get me if they don't let me out of here. Don't you let them do this to me. I witnessed the whole thing. No, he wasn't back fully to himself, but he was fully aware. He could finish recovering at home an there was no reason to keep someone against his will. His fear, was founded. It wasn't paranoia. He went home. An yea, he was still recovering: Watched the shopping network a little to much an ran up a credit card bill in the process. My grandmother called, frantic: Going I don't know what he's spending the money on. I might need you to go with me to take it away from him. Turns out, his mind was on us three kids during that time period. An he bought a lot of presents for us. Three of everything. One for each one of us. We took the card away from him. He continued to heal. It didn't make him crazy. It just takes time. He did recover. It was a slow process, an if left alone to do it. He could. Without a bunch of pressure on him. Letting him go home, be himself in a place he could relax was the right choice. I understand his fear. It's legit. It's not paranoia because the first thing people he was worried about keeping him locked up did to me when I got sick: Was try to lock me up in a mental ward instead of get me the help I really needed. It's documented who tried to do that. Their names on are the papers, who tried to claim I was crazy when I wasn't. It's the same people he didn't trust to make decisions for him. Nor, my grandmother. It's not paranoia. It's a flat out I don't trust you to make decisions for me or my well being. It's a: I actually could die before you make the right one. So, last week I had a long talk with my kiddo: About what to do if I'm ever not in my “right head”. Her instructions where very clear. Make sure I have food. Get me to a real physician. See what the real physical problem could be. Bring me some art supplies if you want. An give me time to heal. Don't let these people be in charge of my healthcare. I have a thyroid condition. Not a mental illness. Any depression I went through was a direct result of how I was being treated while sick an vulnerable. I was susceptible to physical, emotional attack and harm. I was broke. in need of special care, support, and protection because it. I've always been at risk of abuse or neglect by certain people. It's just a fact of my life. I've always put someone else in charge of my healthcare during those periods. Each pregnancy. During my gallstone surgery. I knew why my dad was acting that way. Why he had that fear. It's not paranoia if it's a real threat to your well being. Just because some is closely related to you does not mean they know what's best for you. When your sick, you want someone who will be a true advocate for your healthcare. Not someone with a personal grudge or bias in charge. Not someone with a personal agenda. You want some who will listen to you when you state your real needs. Who isn't playing games with your life. I really don't care how: Out there I got. It was from starvation, an my thyroid spinning out because of it. Would you want to leave anyone in charge of your life that would let you get to that point? Probably not. An all I see and want to say: When they go on about how great they are doing... Is WTF didn't you do that while he was alive. When he really needed you to. This is why, I really didn't want to get into conversations grieving. Anger is a part of grief. It doesn't bring them back. I didn't want to hurt anyone any further then they already where. My anger runs deep. I was privy to know exactly how my grandmother felt about some things. How dad felt about others. An I've sat over here, pretty much biting my tongue since they passed. An every time I get treated a certain way, grieve all over again. After he passed, I went over to the bar by myself. Took inventory. Processed goodbye. Alone. My children where really the only ones I was okay with being around in that process. They hadn't done anything for me to be angry about. We cleaned. It helped me say goodbye to something I knew I'd never have much of a part in again. Because I knew when my mother said that to me, it was going to be taken away from me one way or another. Art to me is just her way of just saying, sit down an shut up. She was leaning over the bar, helping us list it for sale: All happy like saying “Now Dana, you can do anything you want to. You can do your art.” An I just couldn't help my reaction. A part of me just wanted to reach out an slap her. There was nothing happy about either of them dying. There was no silver lying to me in them passing. I could already do art. I didn't need either of them to pass to do so. So, I just looked at her an as calmly as I could said: “Could you bring them back? Cuz that's what I really want.” She didn't mean to be offensive. She just was. She really had no business standing in my dad's business, or the one my grandmother invested in directing how things should go with it. He had divorced her well over 20 years ago, an it wasn't hers to direct. Everything was getting split up pretty fairly until that point. Most of my time spent over there after he passed was really thinking about what he would have wanted. What he wanted done. I was after all the Vice President of the damned thing. He put me in that position for a reason when he sat it up. He would have wanted it to make money. For the money to continue to grow. That is what he would have wanted. Period. Not for just one of us. All three of us. Not two of us, or one of us. All three. An anyone that acts or says differently is a liar. That was his will. It's always been his will. He didn't have to go writing it down. It was very straight forward. Anyone that's done any different then that, didn't follow his will. He wasn't paranoid. My grandmother's will was for the business not to get into anyone's pockets again. It's not paranoia when its been done before. So I tried to honor those two things. An those that haven't well, I just don't want much to do with. I pretty much know how they got done, an now how I have. I feel both got taken advantage of at times. I feel I have when vulnerable. It's not paranoia, it's just fact. Vulnerability can be caused by poverty and hunger, poor health, a hazardous location, and lack of access to resources and services. Vulnerability is a liability of a partnership. It is a state of being exposed to the possibility of being attacked or harmed, either physically or emotionally. I have been. Threats to my own security have been very real. Vulnerability refers to the inability to withstand the effects of a hostile environment. You go on, an forgive someone for taking advantage of you when you where vulnerable for your own piece of mind. But you never quite forget you can't trust someone again like that for whatever reason. I never have. When you know you can't trust someone, you can't. An trust is a very hard thing to win back. You can't go around calling someone paranoid cause you haven't. All it means is they have a good idea how far they can throw you. An some people: It's just not that far. 
|
Artist Studio
|
RSS Feed
Tips Always Appreciated!
Lets do Coffee!
Artist Quotes
|
|
Terms & Conditions Privacy Policy
© Dana Haynes 1996-2025 | Artist By Design | Modern Renaissance Portrait & Design | Artist Muse All Rights Reserved