In my bookcase I have a book, the title of which being ‘Restore(d)’, although the brackets are non-existent and only implied by the last letter being of a different color. I read it two months before in a prophetic dream I saw myself being rescued through the water, one month before I walked I walked towards the front of the stage of my first real church service with a beating heart, praying a prayer that I absolutely did not see the spiritual significance of. I said yes to Jesus. So one month prior I read that book and because someone then told me to write down what resonated with me, what offended me, confronted me, what it brought to the surface with regards to thoughts and situations, I could look back upon that, now that I read that book for a second time. The endless stream of words that I poured out back then, as if it were acidifying brain vomit, would through statistical factor analysis bring forth three components: anger, suspicion and fear. Only the sentence ‘Adam and Eve didn’t need covering’ made me sad, but that emotion seemed to be an outlier in the data that clogged my brain, maybe exactly the outlier you want to remove from your data set, because it deviates so extremely, that it hopelessly pulls (or pushes) the results out of context. Maybe I was that outlier. Removed. Deleted. Catapulted into a black cosmos where oxygen had stepped off the throne of life a long time ago. Sad.
When I chose to paint what or how I felt, I didn’t need time to think; blood came to mind immediately, and a hole, resembling the hole in my heart perhaps. It was more like an emptiness, because holes can be filled, and voids can’t. Anyway, all of my life I have felt this emptiness that I never could fill, and boy did I try. I tried everything,.. drugs, alcohol, jobs, hobbies, relationships, men.. But it was never enough. An i-love-you seemed to uncover an extra dimension in the void, causing me to need more i-love-you’s. Never was there a deepening in a contact, only more depth in the emptiness. And when yesterday my boyfriend said no to my question if I could come over, I unexpectedly felt myself warped into something that I only recognise to be – as far as recognition is even possible when lacking language – a reliving of my baby pain.
I wanted to be with mama.. and I was put away.
I wanted to be with my boyfriend.. and he said no.
The pain that I felt was scorching hot, if language was all about temperature, but this was a pain that goes beyond skin, it was found on the thin film around my heart. Everything in my body ached, it was a pain that was screaming loud and loudly, but I couldn’t understand the words. In any case, physical pain turns pale in comparison to it. I now understand how I could cut myself so easily all those years. Sad.
Suddenly I saw that my desire for my boyfriend consists (among other things) of the fact that he fills my void, his presence outvoices my silence and by having my focus on him, I don’t have to ackowledge that I am lost. I find myself in his arms and when those remain closed, I have my hands full with losing myself.
Every relationship that I ever had, had this undertone. I cleave onto the other, I suffocate the other. I don’t want that any more. That emptiness, I really have tried everything.. and in a deep reluctant sigh that afternoon I decide.. ‘Okay, last resort.. let’s try Jesus then.’ He was on the bottom of my resume that showed forty-five years of unsafe attachment. I suddenly saw how the colors in my painting chanced. The void turned into the image of an egg, the blood turned out to be a whomb and I deliberately wrote His name inside of me. But I saw that my egg had a shadowy rim on the right. I couldn’t ignore it. I couldn’t not draw it. I want the blackness to not be here, but it was. So I drips of black fell onto my egg, in the whomb and I felt God saying to me: ‘Don’t be afraid, just paint it, let this be for a while, it’s fine for now, I am here.’
My ears are suddenly ringing beyond my tinnitus. I feel seen.