Lesson of the last month? It’s much, much easier to be honest, when you haven’t done anything wrong.
Yep, I kinda fucked up a bit in the last few weeks, and was having trouble being completely open about my mistakes. And have been wanting badly to write about it on here, as I always intended to write about everything, good and bad. But having blabbed to the world who I am, just didn’t feel comfortable with people I know, knowing the details.
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Wildflower from the Andorra Collection, 2011
So, I thought I’d just quickly post my latest painting. And a few thoughts about it . . .
I love this painting. It’s the first painting I’ve ever done, that when I finished it, not only was I certain it was complete (instead of questioning and asking myself and others ‘do you think it needs something else?’ ), but I stood back, looked at it, and fell in love. Please don’t discount me as just being arrogant, I am usually my own biggest critic. And I know 100% that this painting is not perfect by anyone’s standards. Except my own.
Why do I love it? Because it’s playful, but strong. Because it speaks about past challenges, but is still light hearted. Because it says so much that I could never put into words.
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So after around 10 months of being separated, I began dating again. Or rather, I decided to start dating again, signed up to a dating site (match.com), had two dates in 1 week, the second of which somehow ended up lasting 3 days, and culminated in the rather daunting realization that it might be . . . love.
Holy guacamole. Wasn’t really expecting that.
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Hi everyone . . . super quick update . . . I am flying away to Melbourne today to finish an amazing course that I have been doing, which is changing my perspective on healing and life in general even more!
I will fill you in on my return in a couple of weeks . . . in the meantime I wish you all a sparkly shiny wonderous holiday season . . .
much love x
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Reasons (but not excuses)
a short story by Ra Savage
11am
The morning of the day you commit adultery, you are stopped in your tracks as you walk down the hill into town; you gaze in wonder at the cascade of shimmering bubbles pouring incongruously upwards towards you, from somewhere past the trees a bit further down. The simple magic of this sight makes you feel full, in the same warm, heavy way you get from praise, or hot soup.
You don’t know you are going to become an adulteress today. As you walk down the hill on light feet the sun strokes your senses, warms your skin which prickles slightly with perspiration and then cools as the Wellington air gasps around you.
Hot and cold, you feel complete.
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. . . who did it?
I just didn’t realize people would want to know this. Having lived with the effects of sexual abuse for so long, the persons responsible for the abuse are almost irrelevant to me now, so the fact that other people would be curious about it just kind of passed outside my radar . . .
Until I started the facebook page for i am still here, and a few days later my friend mentioned to me in passing . . . “you know everyone’s asking me who did it . . .? “
My heart literally flip flopped. Oh my god. I hope that people haven’t been jumping to conclusions that it was my dad or my stepdad or my koro or someone else who was close to me . . . I really should have known better, being a small town girl and all . . .
So. I want to make it absolutely clear.
My abusers were not family or family friends or anyone who is still present in my life today.
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I sit cross-legged in the sand, frowning as I scoop up handfuls and let it slither back through my open fingers like dry liquid . . . it’s a beautiful spring day and I should be enjoying this first taste of warm sunshine on my back while the spring cool breeze raises goosebumps on my arms . . .
but instead my thoughts are churning around my head, round and round, the same question over and over and over. . .
do I want to be me?
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You walk into the kitchen of your new 2 bedroom flat in a sparkling new city . . . you open the fridge, splash milk into the cup of tea steeping on the bench, put the milk back in the fridge, lean your elbows on the benchtop and lift the steaming cup to your lips as you notice a couple of sparrows flitting from branch to branch in the tree outside the window.
It suddenly occurs to you that you are happy. And not only are you happy right now in this very moment, drinking your tea and watching the birds, but you’ve actually been happy for a couple of months and haven’t even noticed.
A slow, shimmering understanding begins to wash over you . . . you have not been depressed, you have not been suicidal, you have not needed to self medicate with alcohol or food or other substances, you have not resorted to promiscuity, you have not cut yourself, you haven’t needed therapy, haven’t suffered from chronic fatigue, nothing.
You are happy . . . finally after 25 years of struggling with the debilitating effects of having been sexually abused from the age of 3, of using pretty much every coping mechanism under the sun, one after the other or a handful all at once . . . so many close calls that you shouldn’t even be here, but here you are, experiencing a mild state of bliss sipping a cup of tea in the morning sunshine. You are still here . . .
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