Beyond the Scars

I once heard a quote that stated "you cannot create and complain in the same sentence, it's impossible. One is feeding purpose, the other is crushing it." Those are not exact words but they have stayed with me for many of my adult years.

However, upon deep consideration over that quote and its meaning, I came to the conclusion that I must have released my pain as soon I picked up a paint brush, a pair of scissors to cut material or started wrapping my wire to make a a piece of jewelry. I honestly felt the colors lift off of me and dance around me when I sat down to create.

I looked at the circumstances of life as colors. Not fear, or jealousy or anger; but blue, orange or hot pink.

My circumstances were far from normal. Far from something I would normally share in public. But here I am, using this palette to spew my colors and my fate so maybe somewhere, somebody, will find joy in their first creation.

It began when I was three years old. The hand across my arm, my leg, my head; wherever he could reach when he was not stumbling across the room to reach his next drink.

I was the only one in the darkened apartment that would smile and he hated that. I would smile and feel and love; only to be told that if I looked that happy again, he would wipe it off faster than I could say pink.

Why pink? Because he knew that was my favorite color and he thought that associating it with his anger would make me eventually hate the color and hate anything beautiful.

But, you know what, it made me grow to love pink more than life itself. In fact, all colors were like sunshine to me. They enveloped me with the attention I craved; they almost spoke with loving whispers the words I needed to hear . They spewed ambition and depth, which was something I never learned as a child.

As an older child, it was then that I found my creative side; and it was then that I knew I would live through each nightmare of my young life as long as I had colors and my next creation. As long as I was not within sight, I was somewhat safe. So I stayed in my dilapidated shed with the tools I somehow got hold of along the journey.

Before my mother left, she was nice enough to think of my future, and knowing I would need an escape. So she left me a pair of scissors and material, with thread and a needle. Throughout the years, I found wire and wire cutters, paint brushes and a few paints. Knowing I better be invisible at times, I was; to everyone who could not stand the sight of me and my smile.

So I created. I made a small pillow first. I'll never forget the material was a bright blue with long brush strokes of pinks and greens. I found a bundle of soft leaves to use as the filler. I stuffed this pillow so fat I thought it was the perfect pillow for a princess. I would imagine bringing it into the woods and finding a precious little cottage. I was invited in by an older lady and we had tea and cookies together. I had my pillow with me and she was amazed that I had made it. She loved it and asked if she could have it; I said of course if I can come over each day and visit. In reality, I had set up old, rickety chairs and a table made of wooden stools with a moldy piece of wood on top. I found old, dirty cups with saucers; and that was my tea house.

As I got a little older, when I found the wire and cutters, I made the most beautiful jewelry. I had never seen the pieces I wrapped together, only from my imagination they came together. I would also paint on old logs; like frogs, lilypads and bunnies. Those animals became my friends, my siblings I longed for during the days of quiet loneliness. The creations were my outlet when I needed to smile. They saved me; they kept my spirit up. I am alive today because of my creativity and the feeling of warmth that comes with knowing and believing in a purpose, a dream and a future.