I was also asked why my room was the only place to feel sad in and why not use the whole house. I figured no one would understand my work or be able to help me if I don’t open up a bit. Pia Fries said so herself that she’s still finding her visual language and I agree that I’m doing the same, but I won’t be able to if I’m not honest with myself or revisit some places.
Family members aren’t nice – leaves me depressed always – my room as an escape from them – but close enough for me to feel the pain – anxiety attack
(see bold paragraph for main-point, skip the rest if you don’t want to hear someone’s meaningless rants)
My family has a history of telling lies and exaggerating stories to attack one another. My mom has had two divorces, the second one with my father, yet we still live together. To me the whole house has different sections that belong to different person. My room is my space. The living room is my father’s. My sister and mother have their own respective rooms. Somehow there is a negative aura that surrounds the house, like a rotting corpse.
My father is a businessman and was never close with especially me, since I was/ am not as smart as my sister since a young age. He wasn’t too harsh, but it was obvious I wasn’t the favourite. He would look at me as if I was a bother and would be pissed at me about little things. I often retreat and tell my mom for me to be happier but the impression that he has never been a good (or at least nice) father never left.
The divorce made it worse since my mom would tell us what he did to her financially and emotionally that made us even more distant with him. She always told me horrible things she went through with both marriages, even the fact that she was a long term domestic abuse victim in her first marriage. She always cries, gets drunk and throws things while locking herself in her room. She even manipulates us a bit and automatically thinks of herself as the victim. She drowns herself in sorrow frequently and the mother I knew a long time ago never came back, even after 10 years now.
My sister is more of a sociopath who tell me she is self-centred and would act nice to take advantage of our father, whom she hates, for money. She would laugh and say, ‘you’re my sister but that doesn’t mean you’re of any importance you know,’ and I can only laugh along since I’m a bit numb. But at other times, she’s very nice. This makes me a bit psychotic to some degree.
All this made me slightly unnerved and demoralised. My mom told me that my dad’s mistress physically attacked her when she was pregnant with me with him absent. I immediately feel I was born in an environment without enough love. I feel bad for even typing that since I can’t blame them, that would be too mean of me. What do I know about sadness and sorrow? Many other families have it much worst, without food, straight up child abuse, or family members that don’t believe you when you told them you were raped. I, to this day, have no right to say that I can be upset. I even feel bad for telling my past since no one is obligated to hear them and that people might think that it’s a nuisance. But I know it’s ridiculous. Till this day, I still wonder so many times where my childhood went.
A 7-year-old child shouldn’t bare the weight of the adult world. I shouldn’t have been exposed to such horrible things. I was just a child. I should have been protected from these things. Yet, I still blame my self for having these thoughts, who am I to scorn my family? The gloominess isn’t that bad anyway and my sister is often supportive. I just ashamed to come across as ungrateful.
All this alone, putting aside school, the debt collectors, and interpersonal relationships, becomes too much to bare and I get anxiety attacks. Since we still live together, I am reminded every day of my past and the people involved. But when I go to my room, there’s a momentary pause. I get to rest for a bit a do what I want in my room. My room is less harmful emotionally and I don’t have to deal with the people or what happens outside too much. It’s distant enough to have my own space, but unfortunately, it’s close enough to the problem as well. Sometimes the memories keep rushing back in with no stimuli whatsoever. My room is a the classic ‘child’s room in a troubled home’. I’m totally fine outside and at school, but if I’m reminded of my past, the cloud of sorrow swallows me. It’s just that I can’t cry outside since I might become a nuisance. Sometimes people don’t take it nicely when you ruin their day all depressed. Therefore, my room is the only place where I can cry in. To let my guard down and just cry.
Now that I’ve opened up and calmed myself down, hopefully it will be easier to understand how I show my visual language later.