I hit my rock bottom and cried out for help. I got an answer, but it wasn’t what I was expecting.
About this episode: This is the twelfth in a series of episodes that are just the start of where I plan to take this podcast. These initial episodes will give you a backstory on the journey I went through to recover from childhood sexual abuse at the age of twelve. The purpose of this backstory is to help you see how trauma affected my life and art, and to learn some of the things I did to begin healing.
I do not give any graphic details of the events.
In the Throes of PTSD
It’s the summer of 2016, and I’m exhausted. I’m feeling more and more depleted as the time goes on. I thought telling my first therapist about the abuse was going to help me! Instead, for the last three years, it has made everything worse. You know the saying “I’m at the end of my rope.”? At this point, I’m barely holding on to the frayed ends of a rope that I was sure would break off at any moment.
One day everything hit especially hard. I found myself sitting in my bedroom wedged between the wall and the bed shaking and crying. I called my husband at work and told him I couldn’t deal with anything and asked him if he could come home. Thankfully he was able to leave work early. I felt better just having him there, even though he couldn’t take away the circumstances. I only called him once, but there were many days where I felt that overwhelmed.
Is Anyone Out There?
After many months of that, I couldn’t take it anymore. One night I sank to my lowest low. It was like I lost my grip and had no energy left to hold anything anymore. I went out to my back porch and looked up through the web of tree branches to the dark night sky. I didn’t know what to do. So I cried out for help to a God I wasn’t sure existed, and didn’t know would answer if one did.
Now I’ll be honest. My lack of faith in whoever or whatever I just called out to meant only an absolute miracle would have gotten me to believe in that moment. You know, like a beam of light to shine down with rainbows, sparkles, and flashing lights. Apparently I wanted something like a rave party to come down from the heavens and an angel to tell me everything was going to be ok. Well, that didn’t happen. So I went inside, went to bed, and felt alone.
Bible Study for Cynics
But the thought that I needed some divine intervention, if there was such a thing, still lingered in my mind. This was all so absurd to me because I had been actively hostile toward anything remotely related to God since I was a teenager. Quick background – I had been raised Catholic and went to Catholic school from kindergarten through 12th grade. But I was pretty checked out from the faith early on. I wasn’t hurt by the church specifically, I just had a lot of questions and didn’t seem to get answers that made any sense to me. I didn’t understand why priests, parents, or teachers didn’t seem to always live the way they were teaching us how to live. And, honestly, it was really easy to find friends and approval when I rejected the faith completely.
So I felt like I was having an out-of-body experience when I found myself writing to Christian friends and telling them I’m curious about God. I actually asked one of them if they knew of a “Bible study for cynics”. I wanted to be able to openly ask questions and share my doubts.
An Unlikely Meeting
Well, one of my friends responded and invited me to her house. At first, we just shared stories of growing up in the church. Then she asked if I wanted to read the Bible with her. I was like, “suuurrreeee.”
I wanted to read the Bible because I wanted to know what it said for myself – not because it was a class I had to take for school. But I also felt split because I had been so blatantly against it for so long.
We started meeting weekly. She let me question, doubt, and struggle through things we read without judgment or pushing me to believe any of it. We just talked and got to know each other better. So I grew to really cherish this time and the person I got to spend it with.
Overthinking It
Back to art therapy. What’s funny is I actually did very little art in art therapy. I tried to, but I had a hard time creating in this environment.
For example, she had me draw while thinking about my relationship with the person involved in the “present trauma”. I could use any of the art supplies on her cart. So I picked colored pencils and started drawing. Part of the time I was just drawing, then she would ask a question and I’d start talking while drawing. It was hard for me to draw while talking. I found myself over analyzing the composition and which colors to use. I got stuck with thinking about how to accurately draw my feelings of this relationship, rather than just letting it come out.
So I realized that for me, I need to make art therapeutically on my own.
But that’s just me. If you’re an artist thinking about going to art therapy, try it! There are many different ways to approach it. I still loved my time with the art therapist and she helped me a ton.
Sadness and Beauty
My trust in her built up enough that I even brought my old paintings to her to look at. This was kind of huge for me because these paintings lived in a closed portfolio case in the back of my closet and I was usually too self conscious to bring them out. I don’t remember much of what she said except that she saw both sadness and beauty.
I think that stands out for me because it was a very vulnerable time for me to be showing my artwork – especially to another artist. Also, I wasn’t trying to express sadness in my paintings. So having someone see something in my paintings that was true, but not what I was trying to express, felt very close and intimate. It was uncomfortable.
I mentioned in another episode that I showed her the cliffs painting. I told her how I wasn’t sure where I was in the painting and she pointed to the soft, pastel sky and said, “I think this is where you want to be.” I thought about that a lot and realized she was right.
From Confusion to Decision
So even she cracked up at one point that we were doing more “Cognitive Behavioral Therapy” than “Art Therapy”, but it seemed to be what I needed at the time. One of the most helpful things she did was have me write a Pro/Con list.
I was trying to decide if I should tell my parents about the abuse. It had been over 3 years since I first talked about it, and they still didn’t know. But after all these years had passed, did it make any difference? I was so confused that I would put something on the “Pro” side and then draw arrows to the “Con” side because I saw both positive and negative sides to it. Writing the list helped me see the confusion, and also make a decision.
I’ll See You in 3 Days
In the end I realized what I wanted was a close relationship with my parents. Which meant I needed to end the deceit and be honest with what was going on in my life. They didn’t know I was struggling with anything over these past few years! When I finally made the decision to tell them, I didn’t wait. I was on a plane back to Wisconsin 3 days later.
Ok, so I admit that was kind of impulsive. It was like it took me so long to make the decision that when I did I didn’t really think it through. I wanted them to know me and have an honest, close relationship with them. So I told them both I was coming, would be there in a few days, and I had something to tell them. Which already sounds pretty awful, right?
A Bomb of Silence
The way it came out when I told them was kind of like when I first told my therapist. I said it with almost no emotion. A bomb of silence went off. It just hovered around us like a thick fog. They were understandably hurt and saddened by the news. But then it was like, “Now what?” I didn’t know. Was there something they could do? I didn’t know.
This was messy and confusing. It still felt to me like the abuse was recent, not over 20 years ago. So part of me felt like I was 12 and wanting my parents’ protection. But I wasn’t 12. I was 39 years old with 3 kids and a husband and lived 1300 miles away.
Knocked Down…Again
So the three of us just sat there, not knowing what to do. Before I went home I went snowshoeing with my Dad on the lakefront and saw my mom again for lunch. I could tell they were still processing the news. I felt conflicted. Did I do the right thing? I felt guilty for adding stress to my parents’ lives when I saw how pained and helpless they felt about it.
When I got home, a tidal wave of emotions swept me away. Why was it that when I tell my story it seems to make things worse? It was like I kept taking off a bandage and revealing a mass infection. It was painful and gruesome to look at, and I just wanted to cover it back up.
What No One Wants to Talk About
Here’s something that no one wants to talk about. There’s comfort in pain when it’s been with us long enough. Part of me would rather live with an infected wound that I was used to, than feel the pain of cleaning it out so it could heal.
So I go back to my art therapist and I’m a total wreck. I’m angry to the point of rage at everything and feel totally out of control. She knew that I loved to swim and quit the swim team shortly after the abuse. So she suggested – even urged me – to go swimming. She said, “Angie, this was something you loved and it was taken from you. Go swimming. Take it back!”
I Took it Back
So I did. One beautiful thing about living in Texas is that I could swim in a heated outdoor pool in the middle of winter. I love swimming and feel like a little kid when I get in the water. I love the feeling in your stomach when you do a somersault in the water. It’s like a wave of excitement that leads to a giggle.
When I swam, I did it with this thought in mind of, “I’m taking it back”. It was so empowering because up to this point I was just suffering and feeling helpless. Even though this didn’t just completely heal me, it gave me one small thing I could do. It brought me back to the joy of my youth and gave me some hope.
Painting to Cope
I started making art again because I hit that point where I just had to get it out.
The Crimson and Indigo Blobs
The first two paintings were on 9×12 inch canvases. I used Mars Black, Indigo, and Alizarin Crimson. They were the darkest colors I had. I painted with fast and furious brushstrokes. I would paint something and take it off and paint something else. By the end they looked like nothing but dark blue and red blobs. I’m the only one that knows what went into them and what got erased. I was working through so many confusing thoughts and feelings when I made them.
The Upside-Down Bird
The next painting is also a 9×12. I painted a little head in the top right corner of a man screaming. Most of the painting is Alizarin Crimson which is a very dark red. There are many other colors too and some areas with a light, almost neon green.
My mother in law flipped the painting over and saw a bird with outstretched wings. It gives the painting a completely different feel when you see it from this perspective. The bird and its wings look like freedom! But I painted a screaming head. (which is now upside down.)
Shackles and Pain
This last painting I finished in January or February 2017. I call it Shackles and Pain. I’ve been told it’s hard to look at. It’s true. Again I used a lot of Alizarin Crimson. I was really into this dark red color! I started it right after coming back from telling my parents. When everything just seemed worse, or “worser”. Which I know isn’t a word, but it all felt “worser”. I was in a lot of physical and emotional pain. So the painting portrays that.
It shows an exposed back that looks scarred and bloody. The head looks almost blown off with red paint streaming toward a luminescent moon. The back of the head has light beams coming out of it going the opposite direction. (You can decide what that means to you.) Then there is a grey shackle around one of the arms. The body looks submerged in something like water or smoke. The shackle represents feeling shackled to the addiction.
Exposing the Ugly Truth
It’s not a painting someone would put in their living room, perhaps. You may not see beauty in it. But the act of exposing these feelings in a painting was very healing. It’s very vulnerable to say, “This is how I feel” when it’s something someone might turn away from. Yet there are times when I think it’s good to look at it and be honest about it.
For me, it’s helped me move past it. I don’t stay in that hurt, raw place. I’m able to say openly and honestly, “This is what it was.” And then I can move forward from there.
My Own “Art Therapy”
It felt great to get back into painting and use it to process my emotions. It’s my own version of the art therapy that I thought I’d do with the therapist. It turns out, I feel more comfortable doing it when I’m home, alone, and with a solid playlist of music that matches my mood.
Do you have your own version of “art therapy”?
Share your thoughts below. 💬