The Occasional Tranquility of my Inner Child

I couldn’t bear to watch him hurt her again. I needed to find my escape. A place where he couldn’t hurt me, and I didn’t have to watch him hurt her.

The gray clay, pure and untouched, starts out soft and weak. Just as my once unspoiled heart, the clay can be shaped, altered, cut into. After being whipped, manipulated, and molded, it turns hard and rigid. Such was the perfect truth for the tragedy of what had happened to my hopeless heart.

When the purity of a child is endangered, suchlike vulnerable child must acquire a coping strategy, an outlet, a means to retreat. She yearns to seek out a reprieve in order to, in essence, remove her from her callous reality. The harsh realism was utterly unbearable. I turned to art. In my creativity, I would craft my dreams of a serene, carefree life, in which a child should live. In everything I created, my dream life, pure bliss, became reality, If only for a short while. I still today, construct those very dreams.

The innocent child I once was, meek and feeble, had been through some exceptionally challenging times. Eagerly seeking love over the years, I had been distorted and victimized. I cried myself to sleep every night, without exception. The warm, salty tears rushed down my rose colored cheeks, so plentiful, they pooled on the maple brown floor. Quivering in my twin-size bed, with “My Little Pony” sheets I wondered, What would tomorrow bring? Gripping my brown stuffed dog “Buttercup” in my scrawny little arms, I prayed it would not be as bad as it was today. Desiring to not be trapped inside my aching, frail body. Daily I would attempt to break free from my pathetic existence. Will the nagging emptiness of my belly ever be filled, making me complete? This time in my life and the abuse of this faultless child, caused my once tender heart to freeze over. It had become a solid block of ice. Tough and glacial, to protect it from any future terrorization.

Dad was angry again. The whites of his eyes, red with intense rage. His pupils, dilated, were as black as night. She woke him up to go to work. Mother should know better. “Mommy why did you make him angry again?” I screamed through my waterfall of tears. Why was I blaming her? I feared for her, for her life. I can’t watch, yet can’t NOT watch. The last time she “fell down the stairs”, she returned from the hospital with a black eye, a concussion, and a broken wrist. That was worse than the time before. Each time, was worse than the last. I feared what the outcome would be this time. The maple wood chair flew swiftly across the room, causing her to fall face first into the sharp edge of the square wooden table. Another black eye? Another concussion? At times, she was able to outrun him. This wasn’t one of those times. As he wrapped his robust hands around her brittle neck, I heard her gasping for air. She was fighting for her life. I wanted to run up to him, beg him to stop. Plead with him to not take my mommy away. I refrained, for the last time I did so, I also returned from the hospital with injuries. The hospital must have wondered how a woman and her young child fell down the stairs so often. Especially if they found out, our house did not have stairs. I looked around for something, anything that could take me “away”. I tried to play with my Weebles, yet the sounds of discontent still rang through my delicate ears. Frantically searching for something else, the answer caught my eye. I quickly grabbed a piece of blank paper and my 64-pack of Crayola Crayons from my little white table. The one I regularly hid under. I began to draw. Gripping my forest green crayon, I drew a cactus growing abundantly under a bright yellow sun. In an instant, I could no longer hear the chaos. There was no yelling, no crying, and no pain, I was safe. It was then that my life of escape into my art, my craft, began. I never had to experience anything unfavorable again.

Art is an expression of one’s self. Sometimes, as is for me, it is a cry for help. Some artists are saying “Hey look at me!” in order to obtain attention or fame. Either way, it outwardly displays the very essence of the artist. The artist is revealing their deepest, most secret feelings to the world. Hoping and praying for someone to hear us, accept us, and possibly even, to feel our pain. I call into question, “Will anyone hear me”? Striving to be heard through my craft, seeking acceptance, in pursuit of unconditional love. And to attain the “perfect life” I never had. Every piece I create has a story to tell. A story of my life’s struggles, of how my very soul aches with an intense pressure. As if strong, evil hands were squeezing the life out of my already battered spirit.

It must be unique, my production. I ascertain for it to be Inconsistent with the average. I prefer diversity, contrariety. It shall be exceptional, unparalleled. I reject the norm, the uninspiring projection of societies expectations. Maybe, just maybe, if I exceed their assumptions, my craft will stand out. They will hear my story and pull me out of the dark, cold abyss in which I am drowning. I suddenly become aware of the predictability of this delicate, flexible clay. Soon it will harden, remaining in its final form for all eternity. I know this. My creation, will never change, never waiver. It will never leave, never despair me. It will always be safe from harm in its rock form, not flimsy, not insecure. A clay cactus, unlike mankind will stay consistent. It will under no circumstance, become a volcano. By no means will it explode, spewing out red, hot lava over my fragile interior. The whole of me aches for such consistency. A stability in life which feels altogether unobtainable.

As I collect my supplies, many concepts flow through my mind. A creative intellect is never hush. Always churning, fancying its next masterpiece. This day, I decide on a sculpture. Gathering clay, water, scissors, and paint, I notice the warm sun reflecting off the scissors, shining straight into my eyes. I giggle at the silliness of this, and all at once, it has become a delightful day. The days and nights I spend creating, are beloved ones. Days of running away and nights of reflecting. Considering my existence and place in the world. Curious if my constructions impress on others. Wondering if my work will touch the people who lay eyes on it. In hopes that it speaks to their soul, and if they notice it is a window into my tortured soul.

Come closer....closer. Now quiet your mind. Can you hear it?

This sculpture, my art, sings a majestic melody. Reverberating from my very essence. If you listen closely, my child inside’s distress cries will manifest in your regard. As I pick up the clay, and prepare to mold it, I observe how I have forgotten the world, my troubles, and my sorrows. Lost in my creativeness, I am for this moment, free. Safe in my bubble, with a twinkle in my eye, I graciously smile with the joy of owning independence. This place in time, I am truly happy, no qualms, no distress. There are no “have tos”, no deadlines. No one can hurt me. For now, it’s just me and the gray mass in which I intend to forge beauty.

When sculpting, there are many factors which alter the impressionable clay. I first add water. This is in order to soften it, as to make it easier to work with. Water penetrates the juvenile clay, calming it, informing it I mean it no harm. My hands get wet and sludgy and start to turn a dull gray, as I run my fingers through the vulgarness. As I begin to knead it, the undersides of my nails become filthy with muck. It is as though I never wash my hands and impurities have been building in there for some time. I persuade the clay to look as my dream world would want. Attentively shaping the clay, I have perfect sway. Molding my adorations into precisely what I have envisioned. My heart whispers its desires through my lively touch. Influencing my succumbing hands, commanding them with its every beat. Has the manipulated become the manipulator? My illusion is almost completed in its pretend reality. An oxymoron. As I run the cold, silver scissors through the innocuous clay, I gingerly create several highly explicit linear impressions. I’ve compelled this silt to become the structure of my intent. As the paint attempts to camouflage the scissors disfigurements, I deduce how I also attempt to cover up my own scars. How I wear an invisible mask so no one can outwardly see my intense anguish. I only weep at night, when I’m entirely alone in my room. I stifle my cries in my fluffy, white, down-feather pillow so as to stop the dreadful, heartbreaking sounds of my dispiritedness from carrying to the next room. It’s only when I’m creating, crafting my art, that I am openly honest. For if I blatantly express my emotions, I am again that defenseless child, risking rejection and further maltreatment. Instead, I conceal my misery in my technique, my silent cry for help, a final, placid attempt at belonging.

For me, a cactus represents a warm, scenic, and serene place where my troubles cannot follow. A place I would make-believe I was, as a means to withdraw from the recurrent, toxic conditions throughout my childhood. As I gently place my extraordinary artifact on my gold metal vanity, I feel tremendous pride in my labors. Tears of joy glide down my face, as I am overwhelmed with a sense of fulfillment, of triumph. I endeavored for success with a lovely specimen brought forth by my ideology. I display it gloriously, so all that pass may admire my formation, my fantasy. Posing there, It signifies the only part of this uncertain world I can control. For life, humans, are unpredictable. They shift, they flee and they mistreat. My antiquity will always be here, in the same form. It’s for all to see, and to feel, in its remarkable beauty. To stimulate their senses and awaken their spirit.

Those who receive the great blessing to mold a child’s heart, may learn from my experience. A child’s heart is meant to be sculpted, constructing their personality and self-worth. If handled with care, the child will grow up happy, safe in reality, not needing an illusion. Just as I added water to the clay, making my efforts to form less invasive, we can “add the water” to a child’s heart. My heart dried without careful influence. One day, I will break the mold and mend my battered heart. But for now, I have my art. My small, green, cactus will forever place a glowing smile on my habitually solemn face and eternally remain dear and very near to my heart. For it signifies a time in life when I felt positivity, creativeness, and expression. A time where, just for the moment, I was unalike that wounded child.