I discovered my compulsion to create at a young age. I am the youngest daughter of loving parents who encouraged my artistic pursuits. The "baby" who came four years after my youngest brother, who came four years after the four boys who proceeded him. Yes! Five older brothers. My sister was the first born and already out and on her own by the time I was five.
I was a curious, creative, and loving little girl who was always trying to fit in. I longed for affection and to belong. Desperate to be what my brothers were and to do what my brothers did. I was never quite able to accomplish that. I thought, falsely, that I had to be like them to be liked by them.
I found myself alone a lot. Alone in a house full of people. I was often reminded that I was "to sensitive" a "cry baby", and I was when you compared me to them. In frustration and tears I would disappear. Disappear for hours on end. In my self induced confinement I found that my art became my solace. My companion. My joy where the hours would pass peacefully. I would draw or color, sculpt with play dough, make collages, needlepoint or cross-stitch, and be perfectly content. I would reappear never having been missed and somehow I was fine with that. |