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Behind Closed Doors
What do we do with the pieces left behind after trauma? The chaos has ended, the world is quiet again, but in the remaining places and objects lives the memory of the things that happened. These memories are layered on top of the current reality, clinging to it like a film.
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The aftermath is eerily quiet. All the participants have exited the building, but evidence of their existence, their struggle, remains in a surreal landscape of memory.
Behind Closed Doors
My family was afraid of confrontation. We were masters of pretending that everything was fine in order to keep the peace. Our issues were locked behind closed doors, both literally and metaphorically. Any conflict was kept within the family, within the house; but most of our problems were kept within us, unvoiced.
Keeping It Together
This tendency, this familial culture of denial stayed with me into adulthood. It caused me to stay in an abusive relationship long after I knew it was time to leave. It caused me to not speak up when I knew that people I loved were struggling with alcoholism and addiction. It caused me to lose my voice and not seek help when I needed it most. I want to break this cycle. I want to open up the closed doors inside me and finally start the conversation.
Everything's Fine
Sublime or Subversive?
Intimate or Invasion?
Voyeur or Exhibitionist?
What is the line?
Where do I walk?
Family.
Unconditional Love
tied to Obligation
by string,
pulled taut
Family Night
It started with the hint of cigarette smoke on her jacket; with her hands shaking while she cooked dinner. Then it was finding tiny liquor bottles in her jewelry box.
Soon it was stopping in at the bar “Just to say ‘Hi” and offering her a ride home. It was an ever present glass that she was careful not to let anyone else touch. It was knowing that past a certain time in the evening, I shouldn’t try to say anything that was less than overwhelmingly positive.
It was her refusing to eat for days at a time, because if her stomach was a chasm it would be easier for the alcohol to soak into her veins.
It was opening the door after a knock at 2am to find a policeman standing on my porch because she had left her car lying in a ditch.
It was carrying her in my arms like an infant for a mile because her legs had melted beneath her while she was dancing.
It was calling her to come pick me up because I was terrified, violated and desperately wishing for my mom, and her hitting several curbs and a mailbox on the drive home.
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It was taking all the bottles that she had hidden behind books, in closets, under furniture and throwing it in the pond behind our house; screaming at her that I needed her, that she was going to die if she kept going on this way. It was her soft sigh, and the emptiness in her eyes as she turned to walk back in the house, without saying a word.
It was leaving, knowing full well that I was leaving her burden on someone elses back; knowing that doing so might kill her; knowing that if I didn’t it might kill me.
The monster started as a whisper. It hid in the dark places where she thought no one would look. But slowly, I watched it eat her alive, feasting on every spec of light she had within her, and there was nothing, nothing I could do to save her.
Little Secrets
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Your Cause of Death was a culture of silence.
I won't be silent anymore.
Smoke and Mirrors
It’s the good things that are hard to remember not the bad.
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The bad things are easy. They justify what happened, why she’s gone. It’s the good things that rip me apart;
that bring tears boiling from my eyes and smash a crater in my gut.
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It’s remembering the care she took getting the tangles, sticks, and mud out of my hair when I was little.
It’s remembering the joy in her eyes looking at the birthday cards that I diligently made her each year.
It’s remembering her laughter bursting out of her against her will when I told her a dirty joke.
It’s remembering how she would tell anyone that would listen, and even those who wouldn’t, how proud she was of me
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It’s the good things because when she died, so did the hope that she could be the mom that she was again.
Under The Surface
My Mom was never told that she was important as a child,
but she showered me with all the love she was never given.
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My Mom was a collector of spiritual self-help books about finding awareness, stillness, and inner peace
but she could never sit still long enough to watch a movie, much less self-reflect.
My Mom was a student of homeopathic medicine, but that didn’t stop her lifelong dedication
to poisoning her body.
My Mom was always ready with a kind word, a thoughtful gesture, a hug,
but she never lost that voice in her head telling her she wasn’t important.
My Mom was.
Love
You made a liar out of me.
No One's Home
People keeping looking at me with pity when I talk about emptying her house. They think about how hard it must be to shift through all the memories. That part is hard, yes.
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It hurts to remove the last traces of her left on this earth. It's strange to dismantle her life; to go through her things.
There are no secrets in death. ​
But the thing they don’t see is the anger I feel
at finding myself cleaning up yet another mess that she made.
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Remnants
I found a gray hair today.
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You only had a few.
You were proud of that.
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I found a gray hair today.
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I’m twenty-three.
You should be fifty-four
but you’re fifty-three.
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I found a gray hair today.
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After you fell, when they told us
that they would have to take you in
for brain surgery.
All my sister could think was
“She’s going to be so pissed about her hair.”
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I found a gray hair today.
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I’m twenty-three.
You should be fifty-four
but you’re fifty-three
Responsibility
What are we but a collection of the places we have been, the people we have loved, the things we have lost?
A menagerie of memories.
Picking Up The Pieces
To all the children of alcoholic parents; To all the survivors of abuse; To all the queer kids, all the parentless kids, and all the lost kids, You’ve done more self exploration out of necessity than most people ever will. You know yourself better than most people ever could. It’s a heavy burden but it can also be a gift.
Youth
We can’t change where we come from or what happened to us,
but we can change who we become and where we decide to go.
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I love you Momma.
Creating this body of work has been healing for me in many ways. Forcing myself to sift through these memories has helped me to begin letting them go. Creating these empty rooms has helped me to realize that they are just that, empty. It is time to move forward, peel off the film, and let objects be objects, places be places. But letting go does not mean pretending that these things didn’t happen. These events will forever shape the way I look at the world and act within it, but I do not have to let them hold me back