Background: When I talk about being raised by wolves, I am speaking both literally** and figuratively. The popular culture connotation of the metaphor is to denote someone who doesn't behave within normal social parameters due to their childhood. My father was a drug addict and dealer most of my childhood. Needless to say, that warps how you view and interact with the world. I didn't realize that many events in my childhood were not normal until about 5 years ago when I broke the rule of secrecy. I was continually surprised that telling stories from when I was a kid that I think are funny and quirky often elicit shocked or horrified reactions. And let's not forget how difficult it is to have love relationships with men when your father stole from, neglected, and used you as a tool to abuse others.
Recent history: My father died in August. I talked to him 3 times in the 8 months before he died after not having contact with him for 13 years due to his continued drug use. He was still using and drinking up to the very end. It's why he died. Heart, liver & kidney failure at 56 is not surprising when you have been doing drugs for 35 years. Anyway, I got want I wanted which was an apology. Even though it was a bit empty, and there were so many lies in those conversations, it was something.
So, I fell apart. The one thing in my life that had been a constant source for knowing who I am and who I didn't want to be, was suddenly gone. The grief has been acute. I vacillate between feeling bereft and furious, and occasionally, they are simultaneous. His death has altered how I view my beloved step-father in an unexpected and lovely way. I feel like I can finally call him "dad" without insulting him. It has also cause me to fear that my partners who are "daddy" to me will leave since I don't need a replacement for a living, inadequate father figure. Abandonment feels imminent because the father not only chose to do drugs than maintain a relationship with the daughter, her died and left forever truly eliminating the possibility of a relationship forever. Therefore, the daughter must not be worthy.
I got tired of flailing in my daily life. I am sure my partners and friends were on their way to being tired of it, even if they won't say so out loud. Art seemed like the logical answer to exorcize these demon-fears. I already had a shoot scheduled with Jim Duvall and a friend who was going to draw my blood so we could do a series of "suicide in the bathtub" photos. I asked Jim if we could do something around drug addiction at the same time. It seemed fitting with the use of the needles for the suicide photos. (I'll talk about those photos in the next post.)
A few days before the shoot, I was inspired to take one of my little sundresses and ruin it. I soaked it in mud puddles, ripped it up and spilled some of my drawn blood on it. I was going to look as underage as possible. This was about the death of that little girl whose life had been damaged by drug abuse. It isn't a literal depiction of what my childhood was like. The photo is cathartic, not autobiographical. 15 minutes before our medical technician friend was due to arrive for the shoot, I had a meltdown, complete with crying and yelling. Once we figured out the things I was freaking out on were not even remotely what I was mad about, we chose to still do the shoot. I wanted to work with the rawness I was feeling so I could use it up and get it out of me.
This is the result of that catharsis.
Jim, who rarely titles his art, is calling this piece "Her Father's Legacy".
I started crying when he told me. It hit the center of the bullseye of all my pain.
"Why did you call it that?"
"Because that pain was all that he left you."
"He didn't have anything else to give me."
As soon as those words left my mouth, I knew that was the truth. My father had never done the hard work of healing from his horribly abusive childhood. His drug use was a desperate attempt to cover up and run away from his pain. And in doing so, his wife and children paid dearly for the crime of just being in his vicinity. Of course there were good times mixed in there. And he wasn't doing the same single drug so there were periods where his drug of choice made his behaviour mild or genial. Those goo time made the bad times that much worse. Those good times taught us that he could be nice and good to us, he just chose not to all the time.
This photo is mufti-layered for me. Her addiction is wanting the love, approval and attention of her father and, like any addict, is willing to go through anything to get it. She's scared, sad, lost and defeated, and ashamed of the hope for something better ore more. But notice also that she is healthy looking, not thin or pale. She can take out the needle and walk away. She doesn't realize that she is whole and continues to look outside herself.
I also see what I think some of my father's pain was when I look at this photo. I can only imagine what pain he felt so acutely that he chose to self-medicate, numbing himself. I have seen the photos of him as a child, with a haunted look that no 8 year-olds should wear. His fear must have been great to continue avoiding his past, even when he slowly lost the involvement of his relatives in his life.
This photo is a reminder that not everything in life is pretty. And there is ugliness in all of our lives, and we don't have to wallow in it. We can take the needle out of arm and reach up for that light coming in from the window.
**My father also had a penchant for owning wolves and wolf hybrid dogs. The one he had the longest, was a female who considered herself the alpha female of the pack, e.g. our family. My brother and I were treated like cubs, and corrected by the wolf as such. My father viewed us getting bit to mean we had obviously done something wrong and we deserved it. So, I have some weird ways regarding how I interact with people that relate directly to wolf pack hierarchy.
