Very intimate diaries 14

I often had these irrational fears in my life thus of becoming crazy! Where this fear came from? I think I have a little idea on that; I believe that mom’s mental and psychological fragility and her wild merciless moods gave me the feeling, at each of her crises, she was still very close to sink into a deep no-return madness.

I wonder if I haven’t tried, with this fear I bought from her, to "join" her to share her dizziness because I could not stand she suffers; she was the greatest love of my life.

I still can see her fight with all her might against these invading crying inner ghosts as she poured bile on our heads and shoulders. Nevertheless, she managed with that gentle force buried in her to continue to protect us and love us.

I have not inherited mom's "imbalances", but now she's gone every time I feel that Life scratches me at length, I become again this little boy who, with a glint of fear and suffering in his eyes, looked at the most beautiful woman in the world to become an ugly and repulsive monster.

While denying this legacy with all my strength I manage to follow my inner path, the one where all the cures are possible...

Narrative  12

Successful fishing!

I remember as a teenager, one dinner time, my mother, all kindness, did a gentle caress on my back while I gulped down my meal. What a surprising expression of fondness from mom who usually was very distant and cold in all gestures of affection …

But later what a surprise when right in the middle of a course a student sitting behind me loudly discovered… an April fool that Mom had stuck on my back!

I felt quite embarrassed and somewhat humiliated in front of the entire class.

I remember the smile and laughter she had when I confronted her, telling her that I guessed she was the one responsible for this public humiliation.

Of course, I forgave her in a split second my mother being as charming as mischievous…

Very intimate diaries  9

I understand that my life’s tools are tools. The work they help me accomplish often remains on the periphery of the "central engine." To work more directly to the heart of it, I need professional outside help.

What I genuinely want is ... uh...

What I honestly desire is ... uh...

What I fervently wish is ... uh...

I think ultimately I don’t know.

I never thought I was playing so much the victim.

Despite all that I can think of and even if I have a problem to admit it, Mom and Dad loved me.

I try to sublimate my pain with art.

My insane fears infiltrate everything I am, do and live.

From my yellow notebook  9

I know, I create, I do, I love.




I succeed or I learn.




Life is short; I want to enjoy it lengthily.




It's my actions which create my motivation.




I try to achieve my dreams with rigidity.




Start from scratch and continue. Start from a "no" and continue.




Feeling good. Right Now.




When is dad my father? When is mom my mother?




My "Exaggeration up to the ridicule" method acts.




To step back apply to all spheres of my life.

Very intimate diaries  4

I am amazed at how I'm comfortable with people. I can be so smart, so resourceful. But as soon as I’m alone, it’s the "anti-nomy." Total paralysis. It's pretty amazing…

As long as there won’t be a total and ultimate trigger; it will always be a vicious killing repetitive exhausting circle.

Sometimes my life seems long and boring.

I wish I could love me, love my life...

I know that’s the love of mom and dad that I wanted and that I seek compensation for years.

I don’t understand how can I be so dark and yet have so much hope inside...
It’s obvious that it helps me to live.

(Another Day) 

I reacted quite strongly to the drawings I do in art-therapy. (I see myself as disabled, bruised, defeated and immature)

I almost always let others decide for me.

It seems that I need to receive affection to give me a boost from the bottom of the depressive pool where I am to finally break my drowning.

(In transcribing these lines, I realize how important it is for me to look frankly at my negative side. It’s part of my life. I don’t have to reject it but to accept it. I can help myself to live, learn something from it.  Accept it can give me more strength and much less fear.)

Very intimate diaries

Antidepressants have taught me how my brain works.

(…)

Get out of self-sabotage.

(…)

To believe that I am on the road to recovery, I need to feel and see real change.

(…)

Looking for therapeutic triggers that’ll bring the changes I wish for.

(…)

Six, seven months after Mom died, the image of the tyrannical tigress is gone, replaced by that of a sweet woman. (The image I had of her in her youth, and I've always kept, was replaced by the image of an aging woman of its last days.) 

(…)

I have a lot of incredible feelings of revenge, anger and frustration in me. A rather explosive combination. 

(…)

I want to get back to the "world before." 

(…)

I have my legs, my arms, but sometimes not all my head ...

Narrative 4

Letter from Jehan, eight, to Jehan, thirty-eight.

Dear, thirty-eight years old Jehan,

How far away! Drat! That’s so far away being thirty-eight years old!

Do you still have fun, or you’re too old? Do you still know all our friends? Do you have a family? What a lot of things you must have done since now! You’re thirty years older than me; it’s as old as dad and mom. You must have become somebody important.

Do you still play outside? I hope that you have good friends. I look forward to being your age; then the big ones will listen to me … But it’s good to be young and with my friends. I won’t be afraid anymore of others at your age; I’ll be older.

You must be very busy! I hope I’ll still know lots of people at your age and to feel good, too. I’d love to organize, create games and all that and to be paid for that. That would be good, isn’t it? Does that kind of work exist? Will I have new friends? Will I have a friend like C. later?

That seems so very far away thirty years …

Am I going to play games, do things, in the meantime, or what! I look forward to all this, but I am o.k. right now: I don’t want to be suddenly very old tomorrow morning! I’ll be thirty years older, but I want to go there slowly, OK?

I hope you’re a big guy, and you’re nice. Is mom very old? And dad? I have nephews and nieces? I hope I’ll still have plenty of fun at your age. It is hard for me cause the big ones don’t listen to me. Nevertheless I’m on good terms with my friends.

School’s nice sometimes, but other times I’m bored. I like the drawing course, visual art course and all the things like that.

I may tell you that I love you, right? Even, if you’re a boy? I love you, be kind, and I wish you many, many friends.

See you soon,

Jehan, eight.

 

Narrative 3

I remember after my Saturday evening big weekly bath, my mother making me an neapolitan ice cream cone and then going to the living room watching Thierry la Fronde (The King's Outlaw) and then Hockey Night, with dad in his armchair and mom on the sofa and me right in front of the TV, sitting on the cold floor.

I was three.

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I remember having a terrible fit because my parents went out to the movies, a weekend, and hitting with all my strengths my red plastic boat on the front door, and shouting, howling, crying to show my anger in front of my babysitter totally helpless. Suddenly, I stopped everything and I noticed dozens of red marks which I had made on the door and then I was afraid I’ll be punished.

I was around two.

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I remember vaguely my little sister sleeping in her crib in my parents’ bedroom.

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I remember being five when I heard that our neighbor, Mrs. Tardy, woke up one morning and her husband, sleeping next to her, was dead. Not knowing it, she slept with a dead body next to her all night. This really traumatized me, upset me. A lot. I don’t know why…

Narrative 2

I remember the military parade at the top of the hill, on 1st Avenue, near the former Igloo, the ice cream counter. I was two years old.

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I remember around three, four years old, being at the cabin of a friend, who lived the neighboring house of mine, and trying to look through a hole, below the outhouse, where my friend had gone to the toilet, to see his booty!

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I remember, also, squabbling with a friend and then running to catch him up, when he wanted to leave, angry, to apologise and when I got out of the house, I stumble on the threshold, which was, like, one and a half-inch thick, and although I tried to hang on to the door frame, I fell on the corner of a metal tank, which was upside down, that mom used to soak the linen in, and I split open my right eyebrow and the skin over my nose. I remember crying a lot, blood flowing like water on my face and my mother carrying me in her arms to daddy's big old truck. Then dad in turn carrying me in his arms up the hospital’s staircases instead of waiting for the elevator which was too long to come.

(It’s strange, but I can feel, right at this moment, how they must have been worried for me I’d lose my eye or I’d die. Twenty years later, maybe they would wish I die, after all…)

I remember the doctor putting a sheet over my head, with only one hole for my eye. I remember the needle entering in and out of my skin. I had the feeling that the hand of the doctor was entering along with the needle and going in and out of my head. I remember, later, sitting on our stairs outside the house, my friends coming to see me, and feeling almost proud to show them my stitches. I was about four, five years old.