When I was younger I was even more of an idiot than I currently am, and I decided I wanted to make myself physically strong. It wasn’t a conscious decision, I just seemed to start doing it. For all sorts of reasons… I hated nothing more than my mum telling me to leave something and get my brothers to lift or carry it because they were stronger. Pocketcanadian will testify to my belligerence… and tell me not to do something, (especially if its based on the fact that I’m a girl and therefore not strong enough), and I’ll fucking well make sure I do it. It used to make me so mad, and for a while I’d always shout back that just because I was a girl doesn’t mean I’m weak and incapable (and I certainly wasn’t).
I also, I think, decided that I wanted to be better able to protect myself, and so began the getting stronger. And people wouldn’t look at me now and think I’m strong, but I’m certainly not weak. Nobody else would ever protect me, so I started subconsciously making it easier to protect myself. It felt safer, to feel stronger.
And lastly, being physically strong somehow makes me feel more emotionally strong. And yeah, doing exercise definitely makes me feel better (though it’s normally just about the last thing I want to do). It shuts off all of my “weak” feelings, and keeps me feeling walled up somehow. That sounds completely ridiculous, but there you go….
What’s the point in screaming when nobody cares to hear you? All noises muted, no point in trying to make any sounds at all…
This makes me think of weathered faces. Frown lines, worry lines, smile lines. A face that’s weathered storms and somehow feels knowing, and kind and gentle and compassionate.
I want to draw it, show you exactly what you mean, so hopefully there’ll be a part 2 coming….
I have packs of drawing pencils, I have watercolour pencils, I have watercolour paints. I have a billion sketchbooks, I have paintbrushes, I have pastel pencils, I have charcoal…loads of bits given to me by family members who used to paint. (I’m most certainly not a painter,anything involving paint remains very much unused)
I’ve always loved to draw. I’d draw all the time when I was little and there’s a drawer in my dad’s study that still has some of them in it.
I loved making cards… We went through a really long phase of doing that.
I love making things. I enjoy being creative and I like making things look nice.
But creativity wasn’t exactly the thing that was celebrated in our house. And somewhere along the lines, the comments, the nitpicking, the faults with what I produced got to me enough that I just wouldn’t do it.
Now I draw… But nobody knows I draw, nobody sees them (bar pocketcanadian). I enjoy it, but I have no confidence in what I produce.
But its good, its a good grounding technique, my t goes on about it a lot, always asks if I’ve been drawing that week.