This is what having your suffering whitewashed really looks like.
This morning, I was feeling particularly angst-ridden over the cost of whitewashing. So, I painted “Whitewashed.”
It’s over 4 feet wide, and won’t be hung away in some forgotten corner. It’s too big.
Aaron doesn’t think it’s an appropriate addition to our dining room decor. (He’s probably right.)
I find it entirely appropriate, how this expression of hidden trauma just. won’t. play. nice.
Where do we display the truths that have been whitewashed out of our collective, and our personal, histories? Should I shove this painting in a closet? Isn’t that what we demand of survivors?
So, it’s laying on my bed, this externalization of this morning’s emotions. I’m feeling good, but I still need somewhere to hang this pain.