more representation in the portrayal of themes
When I first began writing as Electra, it was for the purpose to define identity because I see it as a source; the seed of where it all began.
But often, I feel like Don Quixote, delusional. Today I don't want to dwell on whether or not this one or that one was my father. It is almost irrelevant to the argument in some ways. This struggle over meaning. This struggle. This conflict. I know that none of this would have mattered to me at all had I not been desperate enough to call a suicide hotline when I was twenty-one. And the years that dragged me to that point. The rejection of father. From my father. I tried to replace something with something else. Like Freud’s thesis. Today's modern books on the young feminine psyche outline a fragile ego, as portrayed by Pipher's Ophelia complex. A neatly sketched picture. The early formation of ego. In many ways I am a stereotype. There is nothing that unique here in my head. But that was never what I needed to prove. Maybe in some ways in order to stand out as individual, yes. But not to really rally, as some present day Joan of Arc. All I ever wanted was to just fit in.
My own theory is: if it is this important to me and I am not all that unique, than I would not be alone in these themes I obsess over and dissect. Maybe this is really not all just for me. I am definitely driven. Driven crazy. Over this. It has a hold on me that won't let me go and I have no choice but to follow this through to the end. So follow me. I dare you. Because you might just see you in me. And even if you don't, you might see something else that answers something in you and your need to follow it.
Without an avatar, where do you hang a self-image? I mean this in a way, like a title of Self. Like when I first watched my daughter begin to wonder who she is in her place in the world and I watched her need to define herself through her earliest choices. Her favorite color. Her favorite imaginary characters. And then, later, when she asked me over and over if she was good enough to be an artist, or good enough to write, or good enough to be ….anything. And it was like pushing the graphite across the paper and the graphite took control, the way it should. As artists, we simply dust off what is already there. Like an archaeologist, as I have said. It forms itself and our hands are the vehicle. But my daughter is her own graphite and I chose to never force the hand. I wanted to watch what would happen on her own. And without the limitations I had. The manipulating chains of limitations.
I saw it happen and it was invaluable to me to watch her learn this. It heeled something that no therapy ever could have. I got to watch it happen slowly through time as she discovered self.
Electra really only became my avatar in full dimension when I caught on to this. Watching self born in her. Being cast off from a mold forces you to invent yourself. And it isn't always the choice to do this. At first, the early inventions were reactionary. Basic survival. And things like taking sharp objects to do self harm were one of those reactions. And a form of basic survival, as ironic as this may sound. In the silence and in silence scream. Hidden with no voice in rooms in my mind.
And no, I don't condone self harm. And this is why I didn't want to force the hand. I had to let go of her, step back and watch her, like those first steps alone. As mothers we must let go and always, every day, more and more. We are forced to act the opposite of what we emotionally fear. But then, letting go of her was not really my choice. It was chosen by my ex-husband. Hanging a concept of self on your child has devastating consequences. But I wasn't ready to let go of her. Especially, because I knew I was on the brink of discovering something that has something to do with the meaning of self.
As I paint my mural of Demeter, as she mourns over the pomegranate, symbolizing Persephone.... I am releasing this. It marks a hallway in my cerebral passages. And once I put this down, I can go on to the next level, like the levels of purgatory.
But the Self is still chaos. It is elusive to me.
If I give up now.... only I think it is really driving me mad. Which is why I write this self-involved journey. If I am honest, maybe something really worthy can come of all of this. Even if it emerges out of me like a tiny whisper and the chance of being heard is actually impossible.... because I hide. Because I have no voice. And this is why Bran is so necessary, because he gives ….Electra voice.
I can do it through him....
because, before there was silence
….and then there was Orpheus.
I know that what I confess here --may be wrong....to. It is not as if I close the pages of my diary and tuck it in a drawer. I know he sometimes reads my blog. But there is the need to pour it out and I seem to be more honest on here than when I just do it on a piece of paper. I say here what I don't say out loud. Like the voiceless things I say to him in the dark. I guess there is the part of me that wants him to know but also hopes he won't.
I don't want to need him. I am not someone who clings. But I see there is something I need to learn.... in him.
And I think now about talking to my marriage counselor about this. But I don't want to admit to this. She is not my confessor. And I wonder if I am just trying to give merit to something sinful in order to deliver myself. But I need him, I know I do. Because before I was ….losing all definition. And losing the belief in caring.
Is it delusional to need to keep the faith of some tired old cause because it gives you an anchor that keeps you from flying out of orbit? He gives me voice. He is Electra's voice. I can express these things I never could have before. On his stage Electra comes to life. And even if he went away forever, I would be OK. Electra would still exist.
Because I know he will never be able to get her out of him now either.
But I don't need anybody. And if he leaves my life forever, then maybe he was only ever a vehicle too. The hands that shaped what was already there by dusting off the chaos.
I don't know what I am going to do. Maybe nothing. And maybe I am full of shit. No, I most definitely am.