Before I learned the full extent of what happened to me with my father I drew this. While looking at myself in a reflective surface which distorted my image, I drew and painted Forcing The Hand. I used both hands at the same time.
Forcing The Hand showed many of the emotions my father and I experienced including rage and terror respectively. The amber and blue eyes depicted a wolf’s eyes. My father called himself a wolf. He hunted often and preyed on innocent children.
There's more to this than I wrote last. This work also represents the first time my father used physical abuse to keep me silent about his identity. Forcing The Hand is about my father breaking my forearm. And then he refused to get my arm casted as a punishment and also for me to remember what happened when I disclosed his name to other people. He was super secretive about his identity. I didn't understand why until this year, 2017, when I remembered that he had two professions: he was a serial killer and worked for the law enforcement in the US government.
I did not get a choice. I could not refuse my father’s desires. I was forced to participate against my will. The last thing I wanted to do at three or five or ten was to hold a knife in my tiny hand. My father wrapped his huge hand around mine and plunged the knife into the victim’s heart. I remembered the sound of crushing cartilage, the blood spurting outward and coating the knife and my hand and his, and the coppery odor filling the air around me.
There is a show on television, a new one, and I find it so triggering. It is called The Following. The show is about teaching others to become serial killers. Something is warped and wrong about that show. I have not been able to watch it all the way through. I literally zone out and go to sleep. The truth smacks me on the face. It is not easy to live with it.
I did not want to be involved with my father’s criminal acts. Yet at age three or five or ten I knew I could not refuse or be the victim of his violence.