i hate it when i cry and don't mean to.

i won't say i cry all the time, and i'm definitely not one of those people who can remain dry-eyed at a funeral, for example, so i guess i'm somewhere in between. sometimes though, when something means a lot to me, or stirs up a lot of emotions, no matter how trivial it may be to someone else, i have no control over the tears that flow.

i've been working on a little project involving pencil & pen drawings and watercolor paints, but because my confidence is in the negative territory, i've kept it to myself. i've wanted to share with mr. shit, but i've been too scared.

and it's not just a drawing that i'm scared to share, it's something i've sewn, a piece of jewelry i've made, even some flowers i've arranged, anything that took some creativity and my own ideas.

i wasn't brought up in an artistic family. not at ALL. but they still accepted that i was the free spirit of the family, and in their own way, encouraged me to be unique. until the time my dad married my stepmom, i was excited to show people close to me what i'd made.

i remember the first time my stepmom made a comment about what i was drawing, and i brushed it off as her being a bitch. i was doing a rough sketch of a woman's face and her out-of-control hair. i didn't see anything wrong or unusual about it, but she stopped beside me, frowned, and asked, "who is that?" i told her i didn't know, it was just a sketch of a woman. she replied with, "well why are you drawing a woman?" "just because," i said. the conversation ended with her look of disgust, and then her walking away. the next time i was drawing a picture of an amish boy, having just returned from a trip to pennsylvania. again, she walked up to me, asked me why i was drawing a boy, and frowned. from then on it was the same, it didn't matter what i was drawing, a person, a tree frog or a flower, she would always ask me why i was drawing that, emphasis ALWAYS on that, as if it were a filthy parasite that no human eyes should ever see.

when mr. shit asked to see what i was working on, my stomach felt tight, my eyes widened, and i kind of wanted to just run and hide in the closet. before i could even show him, i had to give him the whole rundown, which i've done before, on why i'm downright terrified to show anyone anything, and i cried. i couldn't stop, and i couldn't put into words exactly what i was feeling or how i didn't realize just how strong those feelings were. i realized then just how much my stepmom hurt me. i hate it, and i hate it more that i can't just forget about it and let it go.

my stepmom made me lose all confidence in any sort of artistic ability i may have had. to this day, i feel physically ill when i have to show someone something i've made or worked on, because i always expect the same type of response my stepmom would have given me. although no one else has ever acted the way she did, the negativity seems to stay with me and shape the way i feel about myself and my art.

i haven't lived with my dad and stepmom for nearly 12 years, but the wounds she left are still fresh. i often wonder if her comments, both about art and everything else, will ever lose their strength, power, and ultimate control over my inability to finally gain self-esteem.

one day, when i'm a parent, i'll make it my mission to raise a self-assured and confident child. i'll be sure to compliment them so that they feel comfortable being who they are and never feel they have to apologize for it.