(I am an artist! - And I have something to "say"!)

When I grew up, I did really love my mother, though she did not love me back. She just did not have the capacity. She constantly abandoned me, belittled me, told me what was wrong with me and how I was supposed to be. She abused me, neglected me, scolded me – and once in a blue moon she would do something that on the surface looked kind, but would turn out to be much more for her than for me.

At the age of 5 I made a conscious decision to no longer beg for her love, as in seeking her out. I did keep on a couple of years to try to make her see me favorably, but it did not work.  A bit older, as an early teenager – my love turned into hate. I hated her with all that I had. Because it was always about her – and never about me. With that hate – I became the problematic one. I learned fast that describing my parents to anyone outside (which I tried to do to the child psychiatric hospital (at 13) I ended up in due to me starving myself, not taking care of my appearance etc, slowly shutting down) – was to no avail. It really felt like screaming (even if I was quiet, even mute quite often) – straight out into space. Or straight into a wall – there were really no one there to hear it.