Brushstrokes of Resilience

 

Hi everyone. I’m so honored to be included in this powerful book, The Cinderella Monologues, 3rd Edition. My piece is called 'Brushstrokes of Resilience,' and it tells the story of how I lost—and later reclaimed—my creative voice through years of hardship, isolation, and ultimately, sheer survival.

 It begins with a sketch I made as a young girl—a little drawing of a naked lady I hid behind my bedroom curtain, hoping my mother wouldn’t find it. (she did) But my grandmother did something different. She handed me her old art box and said, 'You’re an artist now.' ( even if I didn’t know it at that time) Those words stayed with me, even when I couldn’t paint for long spells in my life.

 My story spans poverty, domestic violence, and religious control. There were years when I was locked inside my home, raising four children while trying to keep my spirit alive. 

 I painted on napkins and old thrift-store canvases because there was no money. I carefully squeezed out every drop of paint to create something that reminded me I was still myself. Even when the world told me to be quiet, obedient, and small—I kept creating, even if only in secret.

This story is for anyone who has ever felt erased or trapped. I want you to know: it is never too late. You can survive. You can create. And sometimes, the brush you thought you'd lost still fits perfectly in your hand.

Brush Strokes of Resilience: My Story of Survival and Creativity

 

Themes of Domestic Violence, Rape, and Abuse. This is an excerpt from my past life.

Published in the Cinderella  Monologues, 3rd edition

When I drew my first serious picture, it was a pencil sketch of a naked woman, about 5x7 inches. I tacked it up behind my bedroom curtain, convinced my mother wouldn’t find it. I was 13 or 14 years old, and while the sketch wasn’t particularly good, I hid it because I vaguely understood that nudity might be frowned upon. I’d been sketching for years, but when my grandmother gave me her art box and brushes, declaring that I was an artist, I wanted to see if it was true. I felt secretly proud of that little naked lady, until my mother found it and threw it away. I tried to explain that real artists draw nudes, but she suggested I start with something different.

Grandma had mentioned that my dad had been an artist, something I’d never known. I found him after work and asked if it was true. Without a word, he grabbed a piece of paper and sketched Disney characters from memory with stunning accuracy. I watched in awe, seeing him in a new light. From that moment, I wanted to practice more and become better. My dad became my silent fan, building large canvases for me to paint on. But he treated art like piano practice, hours of disciplined work. My teenage stubborn streak rebelled against that, yet I still spent countless hours in my room, wrestling with mastering skills and struggling for inspiration.

Drawing from imagination didn’t come naturally. I could replicate pictures with precision, adding my own twists, but my mind often felt empty when I tried to create something original. Both my parents were sure that I could one day become a famous artist. They were critical people, though, and I lacked the confidence to create under their watchful eyes. Art became my secret refuge.

Our church, much later revealed to be a cult, had a prescribed life role for women that seemed to embrace family life and all the work that came with it. There was no room for much else. My mother constantly reminded me of my household chores, while my father didn’t mind me hiding away with my pencils and paints. Friends were scarce; our church forbade friendships with outsiders. So, I poured myself into art, alone.

In high school, my art teacher recognized my talent and encouraged me to pursue it. She helped me sell a piece at a silent auction and even arranged for my work to hang in a local bank. I was proud, but I didn’t feel like a real artist. I thought I needed formal training. My teacher visited my parents to advocate for art school, but I overheard my mother arguing about the cost. When she asked if I really wanted to go, my mind screamed, 'Yes, yes!' Traitorously, I heard myself say 'no', not wanting to be a financial burden to our family.

I resolved to teach myself. My parents took me to a few art museums, where I was both inspired and intimidated. Some pieces were breathtaking; others seemed so simple that I thought even I could do better. Without friends or the internet to guide me, I experimented alone, creating art that mattered to me.

But life changed, as it does. My home life grew unstable and dangerous, and my father changed drastically when he returned from the war, casting all of us into dark, scary times. My mother, bent on proving her favorite saying, “That it’s a woman's lot in life to suffer,” lived her life trying to prove that truth and expected me to live it also.

Lonely for a relationship and mesmerized by being wanted, I had my first boyfriend at the age of 20. My upbringing had not prepared me for this new life. Being sheltered and vulnerable, I did not see the relationship trap that I gladly entered into. Once I started down that road, there were no turnoffs, no U-turns, and no crossroads I could see.

My parents were incensed that I wanted to be with this person and said I could never come home. Even though he was raised in the church, rumors about his life preceded him, rumors I did not understand. They prophesied terrible things would become of me should I marry him. I felt they didn’t see him the way I did. I looked at their relationship and thought they knew so little of love. They didn’t love him the way I did, and they didn't understand how he loved me. Such is the folly of youth.

My brushes went back into the box. My pencils were stored away. I was busy experiencing a life that was not well thought out or understood. Quickly, I suddenly had bigger battles to fight.

Somehow, I went from the frying pan into the fire. Leaving a home where I no longer felt safe, I jumped into a relationship that initially seemed like a refuge. I believed I loved this person, a fellow church member, but years of isolation in my bedroom creating art left me socially stunted and immature. I knew how to run a household—sew clothes, can food, make soap and candles, all second nature to me. I attended every church class on being a good wife and mother. I sorted and washed laundry like a pro and managed my time efficiently. Yet, none of those skills prepared me for the harsh reality of my future.

Although I turned 21 and just wanted a boyfriend; I was legally old enough to marry. For complicated reasons this story doesn't go into but you can find in my memoir Turning Survival into Words,  I married. I married before grasping the gravity of my decision. The one my mother more or less pushed me into. I had just started junior college when my new husband threw out my books, declaring I didn’t need an education. (Think The Burning Bed, with Farrah Fawcett) He said I didn’t need my driver’s license renewed, or half of my clothes, which he disapproved of, or any family or friends.

One by one, everyone left our tiny circle. His heavy drinking eventually turned him into a raging alcoholic and kept us in fear and confusion. This wasn’t the life I had pictured. The danger of my new life became clear when I survived my husband choking me and, later, raping me to force compliance. I pleaded with ministers to help, but they told me I wasn’t submissive enough and needed to try harder. My husband glowered as they spoke, and I didn’t dare reveal his violence or drinking—I had only said we weren’t getting along. Later, the ministers insisted that rape was impossible within marriage. Nothing I did was good enough. My parents said I could not return home, and church doctrine decreed I had no right to leave unless my husband rejected me. Worse, I had no place to go.

The weight of my decisions overwhelmed me. The sadness crushed me every day, from the loneliness, poverty, and suffocating expectations that felt impossible to live up to, stifling my very soul.

Looking around the church at Saturday’s services, I wondered if the other women sitting there experienced the same things I did. Maybe I just wasn’t submissive enough. The church kept saying it was the requirement of women to let their husbands lead. I’d sit in church looking over all the families and wonder what other wives had been choked or raped, left to live on white rice for days. If I had understood the underpinnings of marriage, I would have chosen anything but marriage. But my lack of maturity, the need to leave my family home, not knowing myself, just being so damn grateful that somebody professed to love me, all landed me here..

My heart longed for art. My fingers itched to draw, my sadness deepening the need to create. On some days, after my husband passed out from drinking, I switched from chores to painting, trying to create when he wasn’t there. He dismissed my art as a waste of time.

We lived in deep poverty. I drew on napkins and scrap paper, creating art on thrift-store canvases by painting over other people's work. I still relied on the supplies my grandmother had given me: crinkled tubes of oil paints and tiny palette knives, which I never quite knew how to use. I painted sparingly, stretching each tiny bit of paint to make it last. My brush, my only brush left, received constant care, as I feared I might never be able to afford another.

It shocked me later in life to see other artists who had sketchbooks full of sketches, not many of which were actually finished pieces, but lots and lots of sketches. Some of them had many paintings in various stages of completion or that were never completed. The money they must have had to do that was inconceivable to me. Every time I drew a single picture or sketched a single sketch, I tried to create it into a masterpiece so as not to waste the paper or the canvas. Today, I often reuse my old canvases too, painting over them sometimes. Each time I conceive of something I want to paint, I stick with it until it is complete, until I create the masterpiece my mind has envisioned, ever mindful of costs and waste. A wild part of me says, “Wouldn’t it be wonderful just to get a sketchbook and sketch on every single page?” I plan to do that one day.

When we were children, and a Walt Disney production came on TV, a giant paintbrush flowed across the screen, materializing a picture as it went. This became the way I painted, not knowing of any other way; my paintings were completed inch by inch, as my brush flowed across the canvas. I have since learned so many different ways to create rich and flowing art. My favorite way to learn remains watching others paint.

Artwork became rare during those years. Every church art show I entered awarded me ribbons, and I even sold a few pieces for small amounts. Still, art remained a secret indulgence, pursued late at night or when my husband was at work. Every two years, another baby arrived until we had four sons. Complications during my youngest son’s birth finally prevented more children, a quiet blessing, given our circumstances.

We moved frequently, living in small, damp homes with inadequate storage. Many paintings were lost to rats and mildew, a heartbreaking and discouraging loss. My husband enjoyed hearing others praise my art, but secretly resented it. Sometimes we didn’t have enough food to eat, and leaving the home or property faced disapproval. On occasion, we were even locked in with a padlock. To him, my role was simple: be available to bring him another beer.

The dangers of marriage never brought us closer. In my mind, he became “The Husband,” an impersonal figure I served out of duty, fulfilling my mother’s prophecy, a life of obligation and pain, while longing for freedom.

Far later in our marriage, when we needed more money, I was allowed to seek a job! I hadn't been allowed to seek more education or get a job; our church frowned on mothers working outside the home. If you had children, your job was to be a full-time mom, care for the home, and stay with them. The man, as the head of the household, would “bring home the bacon.” Other mothers I knew worked, though I never understood how—they likely had husbands who didn’t adhere as strictly to the rules. Extreme poverty finally convinced my husband to let me try for a job.

I answered a newspaper ad for "Artists Needed." I didn't consider myself an artist, but I had talent, and maybe this was something I could do. The thought of earning my own money felt so tantalizing that it overpowered my fears of being out in public, of going somewhere new, and of not being good enough. I didn’t give myself time to overthink it; I pushed through my anxiety and went to the interview.

When we arrived, a long line of applicants stretched outside, each holding a professional artist's portfolio and dressed in fine clothes. My heart sank. I wore what little I had, and my artwork sat in a black plastic garbage bag, the only container I could find. I stood there with my head down, face burning with humiliation, gripping that garbage bag with sweaty hands. I didn’t speak, but I felt the eyes of others on me.

Inside, the shop owners explained the job: painting designs of famous artists onto needlework canvases for customers to stitch with yarn. They asked about my art education, and I admitted I had none. Their disappointment was obvious. Desperation surged through me, and before they could dismiss me, I asked to show my work. I pulled my paintings from the garbage bag, feeling foolish. Yet, their expressions shifted when they saw the pieces. The brushwork impressed them, and when they asked how long each painting had taken, my answers surprised them.

One question seemed especially important: "What would you do if you accidentally painted outside the lines on the tan canvas background?" I paused, thinking carefully. Necessity had always driven my creativity. "I'd mix paint to match the background and cover the mistake," I said.

The owners exchanged amazed glances, then turned back to me with excitement. "Why didn't we think of that?" they exclaimed in unison. And I got the job!

To me, this job represented more than income. It was a pathway to freedom, something I earned myself, something that might one day help me build a better life for my children and me.

My life experience had taught me to brace for disappointment, and I feared this success wouldn't last. My husband's initial support waned when he realized the effort required, driving me and watching the kids. Acrylic paints were unfamiliar, and my cautious brushstrokes slowed me down. Other artists worked faster, and I knew I had to pick up speed to keep the job. My husband soon declared it wasn't worth the trouble and insisted I quit.

The grief hit like a punch. The small taste of freedom, the chance to use my talent, had sparked dreams I hadn’t dared to entertain. It hurt so deeply that I wished I had never tried. I cried for hours. The other shoe had dropped, just like always.

When I went to resign, shame and anger burned through me. But the owners surprised me. They offered to let me take canvases home, work on them when I could, and return them later. They didn’t extend this opportunity to anyone else; they valued my work that much. For the first time in my marriage, someone recognized my art as valuable.

The income wasn’t much; most of it went to bills. But here and there, I had a few dollars I could call my own, earned through my passion.

Eventually, the company let us go; their business model didn’t generate the sales they'd hoped for. During my final meeting, one of the owners said, "You’re a true artist. You should be painting and selling your own work."

That phrase stayed with me. It echoed through my bad days, like a whispered promise of possibilities yet to come. “A True Artist”

If my life were a book, I’d ask you to pinch a good inch of it between your thumb and pointer finger and flip those pages over. That thick section would represent the years spent trying, and trying again, to build a good marriage and family life with what little I had. We were both sold a dream by our church and our parents, a dream of a perfect life that never materialized.

Too naive, too unprepared for the realities of life, and too consumed by beliefs that didn’t match the world we lived in, we clung to illusions while our lives crumbled. In those years, art became a distant memory. Survival took precedence. I still had Grandma's art box, with its old oil paints and worn brushes, and every now and then, a painting or charcoal sketch emerged from my fingers. Those were the dry years when family, work, and sheer survival left little space for creativity.

After the inevitable divorce, I slid deeper into poverty. Art felt even further away. Yet, during those times of scarcity, I realized art’s true value. It’s more than personal expression; it helps make sense of the world. Art crafts meaning to life, tells stories, and builds bridges of understanding across cultures and time. It challenges us to feel, capturing the human experience in ways words alone cannot. In stolen moments, I found comfort in my art. It became my silent companion through sadness and struggle.

These days, I’m more grateful than words can express to have made it through life's storms. My responsibilities have shifted, leaving me enough precious time to pick up a brush or pencil and learn what I never had the chance to learn before.

For years, when people asked if I was an artist, I hesitated. I believed that title required a prestigious education or an extensive portfolio. But a wise woman once told me, "If you create, you're an artist. It’s that simple." Since then, I’ve illustrated books, painted countless canvases, and created more art in the last few years than in all the years before.

I finally took a local class in acrylic painting, collected art books, and visited galleries. I entered my work in shows and county fairs, often coming home with a ribbon or two. My new husband, my greatest fan, stands proudly beside me at these events, watching strangers admire my art. He buys me canvases and paints as gifts of love. Paintbrushes now fill jars on my shelves like wildflowers. The art aisles in stores feel like treasure troves; I get lost there, marveling at tools and materials I don’t yet know how to use.

It took years for the brushes to come out again, years to save enough to buy a binder of paper and carve out time for creativity. From the beginning, I was an artist—just as Grandma said. I didn’t know it then, and I foolishly didn’t choose it. Now, I hope for enough time to bring to life the pictures dancing in my mind.

Enough time to simply be me, creating art.