Jag målade tre bilder förra året. När jag just rädddats. En av dem är denna.

Har gått igenom fyra års dagböcker.
Jag har sett en förfärlig resa. En studie i manipulation, utpressning, lögner och förvirring. En sorglig berättelse om tillit, utsatthet och sårbarhet.
När börjar en berättelse?
Långt innan man vet.

Maybe mine started when I was little. When I was afraid of my beloved father- which I was not always, but suddenly, like lightning from clear skies came terror. When he was in a bad mood and scared me. Daughters' relationship with the fathers is crucial to their relationship with men. It's pretty obvious. My dad was loving. He never fought. He loved me and I came to love him very much the more I got to know him. Then I was bigger.
But when I was growing up, he created the conditions for some of my great weaknesses, things that have come to shape my life and made me feel bad several times. I have seen it and understood it already when I was really young. Intellectually. Therefore, I thought I had freed myself from it.

Men nu, when I read my diaries and generally research what happened to me for almost four years until 2014, I realize that the wounds lay deeper and were fully possible to reach with some stubbornness. From. And use. Somewhere there is a part of the horrible story I see in my diaries.

But regardless of frightening fathers, the role of women undoubtedly lays the best foundation for abusing women. So the sad story I read about in my diaries started just as much with the female role. The role of women is in itself a prerequisite for women to stubbornly hold on to those who ruin their lives. The idea of ​​the healing power of love, the idea of ​​sacrifice and strength and the whole mourning of being polite, thoughtful, not think of yourself in the first place, omhändertagande, considerate and endure…

Everything is planted to be able to be destroyed.
It is important to see. It is important to see.

Or my story began when I was sick a few years ago and understood that death really is death. And nothing else. Part of my story that I read about in the diaries, began in that loneliness. And in the special kind of loneliness found the possibility of perseverance and the ability to submit.

But the story also began in my crashed marriage. And in the feeling of being diminished and ridiculed in the dominance of big siblings. In the betrayal of others, the story began. In my own dream, the story began. So it has started in several places, has several beginnings that go awry, which fertilize and feed each other. Så är det att vara människa. It happens to everyone. And so incomprehensible things are done, something you never thought you could come across, sometimes possible. Because the wounds are raised in the vicinity of the wrong person.

But that awful fear, the cold horror you can not find words for, which causes one to be blinded by a force which panics and animalistically wants to arrange FRID and which rejects all that is reason in its panic – it stems from the great little child's great great fear. All children feel it at some point, some feel it more.

My dad did not think about it, but let his bad mood go over everyone, boundless in words. Boys are often allowed to take up a lot of space in their anger, so it is consistent that the consequences can be such that when the boy is big he scares the life out of his children and poisons their inner self with his rage. My dear father was born on 20 century and marked by its background, but in terms of respect for boys' anger and the space given to it, has probably not changed much.

I forgive him. But I see how deep tracks certain things left in me. How those beyond reason can make me a prey to a certain kind of evil. No matter how smart I am. No matter how much I have taken. But I had not understood this: evil.

Maybe I have it now.

But we all carry a web of wounds and dreams, of loneliness and longing, of sorrows and hopes, and these can be obtained by the wrong person, and with the help of these one can become entangled and blind and lost.
And at some point everyone is more vulnerable than usual.

I now see when I read my own diaries the story, partially, and I'm proud of myself. Proud of my huge train. Proud of my willingness to believe the best. Proud of my enormous trust in the good. Proud of my attempts to orientate myself and behave constructively. Proud of my responsibility. Proud that I think the best about people, that I- at least until recently- think well. Proud that the anxiety I was beginning to feel drove me to write these diaries, for without them I would not have understood anything today. Without them, I would have felt robbed of my inner self today. And that would have been the worst theft. Without them, I would today have felt robbed of my innermost core, my finest, my most fragile and my strongest and I had had a hard time trusting who I thought I was – now I see that I am who I believe, though much kinder – and I had a hard time believing in a future. But with the help of my diaries, I see and understand.
And in my dreams at night, I meet Dad. He is happy and he says ”what fun that we can go together like this” and glances at me with his crooked eyes. His high beautiful cheekbones, his fine voice, his chuckling little laugh. And he helps me. He calmly tells me how to get through the obstacles, how to climb the walls with many windows, how to get through the mazes and get right. As he had done in reality. If he had not died at the wrong time, I do not even think that everything that happened to me could have happened. His death confused me. I tried to lean on someone else who came and said he could be my safety. Who came and said he wanted to fill in everything that was missing. Who came and said that everything would be fine. That we could help each other.

I painted the picture last year when I had started to be able to tell what had happened. Jag målade tre bilder förra året- suddenly – though I never paint otherwise. This is one of them, another was a tired lioness on a cracked ground, which I already had in a previous blog.

This is me in the great cold eternal desolate space. My hands are burning because I can not touch anything. I could not tell – and I can not live without being told – so my hands that wanted to touch the world burned. It's bleeding from my hands, straight into the cold black SILENT space. The only thing that is alive are two trees down at one edge, they are my contact with life and they are my two children. They stretch their little branches after me.

Now everything is better. It will go well.