There Must Be More Than This Provincial Life

Soo, right now I have a dull, throbbing pain in my upper torso and mostly my heart that refuses to be dislodged in any way possible. I had a conversation with my mother who is at best, icy and quick to notice a person's faults. From inability to afford a car she insulted me and my father, the man who put me through school and supported my sewing and cosplay and took many a gorgeous picture of my gowns, a man who has been for me a devoted father. He screws up a lot, sometimes more than one should but still manages to come through, though she'll always hold a grudge against him for the time he cheated on her for another woman and various money issues. I tried to stay calm and defend him but then she said something to me that caused a hurt so bad I'm still stinging. She told me that I piddle my life away just like he did and that all i can do is make usueless junk that no one wants. In fact, she has two whole boxes of it that she is delivering to the city dump.

Those boxes contain drawings I drew for her as a child, things I've painted for her and even ceramic sculptures and things I've painted for her. She was quick to tell me it was all junk that she didn't want ever and she was determined to get rid of it. And then I kinda broke down and remembered one moment deep repressed when I went to go take out the trash at my house. Sitting in the dumpster was the portrait of my mother I painted for her when I was in art camp using a picture of her that i really loved. I was 14. I remember working so hard on it and trying my best to paint it just like the photo and everything hoping she'd like it. I did a cerulean blue background specially because it was the prettiest color there was in the class even and wrote on the back that it was for her from me. And there it sat unwanted, unloved and with the trash bag of kitty litter thrown next to it.

I was horrified and shocked and angry and sad and I felt like an ocean of feelings swept through me, and after I toook it out I ran to my room and cried for what seemed like hours. It sat there in the dumpster staring right back at me, and I just cried more. Having that memory come back to surface was the last straw and I was livid with anger and sadness all in one as that same ocean came back as a typhoon. We argued more and when I presented all my latest costume sketches to her as proof of what those carelessly tossed things led to and what she could keep she told me she didn't want anything that would remind her of someone who thought so low of her. After she slammed upstairs I broke down and cried again and called my Dad and just cried some more. I don't even think I was comprehensive, just sniffles, sobs and weird moany sounds akin to an African warthog. I usually don't break down or snap but to see and know that the things that I made with my own hands, something that cannot be replaced or bought was so unwanted I was devastated. I felt like Cinderella or Snow White where nothing they ever could do could please their respective stepmothers, never in my life did I feel so unloved.

I know I sound like the biggest f****t crying about kiddie sketches and ceramics but it was my art, early art that was so ruthlessly defiled. Her only concern is that it wont all fit in her trunk to dispose of and how do you recycle ceramics? I want to know how do you rebuild and recycle a heart thats badly beaten and where do I recycle my pain and sorrow? Does that fit in the trunk as well?
For the love of anything please give me some form of reassurance that I'm not a complete idiot or a fool, even if I'm partially a doof at times.

There May Be Something There That Wasn't There Before