The Artist Syndrome

How do we deal with artistic oppression and jealousy when we are only children?

     Breathing. It's safest to do. It's healthiest, but one missed breath of air, one wrong breath of words, one deep breath of smoke, and everything tumbles down before you. That's what I did when my parents confronted me, told me that they didn't love one another anymore. I breathed. No matter how deeply, not enough air would reach my lungs. I breathed when I was asked to choose between them in a court room by a man I didn't know. How could they expect a ten year old to even think such a thing? When I couldn't reply, the man's pupils of coal bored into me harshly and granted my dad the weekends with me.
     Breathing. It's what I listened to when my parents reacted nastily to one another as they exchanged me for a few days. Often, their animosity toward each other grew so intense that their shouts penetrated my ears, replacing steady slow comforting respiration.
     "You don't even know her! She's just some little trophy to you! You think you can shove her into some mold of yourself and she'll come out just like you!"
     "Don't tell me how I feel about my daughter! What is she to you, Steve? A weekend roommate? Because I'm sure that's all you are to her! Not an authority figure, not her father!" My mother shrieked, tossing a dinner plate at his head.
     The shatter echoed through the entire house.
     Finishing packing a few comforts in a fury, I hastily zipped my bag. I hurried down the stairs to hear the yells continue. "Dad, I'm ready to go..." I muttered, eyes intent on my feet, wishing to end their 'conversation'.
     The argument hushed with my dad's smile toward me. His hair was speckled like pepper and chopped short. His long thin nose was suitable for the glasses he often placed on them while he stared at his magazine articles, hoping for a stroke of genius. "Great, Phebes!"
     "Have a nice weekend, sweet. If there any problems, I won't hesitate to pick you up, okay?" The stout figure of my mother trapped me in a tight embrace.
     "There won't be, mom. I love you," I gave into the hug, but pushed back a little.
     When she sensed my discomfort, she released me with a light peck on the forehead. The awful truth was I didn't feel like myself around my mother. I felt like a shell with no turtle, hollow. Following the divorce, we'd slowly grown distant for these past four years until she and I were only roommates, two strangers in a frigid commodious house.
     "It was nice to see you again, Lynn. Your dishware is lovely," My dad said hotly.
     With a clench of her teeth, my mother retorted, "You too, Steve. Your last article was brilliant." Her bitter sarcasm rivaled even mine.
     As he opened his mouth to snarl back, I stated calm as possible, "Bye, Mom." And I grabbed my father's arm to drag him away from the fervor of his rage, my mother. Sometimes, I found it hard to believe they loved each other long enough to even have me. Descending down the stone porch to my father's car, I heard him express his opinion distastefully.
     The pungent strong smoke wafted into my face after my dad lit a cigar. He breathed in and out; the light spring breeze brushed the disgusting toxins into my eyes.
     "Dad, do you have to?" I wondered. Dark bangs flew across my face, obstructing my vision. The sting of his smoke still stung in my eyes.
     He puffed out the window. "Sorry, Kiddo. So what do you want to do tonight?" He questioned. By his voice, he already had his plans. He only needed my consent.
     "You can go out and watch the game. Really, I'll be fine."
     He mused on it and then stated, "I can't. I'll invite Sheila over and we can all watch the game together." Disappointment was clear in his tone.
     Cringing, I exhaled. "Dad, she's disgusting." If one thing in this world was worse than a five hour baseball game, it was Sheila.
     "Phoebe, don't be rude. I raised you better than that. It isn't exactly convenient for hers and my relationship that I only have you on the weekends."
     I played with the window button. I murmured, "Sorry to be a bother." Louder, I asked, "Lila invited me over tomorrow night. Can I go? It'll give you...and Sheila some alone time." I tried to control the edge in my tone.
     "Yeah, sure. No snide comments tonight." When I opened my mouth, he snapped, "Don't." He perturbed the silence we created by mussing around in the back. "I got you something." He held a small book out to me.
     With smooth thick pages, the sketch book was empty, a blank spot all my own. "Dad, you didn't have to." I brushed my fingers over the plain black cover. "Thanks."
     He shrugged. "I noticed you were running out of room in that ratty blue one you carry around with you."
     My face burned with embarrassment. "You have?"
     "Jeez, Phoebe, just 'cause I wear glasses, doesn't mean I'm blind. You like the book?"
     I nodded gratefully. I rubbed the thick pages between my fingers again.
     "Just don't tell your mom. That woman always has to outdo me."
     Exasperated, I furrowed my brow. "Oh," I said flatly. I wouldn't have told her anyway. She read a few of my poems once and nearly called a therapist. Since then I hid myself, afraid of how people might see me differently if they read one of my stories or saw one of my drawings. I presented myself to my parents in the light they wanted to see me in, happy, polite, and intelligent. And easily enough, it worked.
     "Phoebe, were you going to sleep in the car?" My dad joked, shooing me outside. We stepped up the rocky driveway, blindly stumbling over gravel.
     I noted the silver sedan parked next to my dad's car. I grumbled under my breath as he unlocked the door to the house. When we scuffled in, I found it odd that Sheila was no where in sight.
     My dad called out for her. Moments later, she emerged in all her glory at the top of the stairs. Her nose was hacked by some doctor along with her breasts; her hair bleached to the consistency of dead hay. She wore a tanktop with yoga pants both clearly too tight for her body.
     "Steve! You're home. I made dinner and got beer for the game-" She paused when she saw me. She hissed barely above a whisper to my dad, "I thought you were going to get Lynn to take her tonight."
     "I'm sorry. I wanted to see her. I'll make it up to you though. Tomorrow night is just you and me." He kissed her cheek. "So what'd you do all day, Mama?"
     "Well, after work, I came here, cleaned up a little bit, and cooked dinner. Phoebe's room was just filthy," She chuckled.
     I bit my cheek to remain even-tempered. "Thank you." My voice came out screechy and strained.
     "I threw out some of those doodles on your desk. I knew you wouldn't mind."
     I falsified a grin, "Thanks, I've been meaning to get rid of those." They were just doodles, but they were some of my funniest or my best. That made them, slightly, well, precious to me.
     "So what's cookin'?" My dad took a seat at the oak table. His eyes set on Sheila.
     Her response muffled in my ears. All of my senses focused on the adoration my dad held for the classless woman extinguishing her cigarette on a plate. If he's happy, then I should be happy for him, I thought.
     "Phebes, the game's starting in a few. You gonna watch or..."
     I shook my head. "I think I'll just head up to my room..." Solitude seemed to be something I craved more and more lately. Maybe it was because I wasn't lying to myself, only everyone else. I sucked all my thoughts in, a breath of oxygen. Like oxygen, I never exhaled them, not even to Lila. After all, no one wanted to experience the jagged edge within me. It all spilled into words and sketches in the lines of my notebook. No one should have to listen to everything trapped in me. I brushed my hair back, a pretense I frequently used to wipe my eyes unnoticed. Anxiously, I paced my bedroom; my toes burrowed in the thick tan carpet. My throat tightened. My skills of internet diagnosis pointed me to depression, but I chocked it up to hormones, nothing more. And with that, I crawled into bed like the small bothersome insect I'd become.
    
     The next day around six, I found myself in Lila's sterile room. Pale purple coated her walls. Her paintings hung on the walls framed even her finger paintings from first grade.
     "Phoebe? Phoebe!" Lila waved her hand in front of my face. "Are you okay?"
     I nodded. I focused in on her features, features that most boys would notice, blonde ringlets hanging in her face and blue-grey irises. She had a tall thin athletic build and grades to boot. Maybe it was then as I stared at her that I realized the true best friend relationship. The hero and the sidekick.
     There was Lila Summers, pretty, athletic, confident, outgoing, and God knows what other good attributes. Heck, even her last name had a positive connotation.
     And then there was me, Phoebe Arthur, average, clumsy, doubtful, introverted, and probably depressed, but too cynical already to even notice a change. Maybe ten years of Lila's friendship gave me an awful inferiority complex or maybe as a creative type, I was more prone to it. Whichever way, there was no doubt that Lila was the hero and I was her sidekick, the Sancho to her Quixote.
     "Phoebe! Seriously, are you alright?" Lila tapped on the side of my head.
     I shoved her aside. "Because that would've been the way to make me feel better." I said sarcastically. I lightened the statement with a grin.
     "Did I show you the picture I took for my reference? It's gorgeous."
     I teased, "Don't pat yourself on the back or anything."
     After a small shrug, she urged her computer to turn on and soon pulled up a photo of a fiery sky contrasting the black silhouette of trees. "I'm going to do it in watercolors. You should do one too!"
     I nearly laughed. "I'm not going to chance my final grade to watercolors. You know I suck at painting."
     "Fine, do it in pastels." Lila had her mind set on this. She wasn't giving in without a fight. "You know you're good with pastels."
     "Lila, don't flatter me," I replied flatly. "If we do the same picture, one of us is going to get discouraged because the other one will be a lot better." Of course, by 'one of us' I meant myself and 'the other one' Lila.
     She rolled her eyes. "What will it take for you to stop with all this crap about me being better than you? You're just as good as I am. Probably better."
     "I was going to draw my hand drawing something. I didn't really feel like taking a reference picture," I brushed off the subject. "So, I think you should show Mrs. Howe 'The One'. It's really one of the best you've written."
     "I will on the day you show her anything in your notebook. Why write if no one reads it?"
     I shrugged. Why hadn't I talked about the weather or something? I was terrified of judgment, terrified of Lila blurting it to my mother, and terrified of disappointing my father if I wasn't any good. Lila's question reverberated in my head. If I didn't write it down, it would fester. It would've clawed its way through my skull making its mark for the whole world to see. In the notebook, it was out and still in at the same time. I wrote and I drew, not because I coveted riches or fame, but because I needed to. I didn't want to thrill the world. I wanted to thrill myself.

     Sheila towered in my doorway. An ugly smirk was painted across her face. "I read a couple things in that notebook of yours."
     "Liar," I muttered, zippering my clothes inside my backpack ready to return home to my mother. I slung the bag over my shoulder. I shuffled toward the door, toward her.
     "You're good. Almost as good as your dad. There's one thing he has that you never will though. Nerve. The nerve to go out there and show it off. You've got the creative sickness, the artist syndrome. Doubt. Depression. Just thinking about showing someone makes you numb." She paused to ignite her cigarette. "To show it off, it's not cocky. It's confident, you know. If you think you suck, the world will think you suck. And don't compare yourself. Goddammit, don't. There will always be someone better than you, but no one quite like you. That's exactly why you need to show someone."
     I smiled. "Thanks, Sheila." Maybe she's not so bad.
     "Glad you see it the way I do, Phoebe."
     Thoughtfully, I cocked my head. "Do you still have my notebook?"
     She waved her hand. "Nah, I dropped it off at your mom's house."
     My face fell. My jaw became heavy, exposing the gaping hole that was my mouth. "You did what? She's going to look through it!"
     "Gee, that new outlook lasted a while, didn't it?" She fled my doorway. I could practically see her skipping with joy at my reaction.
     I tried to control my breathing. It still came out labored and uneven. I stayed anxious for the entire ride back to my mom's. I could feel my heart beating heavily, wishing to spring its way right out of my chest. The repercussions of Sheila's utter spite, or stupidity, I hadn't decided which yet, would be worse than having my heart fall out. The moment of truth. I hugged my dad goodbye after begging him not to go in. I didn't need their 'pleasantries' on top of everything else.
     "Hey, mom." I dropped my bag on the leather couch.
     In response, she only sighed. "Phoebe, hun, sit down. I read your diary." She held up the nearly full navy book.
     "It's not a diary. I write stories, Mom. They're just stories and drawings, okay? Nothing more."
     "Honey, there's a reason they call drawing and writing self expression. I just need to know if you really feel as miserable as you sound in these stories and poems."
     "No, Mom, of course not. It's just...misery is compelling. It makes a good story."
     She smoothed down my hair. "Look, Phoebe, I've noticed you look unhappy lately. I don't think writing these things down is making you happier. I think it's making you this way. I don't want you to do...this anymore." She displayed the book again.
     Rage pushed its way out of my throat. "No. No! No, mom. I can't just stop it! If I don't do this, then I'm not being myself. You want me to be myself and Mom, this is part of me." I snatched the notebook. I opened up to a random page. "This is me, Mom." I turned the page. "This is too. I'm an artist. I'm a writer. I'm-"
     She snapped, "Phoebe Arthur! Go to your room! The nerve of you!" She sprang up to direct me to my room.
     Nerve. There it was. Nerve. My nerve. I respired a laugh of relief. After all, breathing is safest.

Author's Note

It's been almost a year since I started this. These are my thoughts disguised in a story and through the character, Phoebe. Also, if you're a parent and the words 'good composition' and 'exposition' mean nothing to you, doesn't mean they're totally foreign to your kid. Embrace the artist.

Reviews

[FocusedAmnesia]

Wow. Powerful. Relatable. Thought provoking. Great read:]

[ericdeben]

This was great, Alex. Keep it up.

[nostal]

Spectacular

[shoaib]

this is awesome and amazing
you rock

[Monti]

A very powerful piece. I am impressed. If this is where you begin your journey I can hardly wait to see where you end up. Keep writing.

[Rosalyn Marie]

This is fantastic. I am so glad I forced you to finish it because I've been wanting to read it for so long and now I'm glad because it's just so awesome! The emotions and characterizations are great. You get the sense of who the character is in your writing whether in a short story or a book. Some minor errors like when you write a phrase then go to delete it but don't erase everything accidentally so you have a random word there, but they're not that noticable. Reread it when you're fresh and you can fix them... Fantabulous, and I am so using this in my portfolio. (way to italicize self expression by btw lol)

[Ardeth Lane]

I like that you expressed her emotions through the divorce and not something like, bullying, or a random spur of depression caused by an uneven bendy straw. But I appreciate how you displayed the effects of the divorce on Phoebe, and that you did it well. It wasn't some horribly written story that was made after reading three articles of "Effects of Divorce" or "Teenage Depression. What Really Causes It?" You took an entire year to write this and it shows. I applaud you for this. Not just because it's written like a pro, or that the amount of time you sewed into this piece is significantly long. I applaud you because my parents are divorced, my dad remarried with a new family, and I can relate to Phoebe something awful. I used to have sketch books/notebooks exactly like she does. I have friends like Lila.

This, THIS, is the reason I read your writings. Because you can write emotions better than a blind man hears and a deaf man sees. You portray things perfectly and I love that and support it with every atom inside me. Never in my life have I read something that seemed to portray divorce this good. Maybe it's just me though, maybe someone else who reads this will think it incorrectly paints an image of divorce. Maybe my experiences in life help me along and put *insert ins* for how I think Phoebe feels about something. Whatever it is, I don't think I can express how much I utterly love this piece.

But, without taking up anymore review space, I will leave you with the first thought that came to my head what I saw that this was finally readable:

"ZOMGIHAVEBEENWAITINGFORTHISSOLONGYOUHAVENOIDEA!"