A Picture Can Heal A Thousand Wounds #AprilWritingChallenge

She walked into my room drinking in the striking imagery brought out by the reds, blacks and the yellow as I wanted her to and hence had placed it strategically to facilitate the process. Truth be told, the painting on the canvas was a bit over the top for the uninitiated me to the world of abstract art forms.   But I had hoped to access her sub-conscious and the minute I realized that she used to paint “in another lifetime,” I knew I had to try hypnotic art therapy and I was hopeful for some kind of progress towards peeping into her past that was preventing her from moving forward.   

“The eyes are more exact witnesses than the ears, aren’t they?”

I stayed silent. 

“What’s your opinion?”  This time, she wanted an answer and she did that half turn that she usually did when she wanted an opinion, yet was afraid to hear it.

Deliberately obtuse I responded, “I am no connoisseur of art forms but let me put it this way…if this were one of the exhibits in an art gallery, I would spend far more time in front of it trying to decipher it but unable to walk away.”

She turned around and smiled at my wilful misunderstanding of her question and once again I realized the attractive charm behind the wounded persona. She was effortlessly beautiful and devoid of the unattractive vanity.

“What made you remark about the eyes?” I directed her as she came to sit on the chair.

Archana had come to me to seek help from her inability to take her relationship with Arun forward despite being ‘madly attracted’ to him. She was prone, too prone to anxiety attacks that kept her from moving forward.  She found it difficult to trust and was permanently on edge. I had promised to help though warning them that despite my best efforts it could ‘take long’ or ‘not at all’ like most diseases that are psychogenic.

It was now more than eight months of regular sessions but though I had managed to build a working rapport and she was regular for her sessions out of her own volition, she clammed up whenever I brought the conversation around to her childhood though she spoke fondly enough of her school and teachers.  I was left with no choice except to try hypnosis with her permission to experiment.

“I don’t know. I had read it somewhere I suppose. “I had painted a lot of eyes!” she said pointing towards the painting. “Angry eyes, lustful eyes, ignorant eyes and eyes that deliberately refuse to see,” she ended and got up so suddenly that the chair toppled. Truth be told, I saw the eyes only after she pointed them out to me.

“Who in your life refused to see?” I found from my experience that anger is more towards the silent watchers rather than the perpetrators. 

“My mother was so focused on playing the roles of a dutiful wife, sister-in-law, parent, teacher, care taker, a do-gooder but she couldn’t see what was happening right under her nose. But now, I take care!”

“So you are over doing the ‘care part’ so that she learns what it is to go that extra mile for their loved ones?” I made my voice deliberately offensive to her belligerent one.

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She walked towards the door and I wondered if I had overdone this but she walked back to the picture and said, “You are right! I need to talk to her. She loved her youngest brother as her own son. Even when my father was so busy playing the role of the provider, this uncle was there for her.  He was fun. He used to be the one who took us to the beach almost to the horizon, bought all of us goodies. We all loved him.” 

It took over four sessions to unravel the usual sordid tale.  Molesting by known family members then laying the blame at her door or rather on her bed was as commonplace, yet not recognized as one. “It started at eleven when he was thirty one, ended when I was a very old fifteen.  I was told that I was sexy and he just couldn’t help himself. If I hadn’t somehow led him on, maybe……had a different body odour rather than one that turned him on…”

Hugging herself tightly around her middle, she looked unseeingly out of the window. “I stopped wearing tight clothes, shorts, skirts. Was always in baggy trousers, bathed more than five times, scrubbed myself till I was raw and yet my mother didn’t see or ask why nor did he stop. He only said that it was the vibe that I possessed.”

The ability of the perpetrators to lay the blame of their defilements on their victim was an all too familiar tale and hence it was no surprise to me that she was experiencing the whole gamut of guilt, recriminations, shame along with the humiliation of being violated.

“Did you ever want to call him out?”

“How could I? He always sobbed post the rape. He pleaded with me for forgiveness, said he was helpless and made me feel responsible for his inability to resist,” she whispered.  “Once he got married, he moved on and started playing the role of a doting uncle, leaving me broken, shamed and damaged. I am the only one who can feel claws reaching in and grasping at my very womanhood and sucking out all desires. I can only think of his eyes whenever I want to get intimate; the lustful, mad eyes and the helpless eyes that pleaded with me.”

The all too familiar ‘hush culture’ of ours on anything remotely sexual and expecting the carnal urges to be kept in check till marriage proved to be the undoing for many sex related crimes. As a society, we all were horses with blinkers when it came to physicality.

She left the clinic refusing to take the picture with her. She said it was her gift to me to do as I wished with it. I did not see her post that session and I hoped that her catharsis would have begun now that the breach in her mind took place.

I couldn’t part with the striking picture and now it adorned the wall that faced the door.  It proved to be a great icebreaker with my patients who found it easier to talk about the picture.  I wondered how she was faring. Coming to terms with the demons needed a special skill set and I hoped she was sufficiently invested in healing herself.

It was close to a year since I last saw her when my secretary announced her arrival accompanied by Arun. As my next appointment had been delayed, I was naturally curious and was willing to see her without appointment. 

“Doctor, we came in to invite you for my first solo exhibition,’ said she handing over the invite. She started speaking about painting and purging her system through them and thanked me for my efforts.

Locking up the office that evening, I looked at the picture once again, thankful that it helped unlock Archana’s mind and left the office with a smile of accomplishment.

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