‘I’ve never wished you were my daughter.’
I painted this piece in response to a painful memory in which a brutal truth was revealed to me, one in which time stood still and my blood ran cold. It seems as though it has been burnt into my memory. This painting is a testimony to the power of words and their ability to slice us to the core and yet it is also a painting about love.
‘I’ve never wished you were my daughter’ is the second large painting in a series of paintings which I intend to call ‘Conversations in Therapy’. It also happens to be a quote from my therapist. In my therapist’s defence I should probably mention that after talking about that sentence I have been reminded that those words have been taken out of their original context and therefore may sound different to their original meaning and intention. However much I love my therapist, and that is to say a lot, I am not writing here to attack or to defend her words but to speak of my experience of having such a sentence directed at me.
I first met my therapist, Vicky*, when I was 17 and had no desire whatsoever to be seeing a therapist. I was in fact dragged there by two dear friends, to whom I will always be grateful for that act of kindness. I saw her over a period of a year before our sessions had to end due to her going off on maternity leave. During that year I felt like for the first time in my life someone was actually taking me and my problems seriously, I felt listened to and I felt love.
Not long before our work came to a close it occurred to me just how much I had grown to love her. The kind of love one might feel towards a parent or a very dear friend. The kind of love that comes at an exceptionally high price. Though I am not a royalist I do recall a quote from the Queen Mother which reads ‘With great love comes great sorrow.’ For some reason those words have stuck with me because I know just how true they really are.
The ending was an intensely painful experience, equating to bereavement. All these years later it is still incredibly painful for me to remember just how heart wrenching it was to say goodbye to her. I was completely devastated to lose her, I felt broken inside. Sometimes, reflecting after all this time, it feels like the pain of saying goodbye to Vicky was worse than all the reasons that brought me to therapy in the first place. Yet despite this I have never wished that I hadn’t met her, that she hadn’t been in my life. Quite the opposite in fact.
Fourteen years later I returned to working with Vicky. I was extremely grateful that she agreed to see me again after all that time, and extremely nervous as well. Initially I attempted to convince myself that this time would be different. This time I was no longer a teenager, I was an adult and so therefore I wouldn’t feel so attached like before. It wasn’t too long before I realised that I could not have been more wrong. We may both have gotten older but the feelings of love I felt towards her were very much still there.
There is a theory in psychotherapy called transference in which a patient's feelings for a significant person can get redirected to the therapist. Vicky and I have spoken about this and how transference could be going on within our therapeutic relationship. I have over the years come to think of Vicky as a kind of mother-figure in my life, even though at 15 years my senior she is not really old enough to be one. Such feelings on my part have been nurtured by sentences from Vicky including ‘I love you’, ‘You are one of the most beautiful people I have ever met’ (here she wasn’t talking about physical beauty), and ‘I just called you my son’s name, there’s something maternal going on.’ (Note the use of further sentences taken out of their original context!) I came to believe I was special to her, that I was important.
It came as an almighty shock therefore when a few years ago during a session in which I was talking about my feelings towards her she came out with, ‘I have never wished you were my partner/daughter/friend.’ It is quite typical for me to take a while before the gravity of such sentences really hits home. Before the real truth of those words begins to slowly sink in. When the meaning of those words had finally penetrated my head I felt like I had been stabbed in the chest. I can recall myself physically slowing down, walking around the house in slow-motion for days afterwards, clutching my stomach because those words physically hurt.
It did not help that the next session she could not even recall saying those words. Actually in all honesty I cancelled the following session, it was the first time I had ever cancelled a session with her. I felt so hurt, angry and above all betrayed that I couldn’t stand to look at her. I regretted that almost immediately afterwards.
We have had many conversations about that sentence though I often feel like there are some words you can never take back. Some words can never be unsaid. The damage is already irretrievably done. In the novel Shantaram by Gregory David Roberts the author writes that ‘suffering is the true test of love’. Sometimes I wonder if the same is also true of forgiveness and that one could also say, ‘forgiveness is the true test of love.’ Either way, in my experience of hearing those words come out of the mouth of someone I have held in such high esteem and loved like a parent for over half my life, I have found both to be true.
‘I’ve never wished you were my daughter’ is currently my favourite painting that I have ever created. It is in some part a testament to the notion that sometimes something beautiful can emerge from even the most painful of experiences. Above all, it is a painting about love.
‘I’ve never wished you were my daughter’ is one of 455 paintings that have been selected to be exhibited at the London Art Biennale 2021 and opens 1st – 4th July 2021 at Chelsea Old town Hall, Kings Road, London. To find out more about the London Art Biennale 2021, please click here.
To learn more about the use of white make-up in my paintings please click here.
* please note the name of my therapist has been changed in order to protect her identity.
