Problems We Address • 211produced. It wasn’t mine but the teacher accepted it, even though it was very obvious by my
class work that this could not have been my work. I never attempted any more art classes in
or out of school.
[Years later,] I volunteered to do the Arts and Crafts for a one-week learning disabilities
camp. I wanted these kids to have great projects and to be successful if I had to kill myself
to do it. And the project that has stuck with me over all these years was the one where I gave
each child a lump of Mexican pottery clay and said “make what you would like.” Because
I knew the kids, I could see themselves in each thing they made. The clay was so good for
them and they had such fun. I even kept some of the pieces I had been given as reminders of
some of the kids. They had put themselves into their work.
You are probably wondering where art therapy comes into this saga. While I was teaching
preschool and learning to use finger paint with the children, I was in therapy for depres-
sion using mainly words. One evening, I could stand the anger I felt no longer and got out
paint and canvas and put my feelings on canvas. When I was finished, I felt better, but the
painting made me feel uneasy. It was so strong and obviously furious that I didn’t want to
acknowledge that all that was inside of me. However, I obediently took it with me to my next
therapy session where I was made to sit looking at it during the whole session.
I didn’t want it in my apartment so I left it with my therapist. That painting appeared at
each session for months—right in front of my chair where it was pretty hard to avoid looking
at. I HATED IT. Looking at it each time did not help to “get at” the anger. As a matter of fact,
I think it helped to push it further down. The therapist finally got the message when I kept
closi ng my eyes a nd tu rni ng away so t hat I cou ld n’t see it. W hen he left t he cli nic, he retu rned
the painting to me. I took it home and hid it behind a dresser for the next two years.
Two years later, I brought it out to show my new therapist how explosive and out of con-
trol the thought of anger was to me.... How I was convinced that anger was ugly, that it was
harmful, scary, terrifying, and I was sure I was sitting on a time bomb of this type of anger
as expressed in the painting. I made my point. I again left the painting, but this therapist had
the kindness and sensitivity to not haul it out every session and make me look at it.
In my therapy, however, I had hit a roadblock. I had some very horrifying feelings attached
to some events in my life that I was not able to tell. I knew what I wanted to say, even what I
needed to say. I trusted my therapist, but I couldn’t make myself say the words. He suggested
that I get some finger paint and try painting what it was I wanted to say. He said that finger
paint would allow me to move quickly if I needed to. If the images were too scary, I could
always wipe them away.
It was a frightening thought and I at first rejected it. I went out to eat and later found
myself in a toy store buying the paint and paper. I left everything in a box in the living room
and went to bed. I couldn’t sleep and got up at about midnight. I set up all that I needed. I
promised myself that I would not wipe anything out, and I would not censor anything that
came up. I painted feverishly for about an hour. When I was done, the living room rug was
covered with pictures detailing what I remembered from early childhood ... the very scenes
and events that I had been unable to put into words (B).
I took them in the next session. I couldn’t look at him but I slowly and haltingly
described what was in each of the pictures (C). At the end of the time, I was still scared
but I felt better. As if a great secret had finally been revealed. I was gently told that I
had been sexually abused as a child, and that the scenes I had remembered and painted
showed this.
We also talked about the experience of using art and what it had meant for me. I had
found it hard to do—to begin. But I had also found a way to show people what I didn’t have