Where Do I Start?

The Color Beneath the Paint

This trauma feels like a “chicken or the egg” situation or like one of those Russian dolls I played with as a kid, the ones my grandmother always had on display.

It’s hard to tell where it starts or ends. But does it even matter where it started if all I want is for it to end?

Everyone says, “Well, it starts with the parents.”

And I see how that’s a valid point. But one day, as my cells continued to divide and old ones died off, I became my own person with my own decision-making abilities.

But it was always later than I thought, until suddenly, it was sooner than I ever wanted.

The choices I made at 12, 13, 14, 15, 16, 17, 18, 19... I made them all convinced I was grown, in control.

And now at 26, I quite literally feel like a tall child, not capable or qualified to be responsible for keeping myself alive, let alone supporting anyone else.

The outer layer of this Russian doll is lazy, unmotivated, lacking accountability, aimlessly drifting, dragging others down.

Somewhere near the core is a girl who was chronically ignored by children raising children, who later grew up to regulate the emotional needs of those adult children.

She did it so well that she was regularly praised for being good, and easy, and quiet. She was invisible, and bleeding.

So when someone she was told she could trust said, “I see you. You’re Pink,” she thought Pink was such a pretty color.

He gave her brushes and paint, and he painted her Pink.

Then eventually, she just kept painting herself. She didn’t even need his help. And she thought nothing of it.

When the paint started cracking and burning her skin, she didn’t say anything.

Because she was always so good, so quiet. She didn’t want to hurt anyone’s feelings or make anyone worry.

So she continued to crack and flake and remembered she was invisible until someone else came and said, “I see you. You’re Blue, just like me.”

And she wanted to be Blue so badly, she covered all the old Pink in Blue.

When the Blue started itching and peeling, she didn’t say anything.

Because she was always so good, so quiet. She didn’t want to hurt anyone’s feelings or make anyone worry.

So she continued to itch and peel and remembered she was invisible until someone came again and said, “I see you. You’re Red, just like me.”

And she reasoned that if she was Pink once, she must have some Red. Red was so bold. So bright.

So she poured Red all over herself. She stayed up late, chasing the cracks with a brush every day.

And when she ran out of Red to touch up the paint, it cracked, just like the rest.

As she itched and picked and peeled, in the corner of her eye she saw a Green color she couldn’t look away from.

The more she looked at Green, the more she couldn’t stand any of the colors she saw on herself.

So she filled an entire bathtub with Green and submerged herself in it.

She ran to the man in Green and said, “I see you. I’m Green, just like you.”

And he looked and agreed that she seemed Green, and he felt seen.

But every once in a while, the man in Green would worry that her color didn’t look quite right.

He didn’t know why. Then she showed him a patch of pink hidden at her side. She said, “I am mostly Green, but I used to be pink. I hate Pink.” He saw the patch and mourned for her. He grabbed her brush and touched up the paint with a heart.

“I only see Green,” he said.

She loved these painted hearts. She had him cover every pink patch with a painted heart. The man in Green was tired. The paint ran low. He couldn’t keep painting for her in the same Green. He started using other shades of Green just to keep painting for her. The paintbrush burned in his hand. The hearts were now harsh lines. She stopped asking him to paint and she saw that their Greens were no longer the same.

And she concluded she was the wrong Green, an ugly, uneven Green.

They did not match. And they both became invisible.

No paint seemed right.

And she decided that as long as she was painted, it didn’t matter what color she was.

She drowned herself in paint. All the colors she had left. The colors mixed into deep Black.

It dripped off and left a sticky trail behind. She tried to wash it off, but it clung to her like tar.

The man in Green found her hiding and said, “How awful. You had such a beautiful Green full of lights and darks. You need a painter. They can fix this.”

The painters looked at her, and all they could see was Black, such an awful dark Black you could not ignore — but for once, she was seen and it overshadowed all other colors.

Bit by bit, she covered herself back with Green. It was her favorite color.

The girl—now a woman—would dip herself in the Green bathtub every night.

The paint was bumpy and uneven, and it never fully dried.

Some of the wet paint would slide off, and you could start to see the other colors underneath.

One day, the man in Green saw the patch of old color and became distraught.

He saw the Green, and the Black, but he also saw the Pink, and the Blue, and the Red.

He cried out, “You lied to me! You’re not Green. You’re Red, and Blue, and Pink!”

And he disappeared from the woman’s sight, somewhere nearby in the dark.

The woman, so weighed down by layers and layers of paint, could hardly move.

She did not go after him.

Instead, she began picking at the paint again. She peeled it away in chunks.

The paint had fused with her skin, and she bled between the cracks.

She couldn’t tell the difference between Red paint and blood, between Blue and Green paint and the bruises from carrying the weight of so many layers.

Her skin remains stained with all the colors she’s worn. She is exhausted.

In time, the man in Green returned, but now he was flaking too, silently, just close enough that she could almost see him clearly again.

But he can’t rub away her stains, and she can’t touch his.

They don’t paint anymore. All the brushes have been thrown away.

Yet sometimes, she still wishes they could paint tiny hearts on each other, so softly no one else would see.