• CocoR

"VISUAL THERAPY"


Hello Loved Ones,


Today I am going to talk to you about a sensitive subject. It's been four days now and I’ve been telling myself hat I should make a post about it, but I find it hard to put the words on my feelings, on my past experience. Today I will explain why my self-portraits are part of what I call my "visual therapy".


Lack of Self-Esteem, of self-confidence, well I think it has been made very clear that I suffered (and still do a bit) from these symptoms. But there’s deeper issue



In the evening we do not sleep we dance, and when we do not dance we think.

Like almost everyone, in 9th grade, I was downhearted. Felt bad in in my skin, bad in my life. I spent my weekends and my evenings reading, feet on the radiator, facing the window, wrapped in my quilt as in a cocoon.

Often, I stood there, doing nothing, my book in my hands, to give the illusion to my parents that I was busy. But what I was looking at was the sky, gray in my memories or black at night.



Suffering, being bruised inside, without ever being able to share this pain of unknown nature. Always hesitate between hatred and deep love, without being able to make a simple decision. Demonstrate an unparalleled narcissism and hate to die. Love to live while being addicted to suffering. I saw black, every day.



I do not say that I wanted to die, although the idea crossed my mind, but I never went so far as to implement it. No, I just wanted ... to cease to exist. And I let myself sink slowly, warm in my cocoon, curled up also inside.

At the slightest human contact, with my parents or my classmates, the emotion overwhelmed me: wanted to cry (since I have in my family reputation for being "hypersensitive"), to escape and especially, especially this terrible fear, this irrational anxiety.

It lasted about two years. My entourage put this on the count of the teenage crisis. Of course, at the time, I did not tell anyone. Mainly because of this feeling of guilt.

Did this come from an umpteenth heartache, was I just completely fucked up? I don’t know and I will probably never know.



Nothing seemed to calm this constant internal boiling. It was at this moment, in a dark period, that my path crossed self-portrait. It did not help me, it got me out of the pit in which I had been stuck for so long. This photo work was also a work on me. In which I could finally see myself as I was, express my deepest emotions, my dismay. I was able to put a finger on what I hated at home, what others saw. I learned to tame and then love what I hated most about myself, both physically and mentally. I was deeply and perpetually sad, self-portrait, allowed me to expel this feeling once and for all. I learned that you had to learn to love yourself before you could love. I realized that it was not outside that I was ugly, but inside.