My mother told me that I filled the house with stones, shells, feathers, dead insects found around, dried lizards, beetles, … I could be a naturalist but I didn’t like it. I found those things and thought them beautiful and put them in boxes and our salon looked like a museum. My mother prefers knick-knacks and porcelain objects. She wanted me to paint pictures for the living room and she wanted them dark. It was always an argument with her because she didn’t like what I did. She wanted “still lifes” but I painted living things. Then I put the rolled up painted fabrics, sometimes I threw them away, when he criticized me and made me angry. I threw a lot of things that I kept in my room. I then took some of them to my house afterwards. But then I burned it all because they were bad memories of anger experienced because of him. When I was sick I painted. It wasn’t therapeutic. After that I felt drained and weak. My energy was all gone into the painted canvas.

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