Any Woman's Blues_ A Novel of Obsession - Erica Jong [84]
“I was born in a trunk in a silversmith’s shop on Eighth Street,” I began, “to an alcoholic mother, an alcoholic father, and a life of living by my wits.”
I paused and looked out at the faces of my listeners. Where but here can one be heard? If loving is listening, then I was loved, even though I did not deserve it.
“The strain of living by my wits seemed so desperate that I tried in every way I knew to eradicate my wits—pot, coke, drugs—until I could feel nothing . . . nothing but the love leaching through my fingertips onto the canvas, nothing but the ache of my soul moving toward God.”
I shut my eyes and went on.
“It’s a strange thing to start from nothing and make your future through what you do with your hands, your eyes, your brain—although, of course, we all do it. You need to make these constant leaps of faith. You need, above all, to believe in yourself. But how can you believe in yourself when you know yourself to be a frail human being, when you never know when inspiration will start or stop, when you have to wait for God to come through your fingertips?”
I opened my eyes; the room was still there.
“In my clearest moments, I would get on my knees before the easel, open my palms, and invoke God, Goddess, my muse. But always there were days when I could not pray, could not meditate, could not paint; and then I would try to stoke the fires with pot, with wine, with coke—or with my real drug, my main drug: men.”
Go on. Go on.
“Art is a connection, a matter of making circles, a saying yes to the universe. I needed to feel that connection, that flesh connection, in order to blossom. Or so I thought. I needed a man to power my art, to approve it, to give me permission for the hubris of being a woman creator. Somewhere deep inside I did not feel I had that permission. I felt I was daring the gods by being so bold. So I would cling to a lover as if the force came through him, and after a while I would come to believe that it was he, not I, who made the work come true.
“Then, inevitably, he would start to abuse me. Or perhaps I would start to abuse myself. I would give myself over to him, believe that he made the work possible, and I would obsess whenever he went away, lose myself for work, for meditation, for my children, and finally, having given the work away, I would not be able to do it unless he was there. And he, knowing I had given away all my power, would leave me and find another woman who was tougher, who set more definite limits, and who therefore made him feel more secure.”
Now I was comfortable. The words were flowing.
“My alcoholism is a conundrum to me. I’m what you call a ‘high-bottom’ drunk. I never lost everything—my house, my car, my bank account, my kids. I never crashed into a tree and wound up in intensive care. But I did allow myself to be beaten—to seek it, even—and I did allow myself to be raped financially. When I see pictures of battered women in the newspapers, I know that I am one of them, and that but for the grace of God, my eyes could be sealed over with bruises, my mouth could be swollen and blue. I feel like a battered woman. I know that drunk, I have banged my head on the floor till it was bloody, and I know that drunk, I have turned out the headlights and driven home in the dark, hoping to be relieved of the horrible burden of being alive. I know that I spend money like a drunk, fuck like a drunk, seek abuse like a drunk. I know that I would do almost anything for skinlessness, for ecstasy, even if it meant self-annihilation—and sometimes it did.”
I looked into the blue eyes of one woman whose face always comforted me.
“I’ve been a lousy member of the Program. I float in and out. When I first stopped drinking, I was given a great, great gift—a new series of paintings. Then my lover peeled off, and I fell off the wagon and off the edge of the world. I haven’t even put together a month of sobriety. I haven’t even got the first step together. I constantly deny my alcoholism, tell myself that I can do it alone, that I don’t need the group, don’t need a sponsor. I even went