Theyhatedme.
I never understood why. They could have spun my condition into something they could show off—I mean, hell, I had. But they weren’t the brightest crayons in the box, or whatever that means.
It was easier, and more familiar for them to treat me like a dirty, smelly sock. That’s just how things were done in their circle. Shun the one that doesn’t belong and maybe they’ll take the hint and leave.
I would never be the art prodigy they wanted. They could no longer carry me around like some uber trendy Birkin bag and show me off, so what was my purpose? I was dispensable to them; a failed experiment they were glad to be rid of.
From then on, I was raised by the household staff: nannies, cleaning personnel, and butlers—anyone they could pawn me off to. My parents weren’t around much, if at all. They traveled full-time—weeks in Paris, Italy, Norway, luxury yachts and parties—somany parties.
Art and color became a nasty little thing for me to hate because of their cruelty and neglect. They loved it more than they loved me. I grew to hate and fear the world instead of embracing it. To me, my life felt insignificant and unwanted. If my parents didn’t want me, who would?
The only reason I’m still here is thanks to Dr. Cat.
When I hit my teen years, I began skipping school andtalking back to my parents—standing up for myself. I began breaking things, stealing, yelling, threatening them for what they’d done. I became an angry gremlin they feared coming home to.
Their response was to hire a therapist. I think their default was to hire the best New York offered. It was the first time they’d given me the best of anything. Maybe they figured that having the best of the best was the nextbestthing to performing an exorcism. Maybe they hoped she’d brainwash me back to the scared and docile child I had been.
She did not succeed in that.
The therapist’s name was Dr. Catherine Sinclair.
She began coming two days a week, then three, four. There was a point when she started coming daily, almost like a full in-home doctor. She illuminated my parent’s shortcomings and failures, and explained why I felt the way I did and made me realize it wasn’t my fault—but then the plane crash happened. My parent’s jet heading from Switzerland to London crashed.
They died. I was fifteen.
The day Dr. Cat moved me out of the penthouse, it was almost impossible to gather the will. Just ten feet out the door and I had a panic attack. I was so worn out from life, beaten down from my failures in school and with friends. I couldn’t do it. My body felt hollowed out and tired, and I hadn’t even lived yet.
Having my tormentors gone made things fractionally better, but fear of the world had replaced the anger. If I couldn’t rage at them, then what could I do? I had no control. It took me a while to shake off the trauma of the move. I’d spent mywhole life in that penthouse. This was a major upheaval.
Now under Dr. Cat’s full-time care and custody, and no longer needing to track down my parents for consent, she wasted zero time focusing on the very root of my problems. She dove headfirst into exposure therapy through art, which was like diving into a pool of venomous snakes for me.
Exposure therapy, for those not familiar with it, is when you force yourself to face your fears, and not just the cute ones. In order to get better, you must face the deadly, venomous ones. Creating art was deadly for me, like a stab in the gut every time I picked up a paintbrush.
We spent three years like this, struggling to get ahead. I didn’t see how anything could be harder. But then, on my eighteenth birthday, everything shifted again.
This was when she told me it was time for me to move out of the safety of her home and also begin showing my art in public. This was her idea of taking things to the next level. I locked up all over again. I was not, under any circumstance, leaving her apartment to livealone—let alone putting on an art show.
We fought. She won.
PERL was born.
Another tube of paint went into the obscure ‘Bucket O’ Tubes’. There was no point in organizing them like so many perfect artists on Instagram do; with their perfect studios and perfect art. I’d mess it all up. Besides, I didn’t take part in social media. I took a ‘voyeur only’ stance in the game of internet socializing, and I was perfectly happy with it.
When I first bought my townhome, living alone was scary.I think that was the whole point of the exercise. While I grew up ‘alone’ in my parent’s penthouse, someone was always there, like a staff member or cleaning lady. I think Dr. Cat thought moving me out all alone would encourage me to seek companionship outside the home if she wasn’t there. Little did she know, I would grow to love the solitude. At last, my world was quiet, comfortable, and the way I preferred it.
I adored my vintage West Village townhouse. It had a giant library—which now also housed an art studio—five stories, four bedrooms, six bathrooms, private entrances, a small yard for Bill, my unqualified service dog, and a beautiful kitchen where my cat, Mr. Beans, waited for me to drop greasy food on the floor. There were enough spaces and creatures in this house to keep me entertained.
That was all I was ever going to need.
I scratched Mr. Beans on the head as he sat at the top of his cat tree in the window next to me. “We don’t need anyone, do we?” He blinked, letting out a pathetic yowl.
I was a mess of anxiety and depression, wrapped in a tattered black sweatshirt and leggings. My life had not been normal, and I doubted it ever would be. Even though Cat did great, considering the circumstances, I still wasn’t where I wanted to be. It wasn’t normal for a twenty-eight-year-old woman to almost never leave home.
That’s where PERL excelled. As PERL, I could be perfect. Iwasperfect. I was brave, in control, and out in the world behind that mask. The baffling popularity of PERL’s art seemed so surreal, and I couldn’t believe it was all an accident.
When it came time for us to plan how to show my art, we’dgone back and forth over what and where. I would never be the ‘art market’ type, or the ‘set up a booth and stand there’ type. No cute, crowded craft halls for me.
Hellno.
