Drawing through my shame

I’ve always felt so much shame about my ability, or more accurately inability, to draw. It was through a drawing that I first realised what it meant to be blind. When, at the age of five, I ran my hands over raised line drawings that I and my classmates had made, only to realise how different mine was to theirs. That moment stuck, like a thorn permanently imbedded in my skin, refusing to be removed. That was my shame.

There have been people who have encouraged me to draw, and for the most part, I have resisted. I grew tired of either being laughed at or being told my drawings were just like everyone else’s. The former hurt, the latter hurt more because it was a lie, and I saw it for what it was. However well intended, there comes a point when your lies to protect a blind child are not enough, because they know too much for them to succeed.

Tonight I drew. I drew a house with trees. I drew a dog in the grass, leaning to smell a flower under its nose. I drew for myself, for the joy of trying, because I have a need to learn and to make the things in my head come to life on the page. I drew, and I did not feel shame. I can’t tell you when things started to change. But what I can tell you is that I still can’t draw, but I do it anyway. Not because I don’t care what people think, but because I’ve realised that I don’t have to show what I’m creating to anyone else. I can draw in my own space, on my own time, and never show them to anyone unless I choose to. That knowledge is freeing, and it has allowed me to start undoing some of the shame and the awkwardness that I have always felt.