As a musician-writer with an adoptive N-mother, I find creative expression most difficult. I'm more successful at it as a bass-player in a rock band. (Not big-time--I keep very busy with it, but I'm a big fish in a very small pond.) I find that being a big part of the rhythm section and focusing on the music is a good catharsis for the 50 years of pent-up anger, hurt, resentment from the verbal and emotional abuse of my mother.
But writing has been most difficult. I do it in spite of her, rather than because of any encouragement on her part. Mother once told me not to ever write anything I wouldn't want someone to read. At the time, she was into reading my journals. I knew that, and would deliberately write entries such as, "I think I might be pregnant." and "I tried Mescaline the other day. I don't think I like it as much as LSD, but it was fun." Neither entry had a shred of truth. I was trying to trap her into admitting she was reading my journal.
Privacy is not something she understands. Secrecy is. She is the most secretive person I know. But in her mind, nobody is entitled to privacy from her prying.
There's also the self-talk that I recognize as Mother's voice. It goes something like this: "Who would want to read that drivel?" and "I can't believe you'd write something like this."
I was only successful in writing for publication (as yet) when I lived a couple thousand miles from her and wrote columns for the newspaper. All the other material remains unfinished and unpublished, though I have good ideas. I'm working on erasing Mother's old tapes, and am partially successful. I was able to overcome the music part, and for that I'm proud of myself. N-mother was a fairly accomplished musician. She quit playing when I started playing piano. I'm not that good at piano, but have developed an affinity to an instrument she doesn't really understand. All if this is in spite of her attempts to limit me.
