I WANT BLANKETS

When I was maybe 15 years old, my brother and I both slept on the third floor of the family home, his room next to mine. One nasty winter, we were freezing cold up there -- particularly because my father turned off the heat at night. We went to my dad and complained.

"Could you leave the heat on?" I asked. "We're freezing on the third floor."

"Too bad," my father replied. "Heat costs money."

The cold didn't bother him. Dad was on the second floor, and he had a massive down-filled duvet on his bed. My mother had her own separate bedroom.

"Well, could you get us blankets, or something?"

We each hardly had any blankets at all -- thin and nowhere near adequate.

"Buy your own blankets, if you're cold," my father answered.

He laughed and his eyes sparkled throughout this brief conversation, as though this were the funniest situation in the world. We were being very silly. Why should we expect anything from him? And really, it was a good question. Why should we expect anything from him at all? For that matter, why should we expect anything from either of our parents?

Eventually, I bought a massive old TV -- the kind that runs on vacuum tubes. When it was on, it ran hot. I used this as a furnace to heat my room. And I probably bathed nightly in dangerous levels of radiation.

When the TV wasn't good enough, I saved up some money and bought a small electric heater. My father complained a little -- this was going to raise his electricity bill. But he wasn't about to take away something I bought for myself.

I don't know how my brother dealt with the cold. In our house, it was ever child for themselves.

* * *

I'm still thinking about want.

I want things from people. But telling people what I want is risky. It makes me feel vulnerable. So I tend to keep my wants to myself, inside of me. Sometimes I bury the want so deep, I can't figure out what I want anymore. My own desires get lost inside me.

The very question, "What do I want?" sends strange chills through my body. The question is alien. Bizarre.

Say I actually figure out something I want, and I express it to a person. What could happen? I can only picture worst case scenarios.

They could scream "NO!" and my want would be destroyed. Just like that. Their denial makes the want go away, back inside, as though never expressed.

Or they'll take my want, and be overjoyed. "Of course I can give you what you want! We could do this, or this, or this..." They'll lay out all kinds of plans and possibilities.

And before I know it, my want is gone. Now it's their want, and I've lost control of it.

Either way, my want is lost.

That's why I usually keep my wants inside, unexpressed, entirely my own. I don't want to risk them in the hands of others. People can't be trusted.

* * *

Recently, one of my brothers complained to me that I had it easier than him. I'd got things from our parents that he never got.

"Really?" I asked, startled. "Like what?"

"Your computer," he answered.

This shocked me. Apparently he didn't know how I got my Commodore 64. I delivered newspapers and saved every penny I got. When I had enough money, I bought the computer. I hooked this up to my clunky old television. Then I saved every penny and bought a disk drive. Finally, I saved and bought a used C64 monitor from a friend of mine. All of this took a very long time.

My parents didn't buy it for me. And the same goes for any other computer I've owned.

I used to think of saving up for the computer as a valuable lesson on being self reliant. Now I realize I am self-reliant to a fault. I would much rather suffer silently, secure in my isolation and misery, than ask anyone for help, than tell anyone what I want or need. Other people cannot be trusted.

After all, when I had my first migraine -- complete with visual distortions -- I turned to my mother for help. She panicked and assured me everything was fine. Just lie down for a while, and it will go away. Mom made asking for help seem utterly pointless. Worse still, she made me not trust my own senses. Mom insisted things were fine. Things were not fine.

It's like that old joke, "Who are you going to believe -- me or your lying eyes?"

It got to the point where I stopped believing my own eyes.

Asking my father for anything was just as futile. If it took up any of his time or his money, I could forget about it. When he had to buy me a new bed, it turned into a strange farce -- what was the cheapest thing on the planet that could still be called "a bed"?

This was the same man, after all, who refused to mow the lawn, do the dishes, or help out with any other chore.

"I pay the bills," he said. "I pay the mortgage. Why should I do anything else?"

There's a rule in our family, among us kids, that pretty much says it all. The rule started when we were young, and it's even more important now that we're adults.

That rule is: DON'T TELL MOM AND DAD ANYTHING.

Because mom and dad won't help.

Maybe it was more than just every child for themselves. In our family, it was every single person for themselves.

* * *

I'm completely obsessed with sexual deviance and sex offenders. I have been for a long time. I paint their portraits, I read about them in books. Why the interest? I've never really been able to figure that out. Until now.

These people have wants that are taboo. Their wants are embarrassing, sick, disgusting. They are not allowed to want.

My own sex life is pretty plain. I'm as vanilla as they come. But I grew up in a world where my wants and needs were constantly ignored. I couldn't get a decent bed, I couldn't get enough heat, I couldn't get blankets, I couldn't get my migraines taken seriously, I couldn't get the attention of my parents. As an adult, I look back at my childhood and I say, "Where were my parents, and what were they doing? How did they spend their time?"

My own desires, expressed aloud, were ignored over and over. They became taboo. So is it any wonder I look at sexual deviants and feel a symbolic, emotional connection to them? THEY can’t have what they want either.

My wants FEEL weird. Almost sick. Even when they're basic, simple, ordinary desires -- like respect, or friendship, or help. Or blankets.

* * *

After years of thinking about it, I've finally put together enough paintings to try to get an art show. I started working on the paintings December of last year. Last week, I handed in an application with the City of Ottawa, to get a show in one of the City galleries for 2010.

Having a show is something I have always wanted. People have been telling me to get a show for as long as I can remember. I've thought about it and chickened out over and over again. Something about trying, for even that much, is terrifying. Why?

Basically, if I want it, I can't have it. That's how it's always been. The only way I can have something is if I trick myself into thinking I don't really want it.

Earning a living at painting and writing is my biggest dream. I'm going to try for it. I'm turning 40 in March, but I'm going to try anyway. It's not too late. As long as I'm alive, I can still choose to act.