Art is my Therapy
Low-lit and cold, each color pops off the page. Lines, erase, color, go. Each piece of paper is soaked in color. As I sit there working on the next piece I can add to my collection. I am an artist but not for the fun of it, at least not completely. Lasered focus on the colors sprawled across the sheet brings memories rushing in as if a storm had just entered my body. Joy, sadness, fear, attacking every corner of my mind. Therapy is like that though, tearing every emotion out and making it public. It is a double-edged sword, it can heal you or kill you. Fun is not the word I would use for art, for me, it’s the only medication I can get. This is the only thing that keeps me from being 6 feet under.
My first experience with art was in my 2-grade prison, well what else did you expect me to say I was 7. Her name was Martha Wallace, and she came every month for about 2 or 3 days. She had the skill to deal with us only as a mother could. The wild horde of small annoying smelly children didn't phase her. We knew when she was here because the sweet scent of spring morning would follow her and she glided in. The tip-tap of her feet and the sounds of trains tracks from the wheels of her cart made my day just a bit sweeter. I remember her first lesson about art was not what people expected. Usually, you get the speech about how “I did the art for the fun of it, and now I have made it my life. Go art!” but that's not what she did. “Every day I get to do something I love.” is who she started, but she had added a “but” to it. She told us that she started art when she was at a dark point in her life and it was almost like therapy to her. My adolescent mind had no clue what in the heck therapy was, so I didn’t care. I just went away painting my little frogs and adding salt so they would have spots. She has passed away, it lingers in my head. It took all 14 years after that day to see what she meant. Funny how life will do that.
It was 2015, we just had my sister's birthday. I still could smell lemon cupcakes and chocolate frost on the counters. The rustling of my bag full of clothing and art supplies rang down the hall. If only I didn’t go that weekend, maybe it would have never happened. As we pulled up the mountain I wondered what this weekend would hold, Fun, laughter? Who knew it would be something more sinister. When I was there, Ron Lolly, my grandfather, would start his year-long rain of terriers. On that day he started to sexually assault me and my younger sister. This was one of the many cracks in my life that art would soon try to fill. For most people their hobby is not their survival tool, it's just a hobby. I .. well, I had to change what it was. When demons would tear my mind into a million wars, art became its peacemaker. Each footsoldier stopped their march as that light consumed the battlefield. Each one either bowed or ran in fear of her. Her gentle touch softened their cold hearts, making demons into angels. My mind would relax as each brushstroke, pen mark, needle hole would fill the art in progress. The whole year and after art had now become my new everyday therapy. Many more cracks would start to show up in my life.
You know when you are on the brink of death. The cold wind fills your lungs as you gasp for that sweet air, but just can't. Your body feels numb, but at that same time, it feels an overwhelming sense of pain. It's sharp and quick, like a hot knife drilling into you. Your eyes start to lose the world, it's blurry, and then you slip into a black scene. Art was my only way to avoid that line of life and death. If you couldn’t already tell these events in my life may have screwed with my mind. I have had issues with suicide and depression now for 6 years. Make it six mates and I could be selling it by the dozen. All jokes aside when you add puberty to the mix it's all downhill from there. All those stupid hormones flooding your body, washing away who you are. When I didn’t draw my emotions, and never-ending nightmares, my mind became a black cesspool of ink and fire. Tearing, biting, scratching, and rotting any sense of reason. For my brain, the extreme solutions, well, were the only solutions. Here's what I can tell you of the 6 times I attempted to take my life, and 3 incidents I ran away; I never once turned to my sketchbook in those times of metal war. I would not allow the peacekeeper to soften the soldier's heart. Instead, I would let those soldiers exterminate my reasoning. They would march on as I chain myself down to the blood-soaked battlefield. I could feel all the blood wash over me, and I was helpless, no I was complacent. I still regret to this day not stopping them. As time goes on though, things must change for the good and better.
You know when you are on the brink of death. The cold wind fills your lungs as you gasp for that sweet air, but just can't. Your body feels numb, but at that same time, it feels an overwhelming sense of pain. It's sharp and quick, like a hot knife drilling into you. Your eyes start to lose the world, it's blurry, and then you slip into a black scene. Art was my only way to avoid that line of life and death. If you couldn’t already tell these events in my life may have screwed with my mind. I have had issues with suicide and depression now for 6 years. Make it six mates and I could be selling it by the dozen. All jokes aside when you add puberty to the mix it's all downhill from there. All those stupid hormones flooding your body, washing away who you are. When I didn’t draw my emotions, and never-ending nightmares, my mind became a black cesspool of ink and fire. Tearing, biting, scratching, and rotting any sense of reason. For my brain, the extreme solutions, well, were the only solutions. Here's what I can tell you of the 6 times I attempted to take my life, and 3 incidents I ran away; I never once turned to my sketchbook in those times of metal war. I would not allow the peacekeeper to soften the soldier's heart. Instead, I would let those soldiers exterminate my reasoning. They would march on as I chain myself down to the blood-soaked battlefield. I could feel all the blood wash over me, and I was helpless, no I was complacent. I still regret to this day not stopping them. As time goes on though, things must change for the good and better.
6 painful years of therapy, mental breakdowns, and tubes of ice cream later, I finally have applied Mrs. Martha Wallace spring scented lesson. I know now how to use my art as a way of recovery. I know it will not be permitted by you but it will help. As my many mind wars are vanquished, and cracks are being filled I add to the collection of memories spilled on a page. Low-lit and cold, each color pops off the page. Every battle every enemy has been washed in color, turning into cartoons and happy memories. Lines, erase, color, go. I am an artist but not for the fun of it, at least not completely. I am an artist to help save me from the false reality inside me. I have made my art my therapy.
