March 2013
I sit alone with my back to the wall, in a corner made comfortable by my frequent occupancy. Hiding from the other patients in a necessary attempt to acquire time for myself, I have donned my favorite hooded sweatshirt; I wear it every day and feel safe within its confines. They took away my sandals due to their buckles. I now wear soft, lightly treaded slippers in a shade of magenta. Little did I know I would be wearing the nasty things for the next six months. A sketch book lies in my lap, so close to my heart it may as well be glued to the spot. Colored pencils are near. I raise my hood and begin my day, blocking out the world to sink into my own mind, wishing never to return to this living hell.
***
I had a beautiful childhood, but toward adolescence I was an angry, sad twelve year old; I experienced depression at an early age. I hid that part of myself craftily. I had perfect grades, friends, extracurriculars; yet, smiling was difficult and noticeably rare. I loved to run, to escape, to experience freedom. I read many books, played outside, and my sketchbook was always close. My dad taught me how to draw. I fell in love with art. When I was in the fourth grade, I anxiously awaited Thursday afternoons; I joined other young artists for lessons in a quaint loft above a frame shop. I smiled. Art became my outlet.
When I was fifteen, I experienced my first bout with mania. I painted and sketched and wrote such wonderful pieces of art. My mess created masterpieces. Through the chaos, my skills expanded and art became therapy.
In high school, I honed my artistic roots and attended a performing arts school in Savannah, Georgia. Four years of visual arts training taught me that there is always room for improvement, and sometimes when you think you are finished, you have just begun.
After five years of college, I graduated with a bachelor degree in Fine Art. I was immersed and well-rounded when I finally surfaced. I worked in a grocery store; I was a professional babysitter and nanny; I was an assistant teacher; I worked with handicapped children.
Under pressure, without the right combination of medications, and an absent psychiatrist, I cracked and continued to break.
***
March 2013
The security guard confiscated my colored pencils. Too sharp. How upsetting to lose partial freedom. They believed I was “a danger to myself or others.” I was given a coloring book and crayons, as if that were a fair trade. I am not one to follow trends or benefit from the work of another. Why color something I did not create? It feels like renting a house: pouring money down the drain to stay afloat when you could have been paying a mortgage and working toward owning a place of your choosing. I am irritable today. Sometimes I blackout. I say things, then snap out of a daze; I do not remember what happened or the offensive way I treated someone without conscious knowledge. Today was a bad day. I blacked out and angered a huge male patient, emerging from my haze and into danger. He attempted to hurt me; he punched a hole in the wall. He created a hole in my corner, just as I exited that scene. I was whisked away. I have lost my safe space.
***
Dating back to my childhood, I have created safe, comfortable spaces for myself. My mom calls them “nests.” I built them in the exposed roots of massive trees, curled up in blankets on the windowsill behind the couch, in a handmade tent, in my own room. When my nest is challenged or destroyed, I feel as exposed as those roots. I have always found a haven in which to shut out the world and spend hours alone, thinking. The day aforementioned, I lost my corner. Weeks later, I also lost my hooded sweatshirt. I was naked without it. Now, there was nowhere to hide.
***
March 2013
My head is pounding. Where am I? Did I just undergo brain surgery? No, my brain was electrocuted a couple hours ago. A last resort to raise me from the dead. I guess this is what some call the “after burn.” It aches. I’m exhausted.
Where am I? Do I have to eat that? No, I do not want to take those meds. You are trying to poison me (delusion). This is a nightmare.
Search high and low for the sweatshirt you misplaced in the laundry! Give me a sketchbook! Include the colored pencils!
***
When I first began my relationship with the realm of art, I realized how frustrating it could be when the images in my head did not transfer to the canvas. Years of experience taught me that practice does not make perfect. The greatest lesson is this: never will your work be finished, just as you will never stop growing and changing. My story begins here, but my journey continues.
***
–SJB