I recently traveled to Chicago with my grandma. Once again, I felt grateful for my situation. I have a support system, a family, safety and comfort. Many people with issues similar to mine do not have those luxuries. I was reminded of the “Good Samaritan” parable in the Bible. The story I was told cannot be word-for-word because I was not taught to take everything literally. The “cliff notes” version is that a man lay by the side of the road and no one stopped to help him. No one paid him any attention. Some purposely did not acknowledge his presence. If they could not look upon him, they would not be obligated to come to his aide. Authority figures passed by. Religious leaders turned their heads. The man’s own people did not stop. A complete stranger halted. A man later titled the “Good Samaritan” rescued the struggling man.
I have not traveled much in my life, but I have met people who live under bridges in tents. I have seen citizens of large cities lying on their backs, possibly dead, unbeknownst to the public. No one stops.
This week, I encountered a particular woman on the street who was obviously suffering from the inside out. It was clear that her head was at full capacity and without her complete control. She talked to voices invisible to everyone else. I wanted to tell her that I know how she feels, but that isn’t true.
There are homeless people on almost every block: begging, sleeping, drinking. Does anyone have a bottle of water to spare? A cup of coffee? A blanket? French fries? A twenty in cash? When we have cash, we say we don’t. Who needs it more?
One does not become an artist overnight. It takes work, patience, dedication, and passion. For example, painting. Many people believe that a painting can always be finished in one sitting. I learned over the years that sometimes that won’t yield a masterpiece. Hence, patience. Sometimes it takes months, years even, to finish. We are not finished with a painting until it is finished with us. Dedication. You must often step back and see clearly where your work is taking you. If you are not passionate about your work, it often goes unfinished.
When I was in the fourth grade, I spent my Thursday afternoons in a studio above a frame shop learning to create art, striving to be the artist I so desperately wished to become. The beginning was so frustrating. On paper, nothing looked at all like it did inside my head. I kept pushing, trying to be a Realist. Apparently, that is the kind of artist I clearly was not. I was frequently angry with myself, yet Thursday remained my favorite day of the week.
One day, there was an art exhibit. All of my fellow artists and I participated. I won second place for a sculpture of a mermaid, and someone bought my drawing of a dog for $12. I browsed the exhibit and saw many other works of art. This was a very special day. I was drawn to a particular painting. It was Abstract. My eyes were finally opened as I realized that art did not necessarily have to look real. It can flow through you, picking up your emotions and carrying you to a place far away. You can lose control in this space devoid of any other soul, with no sound other than the beating of your heart and the blank canvas awaiting instructions.
I offered the artist my $12 in exchange for the painting, and she told me I could have it for free. It was the first piece of artwork I had ever owned created by another artist. That painting introduced me to a whole new world of art, and I have never looked back. I could finally paint the feelings inside myself instead of recreating a bowl of fruit.
The painting hangs on the wall in my living room. It serves as a reminder of the discovery I stumbled upon. This was the beginning.
Filling rough drafts with bright colors comes naturally to me. I prefer to be alone while I paint, with no distractions. When I step back to read my paintings, I discover how I am feeling. I realize the state of being I was experiencing while the paintbrush led the way. I find pieces of myself, and am truly in touch with my soul. Over the years, I interpret and discover different emotions, characters, and colors I had not noticed in paintings I created long ago. My paintings are alive, and continue to live throughout my life.
I did not realize until it was noticed by my psychiatrist, that I associate feelings, objects, numbers, and everything else with colors. The number thirteen is blue. Tuesday is yellow. Wednesday is green. When my slumber is interrupted abruptly, my brain feels covered by a yellow film surrounding a red headache. It never occurred to me until pointed out; I have been coloring my feelings. That has been the case all throughout my life. Perhaps those colorful feelings are the reason I am swimming in an artistic pool of creativity. I have strayed from the studio above the frame shop, though I know that is where it all began. Sometimes frustration leads to practice. Practice does not always make perfect, but you have to start somewhere. Follow the paintbrush.
I suppose I have been dealing with mental illness in some form for the entirety of my life. I have been climbing the cliff for a long time. The path set before me has been challenging, to say the least. As a child, I was shy and quiet. I rarely smiled in public. Memories change and twist as years press on, but looking back I wonder if I had the energy to smile. Possibly I hid my battle deep inside, away from the eyes of those looking on. I had a happy childhood, no complaints and no regrets. I had no reason to frown, yet my face was frozen. Leading up to my first bout with depression, I cried myself to sleep every night. I didn’t recognize what I was up against.
I was usually a happy kid, though I was often sad and angry. My little sister, Jessica, had a bedroom next to mine. We fought a lot. After an evening fight, we would wake up the next day and forget the reason for our discord. The point was moot. We share a deep connection, and love each other unconditionally. She would come to my door at night, hearing me weep. She was concerned for me, as always. I turned her away, even though she only meant to help. I wanted to be alone in my grief over intangible issues. Years flew by like butterflies drifting in the wind, fighting for their lives. What happened? Who was I? Who am I now?
I am curious about how different my life may have been if only I were not born this way. When I ponder this topic, I realize that I was born this way for a reason. Without my experience, I could not help others. If there were a cure, I would not entertain the idea. My mental illness is not who I am, but it is certainly part of my identity.
I think about that shy and quiet little girl. She was sad. She was anxious. She was young. She was brave. I am no longer shy or quiet. I over-share. I ramble. I repeat myself more than often. That little girl travels within my heart and I will always protect her. I hope she would be proud of me now. I opened my mouth and let out her story. Now, I smile.
I have returned! Sorry to keep you waiting. Here is a short story about a tiny friend of mine. I hope you enjoy it!
This is a true story. Mostly.
Once Upon a Time…there was a very full queen bee. She had the potential to produce more worker bees to work in her hive, and also to deliver very few daughters. She would die soon after giving birth. Her female children fought to be the next queen. One lucky worker bee would be chosen to mate with the reining princess, and the competition was fierce. During this life cycle, the female champion and heir to the throne was named “Honey.”
You may not know this, but male bees are aggressive. They can be bullies, and can really damage each other when fighting for a cause. They are territorial and protective of family and friends, and brutal in a fight for the queen. Others try to fly under the radar and not make waves. They want to live peaceful lives away from confrontation. However; this cannot always come to pass. Bees who stray from the hive are found and punished. The male bees swarm around the “traitor,” and harm him in ways he doesn’t deserve.
There was a bee named “Harold,” and he was my friend. He was always getting into trouble, but not intentionally. He wasn’t interested in competition of any sort. He kept his head down, and tried to live unnoticed among honey suckle trees. He sometimes got so drunk guzzling the trumpet-like petals, holding them to his face and pouring them into his mouth. He hitched a ride home on my fingers. He was in no condition to fly home under the influence.
One day, I walked outside to witness a struggle for survival, as Harold found himself caught in a spider’s web. He was so afraid and spinning faster than I have seen a hummingbird’s wings. Around and around, trapping himself more completely in the web. I know, I should have let nature take its course, but I couldn’t bear to watch him suffer, so I disrupted a very angry spider’s dinner plans. Very gently, I separated Harold from the web, but the silk was still attached to the little fellow. With powers beyond my understanding, I was able to miraculously pull the web from Harold’s body without smushing him, and then he gratefully flew away from his imminent doom.
Bees don’t live very long, and Harold knew that he had few chances to complete his bucket list within his short life span. He wanted to see things, do things, and meet kindred spirits. Harold had always wondered what tubing down a river was like. I was tubing on the river one day, and he landed on my lips. I had my mouth closed, so he sat there for a minute, then flew off. Bees are my friends. They often protect me from wasps. Harold took risks that nearly landed him in an early grave. Along the way, he met a very nice butterfly named “Hilda.” Harold had fallen so in love with “Honey,” as all the male bees were chemically attracted to her. He knew he had little chance to win her heart, so Hilda gave him some dating tips. She whispered them, so I don’t know what advice she gave him, but unfortunately it did not go over so well. He joined the group of competitors fighting for the opportunity to expand the hive. Harold was not well received. The other bees beat him down so forcefully that his wings fell off and he tumbled to the ground. I ran outside to stop the fight, scooped Harold into my hand and took him into our laundry room, which has huge windows and lots of light. We had a view of the swarming bee bullies waiting for him outside. Eventually, after Harold had calmed his breathing, urinated on my hand, and accepted his fate, I understood that I couldn’t keep him inside forever. I brought him outside, away from the bees who meant him harm, and placed him with his honey suckles. He guzzled a whole trumpet of nectar, and died peacefully moments later, drunk on honey suckle juice.
I know this isn’t a happy ending, but it’s the circle of life. Harold taught me that we should all compare our life spans to the moments of a bee. Having much shorter lives give bees more reason to live in the now and to cherish every moment. We can learn from Harold. Enjoy life; love your family and your neighbors as yourself; do not take anything for granted. We don’t know how our lives will end or when. It is best to spend that time wisely.
I love Friday the 13th. I was born on the thirteenth of January. Thirteen is my favorite day and color, and a lucky day for me. If I had a cat, he would be black with green eyes, but my husband is allergic. We settled for a “cat-size” black dog with brown eye brows. We love him better, anyway. Many people associate this day with bad luck, superstition, and black cats with green eyes. They approach the day with trepidation. It reminds me a bit of the misfortunate children whose parents denied them the pleasures of trick-or-treating and Harry Potter. I also see this day as a chance to binge watch scary movies and stay inside with pizza, away from imminent doom. When we watch scary movies, we enjoy the darkness the characters experience. We tend to believe, “That could never happen to me.” Never say never. It is a day to ponder why the “bad guys” became bad guys.
The roots of many “villains” are often overlooked. There are trees tall enough to spout volumes about how the “bad guys” weren’t all bad. The “good guys” take precedence, and the criminals are instantly evil, with no back story. Frequently they have untreated psychiatric illnesses and are deemed incompetent. Many “bad guys” are committed to asylums (an antique term for a psychiatric hospital). Incompetent. Committed. From experience, I know how frustrating, infuriating, and painfully heavy those words are, and how much smaller the room. I think that “villain” is a tough label to give someone you don’t understand. I know how it feels to struggle, and how your brain can at times explode with rage. Every villain has a story. Everyone has a story. Everyone. No matter how short, long, exciting, adventurous or boring. Friday the 13th can be just another day. The beginning of the weekend, a break from hard work. It can also be a special day to test your own competence and to feel compassionate toward others. Cuddle up with your black cat, and keep him inside. Today, do not let him cross the street.
–SJB
*I will be taking a break from publishing blog posts, no more than two Fridays. It is not because I have run out of things to say. I am having some trouble with my eyes and will be limiting my screen time. I will return soon. Thank you for your patience!
What is a mother? She is your first home. She teaches you how to breathe, eat, walk, talk. When you’re little, she holds your hand when you cross the street. For those lucky few, she never lets go.
Fur babies are children, too! My mom has four human daughters, and is the grandmother of Logan, Marty, Ed, Murphy, Beans, Nugget, and Gizmo (four dogs and three cats).
I am a dog mom. Logan is a dog, but he is my kid.
Today, we celebrate moms of every kind. Thanks, Moms!!
Once upon a time…there was a caterpillar named Hilda. She had no close friends in her community. Her friends had all abandoned her because she was still a caterpillar and they had moved on to the next phase. The butterflies there had deemed her “abnormal,” mostly because she was still a caterpillar and possibly would be for the rest of her life. She thought something must be wrong with her, because she was “different,” and “different” is scary to “normal” people. They locked her up in a tiny box. She didn’t know how long she was in there. Hours? Days? Months? The days bled together. It was a space too tight to build a cocoon. Hilda had tried to be normal and to act the way other caterpillars acted. She tried to be popular. Hilda’s goal as a caterpillar was to be such a beautiful butterfly that others would desire wholeheartedly to be her friend. Several groups of friends had pushed her out or moved on. There was trivia, writing groups, game nights, and hero quests. Everyone shut her out and she ended up in this box, confused and alone. Hilda’s real friends all lived far away. Sometimes it struck her in the gut when she realized she might not see them again if she never made it out of this box. Hilda began to believe that she built this box around herself to prevent inevitable heartache.
Hilda learned a lot in the box as she accepted defeat. She had searched for every possibility of escape. She began to know herself better than anyone ever could or would again. Hilda was changed. She was not a butterfly and would never sprout wings, so she settled in and succumbed to her dark captivity. One day, her situation altered drastically. There was a sliver of light peeking through a corner of the box. Had it been there long? Why was it here now? Seeing that light instilled hope inside Hilda. Was help on the way? She shielded her eyes, as they adjusted to this new development. Next, the walls seemed to crumble and fall away. The caterpillar felt a strange tingling between her shoulder blades. Was her period of solitude falling down around her?
When Hilda could see all she had been missing, the first pair of eyes she saw were her own. She was looking into a pond of fresh water. How did she get there? Surely, she had not crawled. Maybe she was so glad to be outside that her tiny feet started moving and never wanted to stop. But how had she gotten to this place so quickly? How far had she traveled? Upon further inspection, Hilda observed the beautiful wings on her back, fluttering in a soft breeze. Now she could visit her real friends. Hilda came to the conclusion that it didn’t matter what she looked like, or what people thought of her. She was finally free, and eternally grateful.
I will be writing a couple of short stories for the next two weeks. Among the stories are segments of grief related to mental illness and feeling alone. While they may or may not be happy stories, I hope you find them entertaining and thought provoking.
