Psychosis took my ability to do art. They don’t tell you that in literally every google search result on the word psychosis. What do I mean ‘my art‘? Well I’ll explain again.
I’m including some old art in this post, because this is still who I am. Locked away in a ward for years. I would give anything just to be back at even this level. This one below and the featured image were done while in Margaret Tobin ward 2020.
Currently I describe my art abilities as at 20-30%. Broken shabby drawing, forms are always wonky and off, I can barely capture anything. I compare myself to who I was right before my accident. My art for those few months was finally taking flight, before falling and being cruelly dashed against jagged rocks.
Of course, what am I comparing myself to? Well pictures speak louder than words, or however the saying goes. Below is me operating at 100%, given however I was wracked with anxiety and art was my only outlet.
There is a lot going on in that above picture. Shadows of the millipedes cast by a cigarette, rendered form describing the rim of the ceramic eye gouged hole, yadda yadda, more specific art jargon.
You see, I can analyze my own art, but what gives? Why can’t I draw like this anymore?
I don’t know. And then I share it with the internet because I’m seeking answers. For someone in the future to feel less alone and confused or for scientists to get their act together! I feel however, that expressing the fact I am nowhere near drawing as well as I used to, can make people pity me.
Of course, this is devastating. Soul crushing. Knowing I’m pitied for merely trying to express facts of my life. I cannot move on in life with having had my art impacted in such a way. Art was breathing for me and now I’m suffocating, and there is no sign other than my vague psychiatrist saying that there will be improvement someday.
But people want an uplifting blog post right? Well my psychiatrist has said there is no permanent damage, but it’s a matter of time and healing.
I don’t know how much bullshit he is spouting but it proves that we don’t understand psychosis. He is no expert, but knows what damage looks like apparently, and knows that I seem fine.
I’m fine. I walk and I talk. I have my personality and my ability to look at my art and know why I did everything. Yet when I sit down and begin to draw, everything comes out WRONG. Just WRONG. WRONG lines. WRONG colors. WRONG form. It’s just off!!
It is so cruel. Yes people lose their legs, their arms, but I’ve lost my brain, a part of me. I have to live every day praying, hoping, for any sign of improvements. Begging, pleading, crying at the edge of misery. Because art meant that much to me. Art was like breathing, like dancing, like singing like playing an instrument. It was necessary for me to be happy.
I will never be able to communicate like in this piece ever again. I have to just accept it.
Knowing I am broken, kills me inside.
I have considered su*c1d3 this week, but am too cowardly. I have to keep living, despite life being hell?
Oh just get over it. Just be more well rounded, people keep saying to me. People that have never felt passion for anything in their fucking lives. My head is doing itself in. What do I do? Cook dinner? Watch Stranger Things, listen to Music, study useless things, talk to my stuffed toys? Continue until I die? It is no life.
No art. No life, yet I still keep struggling. Goodbye.