Recovery, My Way
What do you
do, what do you do-- if you won’t go see psychiatrists or social workers or
psychologists or any such associated people any longer, but…you still have
issues that bother you?
That’s every person’s choice, how they want to heal, recover, break free, or whichever term frames it best. For me, since art and writing always get to the most honest part of me, my heart and soul, turning to those tools makes sense.
In the early part of my psych drug withdrawal, illness sapped all my energy, but I could sit at the computer and play with previously saved images of my art. What a great way to express my anger, hook into myself, appreciate where I’d been in life, overcome betrayal and disappointment, and begin easing the constant wish to just die already. I shared what I was doing on social media and found that others related and discovered their own messages within my images, which led me to consider more of what I was trying to reveal to myself.
These are
some examples, of new designs with the few graphic applications I have (Paint, and on the
phone, Photo Wizard, and Photoshop Express) followed by the original:
Reckless Psychiatric Treatment Spun Me Out of Control (madinamerica.com)
And now I’ve
expanded that whole idea into writing about how I entered mental health
treatment and systems in the first place. That’s becoming a memoir of sorts, of
my childhood, all the way through to probably now, but I’ve only started
writing that long tale. I approach a bit at a time. Initially, I experienced
troubling dreams around old memories, but those stopped as I became strong in
my purpose. (Dreams are important too! I mull them over a good deal.) I persevere so I can clear the air, for myself. Here’s an excerpt from my
rough draft:
Never like when Mom goes off to her regular job. Dropped at a sitter’s house, I cry so hard I feel it now, but it passes in a while, it goes and then I’m home again, and my sister has balloons, and a cardboard box, and a plan. If we blow up the balloons, stick them to the box, get in, and believe, close your eyes! close your eyes!, believe, we’ll float away from here and into the land of H.R. Pufnstuf. But we’re still here and now in our bedroom, when she shows me the mattress things, on the side, that look like tiny round speakers. Tells me to talk to the fairies, right into those, it’s a fairy line, and when we sleep the fairies will come out of the patch of woods out back and we’ll have wonderful adventures. She knows they’ll come because we put out a glass of sugar water with Dad, in the backyard.
In the
morning, the sugar water glass is empty, but the fairy left a drawing of
herself, and something extra this time, a rock painted like a jewel, tiny lines
and triangles of blues, violets, greens. Max approves from his spot in my
folded arms, my teddy bear supreme, my best pal and my voice when it’s too hard
to know what all the chaos and pain is, or to how to help, but I’m in the midst
of it all.
I’m six. I
tear off a slip of paper, grab a pencil, draw a rock with little bear ears,
bear paws and legs, and I write Max Rock at the top. I hand it to my mom.
This time, during pandemic and ongoing effects of years of meds, and then no meds, is my time to control, to do as I wish. I’m in isolation, me and my cat, and we have what we need to live. What better opportunity to jump into this needed self-healing adventure, I ask? I’m not even looking to heal, but a deep understanding will go a long way in helping me exist, maybe even thrive (?) with clarity about who I truly am.
