Out of the Gutter Art

Category: Chronic Depression

  • I WONT GIVE UP!

    I WONT GIVE UP!

    Water Lady, doodle 2023
    Me, NOT GIVING UP!!

       It is a NEW DAY.  I had an epiphany of sorts, a dreaded weigh in at my Doc’s, which blindsided me with the astronomical increase in number! I’ll tell you a rather large secret: I’m only 12 pounds away from the HEAVIEST I’ve ever been.

    “Growth” detail of mixed media painting by me, SusanTMartin2019
    Original art, SusanTMartin2026
    “It’s not the dog in the fight, its the FIGHT in the dog!!”…Mark Twain
    “Crossing the Delaware, Well Aware” mixed media in the Permanent collection of the Ryan Licht Sang Bipolar Foundation 2017
    Rock On!

      Almost exactly a year ago I had a total right hip replacement, added to a my other spinal surgeries, catastrophic falls and lifelong intractable pain. I thought I was so healthy- I had lost 40 pounds on Keto, I had energy and was ready (I imagined) for the surgery.

      Holy Toledo! Wrong answer. The recovery was horrific. PAINFUL! COMPLICATIONS, and an idiot Physical therapist who let my leg fall off the table because all my major muscles on that side had been cut. He told me to lay my leg gently to the side, as I was lying on my back, knees bent. He was there to guard and catch it from overextending. Unfortunately, for me, he completely turned away at the exact time. The pain so intense I screamed and nearly fainted. I already had a grade 3 tear on my hamstring on that leg, with a partial avulsion, which in layman’s terms basically means my thigh muscles were nearly cut through and detached from my butt bones. So already excruciating.

      All this is a preface to the fact that I let myself go and tried to eat my way back to health. Ice cream was my private nurse. Self pity my companion. Doom scrolling, couch-potatoe-ing were my favorite firm of entertainment. Nearly a year with minimal effort at physical therapy, and a fall that totally smashed my face right before the hip surgery. I have turned into a train wreck. I do not recognize myself.

    It was a VERY rough year…

       But I am DONE with that.

       NO MORE!!!

      I rejoined Weight Watchers who I used to lose 70 pounds in 2016. Tonight I tracked my meals for the first time. And tomorrow I’m going to sign up at LA fitness gym. I may not get “skinny”, but, damn it, I WILL GET STRONG AGAIN!!

      Thanks for listening! Join me on my journey!!

    Onward and Upward, Matey! (and DOWNWARD weight numbers!!!)

  • Gone. Baby Gone.

    Gone. Baby Gone.

    The Weight is mine, mine alone. I tried to offer some lame kind of comfort, but I could feel the other pet parents staring right through me...

    .

    A sad situation…

      Pippy herself did not show anger, or hatred; I wish she had. Her gentle, knowing glance as the vets assistant lugged her away unceremoniously drove a spike through my heart.

    “Please take care, ” I whispered, so obviously a vile animal destroyer to the ten plus persons waiting for their babies.

      “WHAT,” the huge matron stopped in her tracks and did a slow spin, somehow holding onto dear queasy Pips in the jostling cage.

      All attention swung in slow motion, onto my horrified visage, the paint splattered clothes just screaming “loser”, “sinner” and “jail her”.

      Now struck dumb in my dismay, I gathered the last tiny drop of spittle I could muster, and in a voice only heard by Pippy and God, I said loud and clearly,

    ” I love you Pippy, and I’m sorry..”

      She heard, she knows and I will carry her in my heart always..

    How fo I say Goodbye?

    CHAPTER 5

       You see, Pippy had some terrible kind of mental breakdown that coincided with the introduction of my neighbor’s cat, Lilly, being brought into the home.

       Almost instantly Lilly pounced on and actively hunted Pippy, terrorizing her. The change in Pippy was swift. No longer social, friendly and well adjusted; Pippy became nervous and unsettled. Hiding, flinching and neglecting to groom. Or, the flip side: overgrooming. To an unbelievable degree.

      Now Pippy would spend hours, every waking moment, actively pulling out her fur. Rapidly, her underbelly was devoid of fur except for a few lonely tufts clinging onto her for dear life.

       Then, when I thought this was the extent of her problems: a disturbing new issue. Out of the blue, on a given Saturday, Pippy had some sort of twitching fit that escalated to her biting at herself and racing full tilt around the trailer. I was also beside myself, deeply regretting my lack of funds to take her to a vet. I called the SPCA to see if they would treat her free, they said, “No, there is no program.” I was at, what I thought at the time, feeling ultimately that I had caused her distress. I alone bore the guilt.

    Pippy knows: it’s me who betrayed her…

      In the aftermath of this episode, Pippy began hiding in the top.of my closet, in my studio. This posed no issue- I was glad she found a cubby hole. Until she refused to come out at all. Not to eat, not to be petted and, most devastating, not using her litterbox.

            To be continued…

    Poor Dear Pippy-puppet…

        I am so guilty…

  • A Message to Myself

    A Message to Myself

    …from a year ago…

     I have been crying again. here, there everywhere. Are these tears sure indicators of a heart? if indeed they are, is it a good one? A kind one? A redeemable one?

     Who knows the answer, but my God. I used to think I knew who I was, I thought of myself at various times as funny, cute, cool. Other times as evil, stupid, ugly. perhaps at the same time

     I just cant find that girl anymore. Perhaps I’m in the Bipolar empty place. the desert I disappear in. Where drifting sand blows over my pale flesh until I cant even find myself. it’s the vacant time that comes when the air is let out of my happy balloon. All the excitement of my recent accomplishments has evaporated, and there is nothing left

    .

     My friend Beverly, who died… she knew when I would come to this place. She was an Air Force Veteran, and she would call me in the morning : “Get up Soldier! Splash some cold water on your face and get over here!” I counted alot on her strength to pull me out of this vapor lock.

    But shes gone, for now.

     I have to find a way out on my own. But then I really already know the way, because she also reminded me that I’m never alone. I always have help. and He is stronger than my heart and knows all things. He reaches down into this dark place to offer me His hand. I dont have to sit here in the dark anymore.

    °Z

     I dont have to be profound, or special. I dont have to be pretty or anything. I just have to trust. He knows me. He knows who I truly am. And He will never abandon me.So I wont give up, or wallow anymore in self pity or loathing. Not now, not tonight. Ok

     I dont have to know my name, or my past, or remember anything except that I belong to God. He sent his perfect Son here to die for me, he loves me THAT MUCH. i know this. And now I feel safe, and loved, and Im not empty nor afraid right now.

     Thank you, Dear God.

  • Where is Captain Jack?

    Where is Captain Jack?

    STUCK IN THE DOLDRUMS…

    waiting for the TIDE…

    There was a song I knew, back in my past life(when I was that other ‘cooler’ girl) entitled “When Will It Rain”. It plays in my head now: I walk on parched ground in my mind, thru a sweltering heat in a huge, empty landscape. Begging for the rain of Creativity to wash this dry spell away, saturate the soil of my aching mind, send cooling rivulets of inspiration into the cracks and fissures…

    In one of the “Pirates” movies, the ship was stuck in the Doldrums. A very real occurrence for sailing vessels, this is a dire situation for the crew as the film depicts. I can imagine their suffering, stuck virtually motionless in the very water that also gave them so much bounty at other times of year.

    Such is my plight as a Bipolar artist. Who knows, maybe all artists, all people, go through periods of feast followed by famine. Maybe I just feel it more acutely, or respond to it differently. This ‘stuckness’ is deadly for me, it frightens me into believing that my artistic talent is gone forever, like a well run dry. In reality, it is natural to experience some down time, it is even recommended to take vacations to ‘recharge’ and ‘renew’.

    I know in my heart that I will be in fire with creative endeavors soon, and I will successfully sail to the next sighted port of call…but my disease tells me I’m dying in this vessel, surrounded by all the paint in the world, and not being able to lift my brush…

    • KODAK Digital Still Camera
    • Passed On©STMartin2010
    • The Hiding Hunter
    • Me, doodle?
    • Susan Past ©STM2018
    • my Isolation Helmet
    • The New Way Home by S. T. Martin
    • MEGAMOONMANIA c.STMARTIN2010
    • peace ever after…
  • A Power Play Please

    A Power Play Please

    Do something! Say something! Move a muscle, change a thought!

    All seems to be running smoothly-till it’s not, and it’s not; right now.

    How? Every thing seemed peachy-‘seemed’ being the operative word here. I seem like I’m young and beautiful-but is it truly the case? It ‘seems’ nice and comfortable outside-until you open the door and the 100°, 90% humidity slaps you around. Then it ‘seems’ like you are dying of heat stroke(which you may actually be if you don’t wise up and dash back inside).

    I have been on this couch for hours. Hours! I wake up, try to get up. Ponder it for a few dazed minutes. Then, with a sigh, I melt back into the blanket, squishing my head into the pillow, praying for alertness to magically reach in and yank me into an energized reality. It has yet to. Although, I must admit I did rise long enough to walk Kleo, feed the cats, her, and me. Then, drawn into the couch’s magnetic field I succumbed again.

    Someone may say, oh, you must need the sleep. Your body knows what it needs. No, I humbly disagree. My body knows how to seek a place to hibernate, sinking into the very fibers if this sofa till only my hands and feet will be left on the surface. Mute witnesses to the me that once was.

    I must fight this lesser nature, fill my mind with the memories of zestful living, long for that movement, yearn for that freedom, strain to break free!!

    When will living feel like less of an epic battle? Probably never. Does that mean I should give in, give up, throw in the proverbial towel? No! The opposite: FIGHT, SISTER!! THROW OFF THAT STRANGLING BLANKET! RISE UP AND FIGHT FOR ANOTHER DAY!

    Whew!! Ok! Ok, I will, I AM! I am motivated, I am engaged, I am leaping back into life!

    In…just…a…minute. Right now…yawn!…I think I’ll just stretch out for one second…just…one…sec…

    • The Bizarre Hunter
    • Passed On©STMartin2010
    • “A Big Beak”(detail)©STMartin2019
    • Susan Past ©STM2018
  • The Hurrier I Go…

    The Hurrier I Go…

    THE BEHINDER I GET

    How true, how true that Pennsylvania Dutch saying is. I squander my art endeavors, rushing from this deadline to that, frazzled, befuddled and unsatisfied. That may be what drove Van Gogh insane, the constant turmoil to do better. I am making the presumption that perhaps the rapid cycling Bipolar Disorder that I enjoy(!) was somehow effecting him, too. Many artists share this mental illness, I know that The Ryan Licht Sang Bipolar Foundation has held Insights Art Exhibitions, to establish a permanent collection of works by artists who are effected by this disorder. I am proud to be one of the Founding Artists of that collection, and proud to know these beautiful people who have done so much to further research in the field.

    Three years, three works of my art in this collection. It blows my mind, just as my art has been blowing peoples minds since I was a child. How easy I forget, and wallow in my mire. That is part of this disease also. The dark days, when no amount of internal dialogue can push me out of bed, out of the bleak landscape in my head. Do you think Van Gogh, or Matisse, or Dali had such dark times? What about Francis Bacon, Pollock, Warhol ?

    Then why do I feel so alone in my efforts? Yes, I’m sure the worldwide pandemic has a dampening effect, on artists as well as everyone else. Perversely, I also treasure the isolation it affords me. No one can chastise my late hours, or visit to be aghast at the paint on my floor, on my walls, on me. I think I need to get out of the house more, go walk on the beach, visit a park. All things strange and alien nowadays. I know this will pass, I have been in counselling and under proffesionals care for my Bipolar Disorder and PTSD for nearly 30 years, I take my medication every single day, because I have been all the way down into the abyss and made friends with the monsters lurking there. Only to find out that they all wanted me dead. I don’t want to be dead. I can fully understand why I did, because this pain is all encompassing. I feel each cell screaming at me to give it relief.

    Not too happy, guys…

    The only thing I can do is paint myself into a painless reality, a utopia of color, a sweet dream of lavender and silk, a field of gold. When sleep won’t come I will disappear into the garden that flows out of my pen, winding its way into sweet fantasy-lands where no one is mean and there is no such thing as loneliness…

  • IN the Mirror

    IN the Mirror

    recognizing my BIPOLAR self image

    “A Big Beak”…by Susan T. Martin

    I’m in “Wonderland” right now. Been here for a week or so. Time seems to be inching by, my head too heavy to lift off the pillow. Not sick physically, I’m just…just…what can I tell you? I have had some unknown trigger going me headlong into a timewarp. Into a place I never ever wanted to return to…

    The Recurring Bipolarism of self image…

    Is the reflection REAL?

    My art, from it’s earliest inception, has contained 2 sided faces. Always compelled to create a smiling side juxtaposed to a moody/dark side. Even before I consciously knew the face was symbolically my own, before I had ever heard of mental illness or anyone called manic depressive illness bipolar, I was painting my double sided inner person. I have doodles and sketches from grade school where this manifested…it was a necessary act to portray my protagonist self this way. This was the girl inside of me, who would soon find ways to hide from physical reality in altered states…

    The inner struggle raged on in imagination…detail of “The Sentinel’s Prayer” by Susan T. Martin2018

    After the traumatic events of my young life had begun, my self-image became warped and twisted. My mental despair manifested itself in self harming behavior: anorexia/bulemia, punching walls, suicide attempts…to this day, nearly 50 years after the onset of the abuse, I still cannot eat without feeling ugly afterwards.

    • Susan Past ©STM2018
    • In Plain Sight/ Insane, Right? ©Susan T. Martin”The Party’s Over”
    What keeps me from total despair when the flashbacks and darkness come is knowing and believing that this WILL PASS. The excruciating pain WILL END. I place this fact very deliberately and firmly into by mind every time I recover from these spells and after years of therapy, medication and learning Faith, I have overcome total despair. To RISE AGAIN AND PAINT ANOTHER DAY!!!!! I HOPE THAT DAY IS today!!
  • It’s Just Me…

    It’s Just Me…

    Not Famous…no where near it… Glad of that, today. Happy inside my little cottage, warm and contemplating making a dessert recipe. Maybe I’ll share it with my Friend across the way, she’s a true friend.

    Thinking fuzzy thoughts about my Mother, Carol, today. Remembering her smell, her feel when I embraced her. The soft place between her breasts where I would lay my head as a child. Mummy…

    She was always hiding…her emotions, her loves, her hates. Hiding inside huge tee shirts and under handmade afghans-waiting for that rotten husband of hers to say or do something kind… Hiding because he was never kind…

    I grew up a cross between the two of them: Needy and uncertain juxtaposed by selfish and unkind. A brutal mix of warring selves, hating myself more than the world, then hating all the world and myself.

    Brittle and broken around the edges, warm and soft in the middle-like a cookie baked at too high a temperature…

    I had run hard, played hard, fought hard and burned out, the crumpled package of me still held a broken and beating heart. My God reached in and ever-so-gentle pulled me out of the fire. He helped me as the layers of the skin I had worn sloughed off, he brought me across vast deserts filled with the skeletons of my broken dreams, over pits full of the venom of self-loathing…He bandaged my broken hands that had beaten down my own hopes, and placed me gently on a bed spread with forgiveness and love. He pulled the covers over me like the wings of the Eagle and He held me fast with ropes of loving kindness…Oh how I love him now, how much his love has filled me. I don’t have to hide, because I am healed, the scars on my face have faded. The scars on my heart remind me sometimes that I have to stretch out further than some to forgive…

    When you work at a scarred and injured part of your body, you have to rub it and work it over and over, over and over to break up all the scar tissue. So when our hearts are hurt it takes working at this loving, working at this forgiveness, working at this gratitude to learn to expand our hearts again…to open our hearts wide…

    Passed On©STMartin2010