I am trying to hear my authentic self, which is so buried under old baggage deep inside my chest. Losing a 19 year old friend to suicide 2 weeks ago has shot me back to dire times in my own youth. Knowing that she inhabited that black place I once did makes me terribly sad. It’s such a lonely room, with a locked door and impenetrable windows made of mirror that infinitely reflect your anguished face, your broken heart, your pleading eyes.
Such icy tundra you forge through, never advancing. Biting wind in your face you try to reach your loved ones, who are just ahead. You see them in the distance, you shout at them to wait, you want to be in their embrace so desperately, but the wind whips your voice away; they walk on. You struggle to move forward, but the icy ground and frigid cold freeze you through. This is the feeling of isolation, the inability to share your pain, and the terrible longing for love that led me to wanting to leave this life…
I must fight against these lies my mind whispers to me in lonely places. I wish Katy had been able to fight off the demon of depression. But her battle is over now. I will never forget her.
Writing used to be a source or therapy for me. My private world of imaginary confidences, unseen friends who listened intently and loved me fiercely. I would share my deepest wishes and dreams, safely. A sense of comfort would come from answers to my problems and daily pains, answers that I know came from inside of me (because I’m the only one here, ya know?) but that seemed like they came from a guide. This inner guide is always here, and I’m not talking about my conscience or “higher power”. No, this “inner voice” ususally sounds like my Mom. Mom when she wasnt fussing at me, or angry at me. Mom at her best friend/ Mom best. A sister, a twin… a smarter twin.
I know I can write anytime, any where; I used to fill volumes of spiral notebooks. They are all here somewhere, buried in boxes, closets and sheds. When I got my first laptop thirty (THIRTY?) years ago, I had a private journal. But we artists have such egos, and on some level I thought someone out there would benefit from my self examination, rumination and basic self-pity. So I “went public” with my thoughts. For a while, even perhaps a year or two, I still felt the feeling of off-loading and relief after a writing session. I was honest and open and the feelings flowed out, just as they do in my other art.
“Fleeting”
After a while though, I started getting anxious about what I would write, how much I would share, who were my readers and what content they wanted. Would anyone “like ” my entry? Was I furthering my art “career” or hindering it? was I being too spiritual or sharing too personal information? My writing style, was it easy to digest or too flowery…ad nauseum.
It has progressed to the point now till no longer look forward to sitting down with my imaginary sister, she has disappeared into the shadows deep inside my mind. I miss her, and really need to find her again. I still create my beautiful art, but my poetry voice is silent and has been for a long time. I am filled with a sadness , a longing to share my heart with her. I think she just got tired of my insincerity, always trying to be “ON” for an audience, always trying to impress. I traded my muse for a star that not only faded, it never rose in the first place. And I feel a chill when I see this empty page.
I must find her, see if she will listen when I tell her how much I need her. That all this fandom and chasing sales is a bunch of baloney. Losing her just takes the shine off of it all, and I am all locked up inside a tiny empty box of a mind. It’s a cliche at this point, but a mind is a terrible thing to waste. I always wondered what her name was, this friend who comforts me so, who helps me figure out which direction to take and who gives me that pat on the back when the going gets rough. I know her name now: it’s Sanity.
Oh, my. So much going on in the world today. So many sad stories, War and pain all around us. It can feel so…
HEAVY.
and it is. I feel it, the weight of this life… It’s not killing me today, though. Not like it used to in the Usingtime.
There were days when I believed the pain of living was too much to bear. Days I self-medicated to blot out stark reality; the blinding daylight. Me in my little wormhole of misery, for 23 long years. It’s amazing how, after 24 years of sobriety, I can romanticize the Usingtime.
How beautiful I was that night when, slobbering drunk, I danced like a lunatic at an all-night bottle club. Or, how sexy I was when I fell on my butt coming out of a biker bar. Yeah, that was one to remember. Thank God there was no YouTube back then. It’s seared in the “MeTube” of my mind, though. Yeah, those were the gritty days: searing stomach pains from drinking 151 Rum: black eyes and a broken nose from “talking back” to a drunken ex-husband. Hiding my arms with long sleeve flannel shirts in the dead heat of August, while my Mom visited me for 2 weeks. All I could think about was sneaking my next hit.
Reader, “Is this just a sad, depressed jaunt down memory lane? Cause if it is, I have more problems, more sadness, worse pain than that.”
No, it’s just letting you know there is a way out. A way up. To a higher plane, a happier life, a real life with joy and everything! I needed to remember, to remind myself that I’m NOT that girl anymore. I am a new person with a new personality. God saw my pain, He saw my heart and He drew me to Him.
But I had to hit the bottom. Unfortunately, it is painful to stop using. Very. The light IS bright, and in it all your broken parts are visible. But you can’t fix what you don’t know is broken.
I have finally begun to create again. I was locked in some inner dilemma for quite a while, but then had an epiphany: I must make a move, pick up a pen or a brush. Dab a color on a wall. Move a muscle, change a thought!
So work has started to pour out of me again, and I am pushing to improve. Take myself to new heights . Hopefully in balanced way, but that’s hard with Bipolar Disorder.
I’m flying up to Chicago soon, to go to INSIGHTS VI, the annual exhibition of Art by Bipolar Artists. This is the 5th consecutive win for me, having 5 works in The Ryan Licht Sang Bipolar Foundation’s permanent collection now. I am very grateful and look forward to the trip! I will keep you posted!
it’s always here- even before I open my eyes. Reverberating. Agonizing in it, I try to back away from it, back into my dreams. It is futile. The reality encroaches, angry at being left waiting.
. My eyes reluctantly open, brows already furrowed. I will certainly have that deep furrow between my eyes soon, like Mother had. I probably have it already, just cant see well enough with these old glasses to notice it.
KODAK Digital Still Camera
It is time to arise, fight to my feet, let the outside air in, feed my little animal friends. a day awaits, full of promise, if only I look past the physical realm, into the spiritual. This is a choice, a new choice I will make every day from now on, as long as I am able to open my eyes. will I succeed every day? No, I’m sure I won’t. But I can decide, at any point in my wakeful state, to turn to my Higher Power and ask for help.
I can remember when Sobriety was new to me, and being without drugs or drink felt like walking with nerves on the outside of my skin. The day to day grind seemed impossible, but I made it. For each day of the last 24 years I have made it, one day at a time. I will make it thru this pain , now.
KODAK Digital Still CameraKODAK Digital Still Camera
I have different “visions ” I hold close, no, not some profound spooky kind. I mean real images that I have seen that take me to a calm and happy place inside myself. I had so many horrific experiences foisted upon me in years past that I took these memory “snapshots. One of these is from lying on my back in our Florida backyard, under this HUGE oak tree. Lying there , looking up thru the leaves and branches, to the bluest of blue skies, and the whitest of white clouds sailing past. when I am having a procedure or operation done, I put this vision right in front of my closed eyes, letting it play like a beautiful movie.
There can be no fear or pain then. It cant get in.
Lavender Moon, c.2016STMMoon Halo 2, C. Susan T. Martin
Tonight it was good for me to find this old draft. I started writing it back in 2022, and had left off at the sentence about my furrowed brows. I decided that I can change that narrative, make this post not about pain, but about COPING with it. sometimes all it takes for me to feel better is a teensy shift in vantage point, to where I’m not focused on my reflection, but rather focused on the enormity of this glorious Earth, and the loving Creator who made it for me.
I have new endeavors ahead of me now, an opportunity to start a business, and I am running with the ball this time. There is So much life left to live, love to share and beautiful art to create. Pain is temporary…love is eternal.
Maybe something I have shared has touched you in some way, a good way, I hope. I wish you the very best.
What motivates you to create your art? When you hit a snag, where do you go to get your spark back?
If I’m not careful, when I hit a slump I binge watch murder documentaries… Not good creative fodder. That just brings out negative vibes for me. So what I do instead is watch Art Documentaries. Now, these fire me up! If I watch one about the “Great Masters” then I want tp paint classical images, channeling Michelangelo…If I watch one about The Impressionists, then Pissaro is my guy, or Monet. How about Gaugin, well, the greens and oranges start to flow…Endless beauty, endless motivation…
I’m having surgery on my left wrist tomorrow morning. So I wont be creating much art for a day or so. But I am going to consume a bunch of art. Feed my inner Artist.
Out of the Gutter Art 
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