Out of the Gutter Art

Tag: bipolar artist

  • It’s Cold, I’m Hungry

    Crossing the Mighty Mississipp…

    …wasn’t easy on foot, with a brindle boxer, calico kitten and Danny.

    Fortunately, before we got a few miles out of Fort Deposit, an 18-wheeler rolled onto the shoulder. Although my recollection was challenged by a bad case of the heebee-geebees at the time, and many years of hard knocks since, I recall a strange exchange of words. The skinny driver had one good eye and a drawl, and asked how we thought we’d get a ride with a stupid dog. Maybe he let us get in as a source of entertainment, but he let us all pile in. In retrospect, I’m sure he was jacked as high as 4 blue Aces; at the time we had no trepidation at all. Spice was all wiggly, wagging her stump of a tail and slobbering; she was quickly settled on the floorboard, while Binky burrowed further into my sweatshirt.

    °Z

    Danny wasn’t keen on leading conversations. He was a quiet, contemplative man. It had been less than a year since I’d gotten out of jail; he seemed content to exist in my orbit. I was quite a handful in those years before a proper diagnosis and medication regimen. Bipolar Disorder was previously known as Manic Depression, and my brain loved to latch onto the mania. (One of my nicknames was “Runs With Scissors”.) In this instance I was chatting my head off to our new trucker friend. We got underway, his truck shuddering as he skipped a gear or two pulling onto the interstate.

    The ride was rough, this was no tricked-out big truck. I forget what he was hauling, but I remember bouncing around the cab over the poorer sections of pavement. As the engine roared and belched, conversation became impossible. I dozed on Danny’s shoulder as the miles slowly crept past.

    Half a day later we rolled into a truck stop, gassing up before the Mississippi River Bridge. Our driver showed some extraordinary kindness. Buying a bunch of hot dogs, peanut butter and bread, we had a veritable feast. The temperature really dropped that night, and he made us get out while he slept a few hours. He may have been generous- he was also careful. Near daybreak he suggested we all stretch and use the restroom, as he wouldn’t be stopping for a while. He said something about “the bridge”; it really didn’t seem important at the time…we loaded up and held on.

  • Carl, the Wolf Spider

    Carl, the Wolf Spider

    And other Random Thought Balloons

    My Recent Mayan Doodling

       Do you ever wonder if you are sane? I do. Quite often. It’s really relative, if you think about it.(and I do). Because I do have relatives with dementia. But that’s not the “relative” I am referring to. (See what I did there? Pretty clever play on words, eh?)   Reality, Sanity, Imagination, Unreality, Insanity. Don’t they all really depend on what we define them as? Sure, a learned man, a psychologist, these folks really know.

       But for me, inside my mind, I only worry when I have trouble thinking about things. Things in my daily life that other people in my world seem to be able to do, things I struggle with. Bills are a bigee.  Huge issue. I can see the amount I have in the bank, but I just keep sending payments without looking to see if I used all the money up. Like, if I don’t look, then maybe the money will magically cover the payments!

       I don’t think that is sane. Nor is buying ice cream knowing I will eat the entire container, no matter how sick it will make me, which will , in turn,  cause me to be angry at myself. Round and round the Insanity rolls.

    “A THOUGHT MONSTER ESCAPES”

       Do other people dwell on every interaction with other humans they have ever had on a given day? Repeating the scenario and mentally kicking oneself over a mispoken.phrase, a potentially misunderstood glance? Do others wish so hard for a “normal” sleep schedule but deliberately sabotage their efforts by drinking Mountain Dew and eating 6 cups of popcorn at 3 AM? ( Oooh,.that sounds really good, but it’s only 1 am!)

    “Speaking of Yucky Things” c.STMartin2018

       I rattle off a litany of nonsense during my therapy sessions, right after I go over all my real issues,  mentally making note of what pressing issues to discuss…When I hang up all the important points rush back into my brain.

    “the Many Manic Moods of Susan Todd!”
    My Art Lamp!

    LOSING IT !!

      I am ANGRY that I can’t think properly! I want to blame someone for my craziness. Hereditary,  from Dad’s early onset Alzheimer’s. Or the unknown blood donor whose blood I was given at my birth in 1964. That surely did it! What about Mom’s agoraphobia,  depression, hatred of my Dad? Mom’s mom had Alzheimer’s also, and wasn’t there a crazy Uncle? Wait, I’ve GOT IT: my ANCESTRY goes back to the Plantagenets!! Those INBRED ROYALS!!

       I’ll be ok…I won’t give up on trying to be a wee bit better each day at navigating life. I have to go easy on the me that has had 3 major head injuries, resulting in ongoing vertigo and headaches. Post concussion syndrome is a beast. So are the residual effects of years of emotional, sexual and violent abuse that was perpetrated on the child I was, and still am, mentally. Nor to be taken lightly is my Bipolar Disorder and the side effects of the medicines that decrease the symptoms. Or so many other pain issues I deal with daily.

       When I go easy on myself, and take time to reflect on the beautiful gift of life that God has given me. And the undeserved forgiveness and mercy he bestows daily, then my heart is eased and it doesn’t matter quite as much if I have some confusion each day. I am grateful.

     

  • I Better Put Shades On

    The Master Worker
    ,©Susantmartin’24

    The Future Looks BRIGHT!

       Oh boy, I’m very excited. You know I go thru the highest of highs, then crash to the ground? Well, this time I’m doing something good for my future as a fine artist…I’ve been accepted to study classical art under a great Artist: Eduardo Salazar!! I am over the moon! I know it will take years of dedicated study, but I will soar to new heights.,.All the beautiful images in my head will have new ways to be rendered in my hands, with my new skills, new ways of seeing.

    I dreamed, ALL MY LIFE, to study under a great Artist…now , finally, this dream is reality. I hope you will come along on this incredible journey,!

    The Sentinel’s Prayer ©Susantmartin’24

    Tony”s Shuffle, Fin Average

    © susantmartin’24

  • well, there you have it…

    I’ve been blogging here for years. Fancying myself a regular superstar. But actually I’m not super, I am just Sue, and a regular Sue at that!

    You see, its an odd thing, Bipolar Disorder is. It lies. It tells me I’m so much more important than I really am. Makes me think the world should turn on my command. And this farce is perpetrated without mind-altering chemicals! Inevitably I come to find out that I’m not the be-all and end-all…and pffft…all the air right out of the balloon. Well, whadayaknow. Surprise, surprise.

    Wakey, Wakey!! You are not going to be world famous, Sue. You’re a 60 year old wannabe hippy who was born ten years too late… and your 23 year drug using career kind of put a blip in your wealth management portfolio! Just sayin’…

    Well, anyway, I’ve got my art in 2 Venues here in St. Petersburg this month. At the world famous Five Deuces Galleria, which truly is the best gallery in St. Pete…and simultaneously in the Art at 400 on 23rd Street South, in their show, Metamorphosis. Its the first time their group invited artists in, so I’m happy to be included.

    And my dear friends at The Ryan Licht Sang Bipolar Foundation have our Insights VI exhibition at the FSU campus this month for the first time!!!

    So, Sue, for a late starter you have many, many reasons to be grateful. And after writing this I do feel kind of special, kind of cool… Rock on…

  • Faces I see, Dreams of Me

    Faces I see, Dreams of Me

  • The Inside Voice

    The Inside Voice

    What is She Telling Me?

    Can You Hear Me( INSIDE VOICE SERIES)© SusanTMartin 2023

     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.

  • And Her Name Is…

    And Her Name Is…

    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.

  • Cruelty to Humans

    Cruelty to Humans

    Oh, Woe! To the Earth and the Sea!

    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.

    Self Portrait, Pastel, ©Susan T. Martin

    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.

    Step into the Light, my friend…