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…
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.
I’ve had a presence here for a long time. Going on 16 years, which is mind-blowing! And I still havent learnd all I can do here! I wanted, for a long time now, to set up a store where I could sell my art. Something always holds me back… Excuses, lack of confidence…life in general.
I recieved a scholarship for a 10 week “Art Business” course from the Tampa Bay Innovation Center and Creative Pinellas. I have learned so much, and have taken the plunge and registered a LLC. Oh boy. Exciting! and Terrifying! I will have to be all grown up now, and quit farting around!!
So I am starting a whole new site, with a new domain, user name, everything…I will try to still post my “hardcore” art here, all the strange stuff that pours out of me onto whatever media is at hand!
But for my “real” Art Business I am going to make what sells here in Beachy, Touristy Florida. Hopefully I will make it. I will sure try!
I’ll come back here and let Y’all know when the other site is ready, and I will still share my witty wisdom here. Thank you all so much for being here to support me, to listen when I need an outlet, and to be here! Rock On my Friends!!
DID you ever feel so immobilized that you wanted to EXPLODE?!? WELL, I DO!! I am so sick of myself, so tired of being tired, so FRUSTRATED at my own inertia that I could scream. I don’t think it’s “Long Covid” . I think it’s ” I’m a Super Lazy LOSER!!”
(as I look back on this post I see that during this “Lazy Spell” I created all the following pieces!!!
Argh. Maybe it is the Long Covid thing. I hate sitting still, but moving makes me exhausted!! Wendy Whiner on the rampage again. I must get out of myself. I get on a roll, painting my heart out, some of my best work, it’s SELLING! AND Splat! Headfirst,I dive, right into the couch. Any headwind suddenly gone without a whisper of a complaint from Miss Michelangelo… See: Loser.
It will come again, the big Wind from Winnetka…( Those of you who know, KNOW.) And man, when it comes I’m going to paint my little butt off. Before it blows right out of town again. This time I’m going to harvest that energy and run with the ball, baby!! Just wait and see. I’ll get it right this time…Peace-out.
A guy can be going along so well, everything chugging along, when suddenly; the bottom falls out of the world. Just when it seemed like smooth sailing.
Is that shocking to me? Shouldn’t be. I’ve felt like Wile. E Coyote many times. This time was different. This time is different.
Until the day comes that I can speak, I will paint. I will draw. And I will carry the Hurt. But it WILL NOT defeat me.
There are months when I sail along. Then there was April. Ouch.
Work in Progress: The Old Grove
Bipolar Disorder has a whole bag of tricks it can put to use on me, it used all of them. I let myself believe I didn’t need more than 3 hours sleep per night. In fact, thot I, I don’t need to sleep for 72 hours…48 is just too easy!
Spring on the Gulf
I’m so glad I don’t have schizophrenia. I deal with enough psychosis from insomnia.
KODAK Digital Still Camera
I hope to be creating more very soon. Right now I’m working on a little 16×20 landscape , and at the end of April I had entered 5 works into INSIGHTS V. So I’m kind of easing in to new ideas. Let it flow, baby!
Being still is very difficult for me mentally. Having a racing mind is the natural state of being for me, anything else is alien and uncomfortable. If I’m flitting about inside I can leap away from my disturbing thoughts as soon as they appear- it’s a constant dance to keep the wolves at bay. My faith has helped tame the beasts lurking my memory’s deeply scarred terrain, knowing that there is a force for good stronger than the pull of caustic quicksand that daily tries to suck me in.
Here is the divine painting now!
I will dance this mental quick-step until death swallows me, the wounds of prolonged sexual abuse and violence are the deepest kind, years of therapy have given me some tools to offset the devastating effects of PTSD a bit. My Bipolar Disorder causes my synapses to fire differently than “normal” folk, this is proven by science, I believe this is a reason I am plagued so frequently by the flashbacks and memories.
me standing tall at the recent ART HEALS show at The Arts Exchange, St Pete, FL. USA
My art is my outlet to “talk” about my inner world, it facilitates compassion and understanding in some viewers. Others will still judge my moral failings, and when these judgements slap me in the face I am better able to stand rather than crumble.
I recently was assaulted by an attempted character attack, called a liar and thief to my happy face-dashed by a loved one’s belief that I was still the person of 22 years ago when my addiction raged. It stunned me, unhinged me for a time- but I am bouncing back; hurt but not letting these untruths detail my sanity completely.
. This is all I can write, the healing is still in progress. Thank God for my loving friends in high places who know my inner heart and the fact that 22 years of sobriety, therapy and spirituality allowed me to leave that dishonest personality long ago.
A Quote in the INSIGHTS IV catalogueMe and Joyce Sang, co-founder of The Ryan Licht Sang Bipolar Foundation, and my featured piece, Deep Running(framed in an acrylic box to highlight BOTH painted sides of the canvas!)
I will paint and create art that reflects my journey, this soothes my troubled mind and gives me the most relief. Thank you so much for your continued support on my artistic journey
“Salvator Mommy” Savior of Cat’s and Bipolar Daughters, Acrylic on gallery wrapped canvas
The coast seems clear, dare I step out-into the light? I think I must, after my last cryptic and elusive post. Nothing bad happened, artistically. I was uplifted, encouraged, validated. People needed to hear from me, needed to hear how a girl with so many odds stacked against her from the “git go”, plus the things I had piled on myself-how I had teetered at the edge of the abyss…and made it back to tell the tale.
Many are grieving themselves, their pain written in their beautiful eyes, on expertly made up, flawless faces. They searched mine, looking for an answer- “Why.” Why? Why? Had they missed the signs? Were there signs? Hadn’t they done everything, sought the right help, paid the right physician, listened closely in the therapy sessions?
I could only tell them that there was no rhyme or reason as to why I am here and their daughter is not. They did nothing to cause Bipolar Disorder. It doesn’t come from privilege, nor does it spring from want. It isn’t kept at bay with hugs or attention, nor is it fueled by neglect. At least none of this was true in my case.
My family was dysfunctional, true. So were many of my peers families. So are nearly all families. But my friends had not led lives fueled by a burning need to shoot across the sky in a blaze of purple confetti. Or to try to beat the Guiness world record for consecutive shots of 100 proof vodka. Nor had they experienced the kind of despair that left them lost and disheveled in their bathrobe when they were supposed to be graduating college or accepting an award.
I wanted to tell them they did more than my family ever did. That my Mom was the only one who believed that I did not want to be a train wreck. She asked the questions, walked thru broken glass for me and held my hand when the meds weren’t working. But ultimately she couldn’t divert the catastrophe either.
I’m trying to tell you it’s not your fault. Grieve the loss, but don’t blame yourself. I know when the darkness comes over me, it’s no one’s fault. And if I hold on really tight, it will pass. I white-knuckle it many nights, but a new day always dawns.
One day in the future there will not be any mental illness, or suicide. Until then just love your Bipolar person, hold on tight when you can and bask in their amazing glow. Be there when their sparklers fizzle and love them back to their feet. When they jump in their little rocket ships to the moon, put on a brave smile and wish them all the love in the world…till you meet again.
And if you are Bipolar and you are feeling alone, please reach out if you can. Know that you are worthy of love and that this darkness will eventually pass. You will be back on top again. The rain will stop. The sun will shine, the pain will ease. Hold on for dear life my friend.
Out of the Gutter Art 
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