Out of the Gutter Art

Tag: life

  • It’s Cold, I’m Hungry

    It’s Cold, I’m Hungry

    42 Degrees in Fort Deposit, Alabama…

    Going through withdrawals on this night, in the woods alongside Interstate 8; I was a whining, bleary-eyed mess. My boyfriend and fellow addict, Danny, had just stolen 2 cans of tuna from an old country store across the four-lane highway. Night was setting in as he stabbed the cans with his buck knife, spilling tuna juice on the upturned, anxious face of our boxer dog, Spice. She was as hungry as I was, as the kitten, Binky-Boots was. And as surely hungry as Danny was too at that moment.

    We took turns, taking bites from the tuna can with our fingers; we each got two, the animals one apiece. Danny insisted we save the other can till morning, which seemed a freezing eternity away. Whether the longing to get high, the tightness in my stomach, or my freezing feet bothered me more I can’t recall. What I do remember is that dull ache in my feet soon became the most miserable as the temperature continued to drop.

    The rash decision to leave southeast Florida had been made only 18 hours before. We had loaded my 1970 Mach One in a frenzy, stuffing duffle bags, dog and cat into the back seat, and placing electronics he had stolen gently into the trunk. I had given Danny an ultimatum, make up his mind whether to leave for the West Coast with me that very night, or never see me again.

    I knew in my heart: if I didn’t leave Palm City that day, I wouldn’t live another. I had been an addict over a decade, only turning 23 a month before this crisis. In this span of time I my habit (and as of yet undiagnosed Bipolar Disorder) had resulted in a thirty day stint in a locked psych ward, a detox, a month in a Florida rehab and a year in the Martin County jail for Grand Theft. (The conviction stemmed from robbing the clothing store I managed in the Martin Square Mall. But I digress.)

    Getting back to our present dilemma roadside, an Alabama State Trooper has unkindly relieved me of my beloved Mustang when it had died along the Interstate. Danny and I hadn’t been there more than two hours, hood up, debating our next move. We decided we would take the “kids” and hitch a ride to a phone booth. There I would plead with my Mom to Western Union me enough money to fix the car and rent a room till the car was fixed. I would never get that chance because the aforementioned State Trooper rolled up while we were unloading the dog.

    “Looks like an abandoned vehicle to me” he stated, putting on his hat and rising to an impressive height. He continued, “Let me see some ID, the tow truck’s on it’s way.”

    I started to give some lame explanation of my plan, but realized he meant business. In just a few more words he let us know that non-compliance would not only include my car being impounded, but also our arrest for vagrancy and seizing of Spice and Binky. I think he saw visions of himself cruising the town in his hopped-up Mach One with the Boss 302 engine under it’s hood.

    Sigh…

    There was nothing to do but let him tow the car, and within the hour it was hitched up. The driver was “kind” enough to give all four of us a lift to the impound yard where we now unloaded all we could carry under the hostile glare of four or five “good ole boys” sitting on a porch. My shorts felt very short under their gaze, and we shouldered our bags and walked haltingly down the shoulder of the road. I looked back a couple times, longingly, at my prized muscle car behind the 12 foot fence. It probably belongs to Mr. Trooper’s grandson now…

    to be continued…

  • 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…

  • We Lost Her

    We Lost Her

    “Where I was Found is Where I Remain, a Scar on the Ground in The Land of Lost Names”©STMartin2022

    ***Trigger Warning* This post contains adult subject matter such as mental illness and loss of life by one’s own hand***

    ANOTHER FRIEND GONE:

    She is young, strong and beautiful. A gymnast, so good that she teaches the sport to younger girls. Not long out of high school, not quite an adult; just shy of 21. Working an interim job while she figures out which direction her professional life should go- perfectly normal for a young woman…right?

    To all outward appearances Katy seems perky, energetic and happy. Her easy laugh and warm greetings endear her to all she meets; she makes friends so easy. She couldn’t have a bad day; she’s at the top of her game as a young adult…right? I mean, isn’t she?

    I think to myself, what a lovely young woman, she’s got everything going for her. I envy her youth and vitality for a minute, then I’m swept up by her joyful personality. I am now counted as a friend, too. She loves my cats, all animals in fact. She loves all animals. She also enjoys talking about food; preparing it, learning new recipes. She always asks us what we had for lunch or dinner the day before, to the point that I commented once that it was an obsession of hers. I was half joking, and a little annoyed. I realized right away that I hurt her feelings, so the subject was changed and we are fine again, all is well…or is it?

    Then I learn the truth. Katy is not fine, all is not well. She is battling a huge monster, one that I am all too familiar with. I can’t believe it, but now I recognize the signs.

    You see, I was in a locked psych ward once. I was young, skinny, pretty. Going to Community College in Pittsburgh. Happy, lots of friends, getting through my last year of high school. A steady boyfriend. Sure, I liked to party, and it all seemed fine to my folks. But it was not fine inside me.

    I was severely depressed, and an alcoholic: a full blown addict. I hated my appearance, and would make myself vomit to keep from gaining weight. I would think dark and deadly thoughts and had attempted suicide more than once. No one understood , I never let them in. I put up a fantastic facade while I was dying inside. I had been molested as a child, raped at 13, was pregnant at 15 and my Mom had insisted I get an abortion, which she set up the day after I told her. I was so sick and sad, my boyfriend was abusive and I jumped out of his moving car one night when he wouldn’t drop me off at my house.

    At the emergency room the Doctor noticed how dilated my pupils were; the dam broke as he gently questioned me- I told him everything. He helped me talk to my Mom about my drug use, my depression, being suicidal, the whole sad situation. I remember her and I at a Friendly’s, eating ice cream afterwards, how shocked she was. She had no clue. She was busy all the time, so was Dad ..how could they know???

    I really worked at getting well in that stint at the Psych ward. Thirty days of intense therapy and I stayed clean for a few months after. But the mental illness and addiction raised their heads and followed me for another 17 years.

    I’m alive now at 59. Clean, sober and correctly diagnosed as Bipolar. I take my meds and treasure my life.

    But dear Katy is not alive. She took her own bright and beautiful life yesterday. The pain was too much. I’m so sorry, Little Sister.

    I wish I could have helped. I wish you were still alive, just one more day. One more chance to choose living. Because it DOES get better, my dear friend. It would have, and you would have looked back one day, maybe with your new baby in your arms. Looked back over the dark days and thought, ” I’m so glad I didn’t take my life that day. I would have missed all these beautiful days since…”

    You would be so grateful that you waited a moment, said a prayer, told someone you were hurting, made that phone call, put that syringe down, listened to that tiny voice inside saying, ” Save me, please!…”

    Please, if anyone out there reads this , if you are contemplating suicide, please take that moment to stop and think past the immediate pain. Give the future you a chance at finding joy in living. Just stick around one more day, for Katy. For your Mom, or best friend. For your cat, or for your kid brother. For some other lost soul to hear your story some day…

    “When Darkness Falls”© SusanToddMartin WIP

  • 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…

  • Bear With Me!!

    Bear With Me!!

    As I Forge New Territory!!

    Dear Readers and Friends,

    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!!

  • You Are What You ART

    You Are What You ART

    Feeding the Inner Creative

    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.

  • A CLEAN SLATE

    A CLEAN SLATE

    oh so WHITE AND SHINY…

    Waiting for my pen, for my brush. I just cant stand the barrenness of it, stretching of into the infinite distance, saying nothing.

    I cant sit in silence either, in a social setting. I would be awful in an interrogation, babbling mindlessly- wait… not mindlessly. I do get chatty, but I always have something to say. The word “mindless” comes from tapes of a past life, a life that included words like “stupid”, “silly”, “crazy” and “dumb”. I am none of those things.

    It is 26 years now since I was physically with my last abuser, 24 years since my last drink, my last drug. I have worked tirelessly these past two and one half decades to become the real person I am today. It is truly a beautiful thing to be alive and in this space.

    I could wax poetic about my own marvelousness, (after all I am pretty cool…) but I would rather talk about you. You, my fellow human, out there wishing and wanting. I know it’s hard being you. I know you have reasons for not trying. put that aside for one moment, and give yourself a chance to succeed.

    I had someone tell me once, I think it was a person in AA, “Do the next right thing”

    THE NEXT RIGHT THING

    It will be the thing that raises your head up. The thing that makes you wipe your tears away. The thing that you do to believe in goodness again, the goodness inside you. You have not wasted time on this journey, that is not possible, because it took everything that came before to be right here, right now.

    I am really surprised that I feel as good as I do. Years upon years of hating myself, hating my life, hating society. I was angry and hard, and reveled in the pain. It was such a lonely place, even though I was surrounded my all kinds of angry people just like me. We all roared and growled together in our ugliness. I never saw myself surviving, never saw a way out. So I never tried. I believed all the lies I was told, I was a loser, a basket case, a burn out.

    I thought I loved my abuser, my “friends”, my family. I thought I was loved in return. But in reality, I had no concept of love. I thought it was possession, ownership. I had so many misconceptions, and they kept me in chains.

    So what changed, what happened that let me get out of that life? A series of events I never saw coming. A prayer answered that I thought I could no longer utter. A forgiveness so vast and profound that I finally felt the love and acceptance I was looking for my entire life. I allowed my God in. I told him how broken I was. and I asked him to lead me thru the maze.

    That was all I knew to ask. I was lost in a jungle and needed someone to lead me out, into the light.

    That was many years ago, and I have lived thru many heartaches, lost my loved ones, suffered major life upheavals and felt unimaginable pain. Just like we all have. But I don’t hate myself anymore. I am not desolate and lost anymore. I feel the joy of true friendship, and I have learned how to be a true friend.

    Please, my friend, keep pushing on. You will find the light. You matter. You are loved even though you may not believe it yet. There is always a reason to live, just do the next right thing. If you picked that needle up again, put it down again. I cant tell you how many times I tried and failed. But somehow I found a way to try again. You really are worth every effort.

    I would always tell myself , “KEEP PUSHING ON.”

    Please do.