Out of the Gutter Art

Tag: PTSD

  • In the Arms of Angels: Rise Up

    In the Arms of Angels: Rise Up

    Taking a Memory in a New Direction

    I’ve been living with PTSD for a couple of decades now, many years. Many years… There has been miles of road covered in my healing journey, at times I feel as if I have dragged my body over continents of rough terrain. I am road weary and saddle sore. I have a sense of who I could have been, if my road had been kinder. This does not grieve me as much as it used to, I don’t mourn as much, but I do get caught up in the quicksand of the past now and then. These days I know what tools to use to work myself free, even if I do drag some dirt along for a while. I have a support network to do a deep cleaning when needed.

    But my trauma never truly ever leaves. It just gets rammed back into it’s footlocker faster, and I keep more cinder blocks around to pile on top. When the stink seeps out I open the windows, pull out a fresh canvas and paint till the air clears. Ahh, how clarifying. Washing the walls of my mind with ‘Spic and Span’, that excellent cleanser of bygone days. When the walls of my childhood home were turning brown from nicotine, Mother would open a box, make a batch of suds in a bucket and with some hard work (and many smoked cigarettes) she would turn those rooms from gloom to gleam! (Damn, I can turn a phrase !)

    Some of us are just born ad men (and women)

    Anyway, that’s what creating my art does for my broken mind. So, when this call came out, “Rise Up, Remembering 9/11” I had serious emotions bubble to the surface. My memories of that day are not of one who was there, or who lost a loved one, a family member, a daughter, son, beloved husband or wife, a dear friend or even a colleague. My memories are the memories of collective, enormous grief and horror.

    Detail of Flashback 937

    How could this horror be reframed in any meaningful way? Dare I even intrude on someone else’s trauma to say how I have healed? What could I show, thru my art, that might help someone hurt one smidgen less? I have just come out of creating my most painful work to date…a painting you watched come to fruition here and on IG. That piece tore my heart out and tears are mingled in the paint. This piece was going to hurt to.

    I remember sitting in the darkness of my lonely room, watching videos of the towers, before they fell. Feeling guilty for watching, but needing to see the reality of what they were experiencing. Watching them clinging to window frames as the billowing jet-fueled fires raged at their backs. I was their mother, their wife, their sister, tears pouring from my eyes, mouth open matching their silent appeals for a miracle please GodpleaseGodPLEASEGODSAVETHEM SAVEUS SAVEME!!!

    Detail Flashback 937Reworked

    Then their hand is forced by the pain, or they make their decision and leap…l e a p…into oblivion. I gasp…time seems to stand still as they let go…slowly, they fall, like beautiful leaves in a September wind, suitcoats flutter, white shirts billow, sensible shoes on beautiful bloody feet, top side up, bottoms up, arms akimbo, embracing the darkness rushing at them at terminal velocity. I am them, What do I feel? Do I feel? Will I feel? Bye Mom, bye Johnny, bye Laura…

    I close my laptop, sobbing silently, drying my snotty nose on the bedclothes…I feel guilty,dirty, like I just did drugs or had sex. Was I depraved to watch that? Was it forgivable. Maybe it was like the people who watched me get beat, not calling for help, just watching. No, I could not have helped, no one could. Wait a minute…

    I could help now. I could change the picture! It was like a time machine! I could send an angel! A strong, loving , beautiful angel-radiant and shining- to intercept her in midair! Because that’s what really happened, right? Yes. YES!

    This is Rising Up! A New Direction!

    It is a Work in Progress, and a humble beginning, but this is what I missed that day…this is what really happened…

    *note* John5:28,29 this gives me comfort*

  • Chicken? or Pig? Just Flesh, please…

    Chicken? or Pig? Just Flesh, please…

    “What’s the Deal? Am I a Coward?”

    Where does it Hurt? Unmasking,©SusanTMartin2021W/P

    Commitment to put out my best work…not just work. To push my limits, expand my thought processes…remove boundaries.

    Flashback 937 ©SusanTMartin2017

    I was reading Eric Wayne’s blog , @artofericwayne.com, and he focused a piece on the fine art of Suzzan Blac. (I will refer you to his article and won’t share her work here.) Holy Toledo. The things I allude to in some of my biographical work, the fact that I thought I was being so brave…no. This artist lays it bare…flays it bare.

    She nails the darkest emotions that creep into my nightmares, 50 years after the events. Nothing held back. I admire this work, even if I look at it in secret, as if it’s evil perps can see me, too. As if others can tell that the abuse made me want to hurt someone just like I was hurt. That is the most disgusting part to me, the stain on my soul. That’s the painful truth that I thought my God could never forgive me for…the filthy truth that kept me out in the cold sticking needles in my flesh just to forget for a few minutes…kept me out there for 23 years. I wanted to die, just like I want to kill the perps she pictures so perfectly…

    The Inheritance of Daughter’s ©SusanTMartin2018

    I can’t say I love her work, or even like it, it feels too real to me. It makes me respond like the people I have told my experiences to; that half smile and and nod of understanding while their eyes glaze over with fear and a sort of loathing…like my very words are getting dirt on them. Suzzan is courageous in that she can look her demons in the eye and paint them. Nailing their guilt to the canvas forever. But her pain, her brokenness is palpable and forever on display for both victims and sick minds to see.

    • That Day, Acrylic and embellishment on canvas, Susan T. Martin, 2016
    • Angry Daughter by Susan T Martin
    • Isolationism ©SusanTMartin
    • Reaching Out, Acrylic on Canvas, Beginning Stages, Susan T. Martin 2017
    • “Visionaria”©SusanTMartin2018
    • The Sentinel’s Prayer , stage II,©SusanTMartin
    • The Duck Hunt ©SusanTMartin

    I can’t look too long, and perhaps I should not look at all, for my own sanity. I recognize her need to paint her experiences. I have to also, to get the emotions out and onto the page, onto the canvas where they can’t rip me up inside, at least for a little while. I do this to heal, to repair my damaged psyche until my God repairs me permanently.

    • Inside Voice
    • Cant Quiet Down
    • The Rummage Sale w/p ©Susan T Martin

    I hope that she can find some respite for her pain, too.

    2018 Insights II WINNING Entry! ” Crossing the Delaware, Well Aware”©SusanTMartin2018 in the Permanent Collection of The Ryan Licht Sang Bipolar Foundation

  • “Honey, it’s that Rabbit Hole calling…”

    “Honey, it’s that Rabbit Hole calling…”

    not again, She sighed, heaving herself out from under the bed…

    My description of mania, which I have heard used in similar ways, is that I have squirrels in my head. There is a difference with my particular squirrels though… I hear them. Not always, mind you, and yes, I have told this to my mental health pro’s. Whether they diagnosed this as schizophrenia I am not party to, but I am not concerned. I only hear mine when I don’t take a specific medicine, the rest of the time they quietly shred the insulation of my mind…

    I have been extremely vigilant, in the past 22 years since my Bipolar Disorder diagnosis, in sticking to my medication regimen. This is a big contributor to my continued success at thriving in spite of my illness, but my disease will still, and always try to convince me this is a lie.

    Very similar to a certain someone at the Tree of Life…”you will certailnly not die.”

    Yes, oh yes, I will.

    Ad Infinitum, 28″ x 36″ mixed media on gallery wrapped canvas , ©SusanTMartin2020 (available)

    I have been on the back of a motorcycle going 120 mph, feeling my fingertips loosening their tentative grip on the madman at the helm. Laughing wildly at the heavens and imagining letting go and floating gleefully to my mangled end. Loving this feeling… Seeking this feeling… Living for this feeling…

    Synapse Miss Fire , 16″ x 20″ mixed media on Canvas ©SusanTMartin (permanent collection of the Ryan Licht Sang Bipolar Foundation)

    (Somehow I lived thru this feeling.)

    The lack of sleep, lack of food and lack of coherence was all contributing to this awesome feeling of mastery over my world. Until it wasn’t. When I was unable to scramble eggs because I couldn’t see who was behind me, ready to strike, I was not enjoying the rush. When I spent so many consecutive days in the house that I let my bananas rot in the hot car, I was not enjoying the rush. And when spent all day Tuesday believing it was Monday, and having no clue what I did on Monday- I was really not enjoying any rush.

    I was feeling very close to the edge in the past weeks. Glorying in the dizzying of being out of control, rationalizing that-because of my med compliance- I could enjoy this feeling and allow it to overtake me. After all, I’d been putting out my best work-just look at all my followers and the little hearts they post beside my images!

    Now the wonderful rush was never-ending white noise, lack of ability to concentrate, a blazing headache and dread. Surrounded by an environment closely resembling a battlefield, and right smack in the middle of the war zone this:

    Is she wonderful? Yes, to me she is, and she will do great in the recycled art show she will soon be in. So will this painting:

    • Startled Starling ©STM

    And this:

    Working Title : Forgiveness Day ©SusanTMartin2021 WIP

    At what cost, though?

    In Plain Sight/ Insane, Right? ©Susan T. Martin”The Party’s Over”

    I hope that you embrace all the Bipolar Creatives in your world today, let them know they are loved, and that it’s OK to breath once in a while. If they are anxious or behaving like the world is on fire and they want to watch it burn, help them put the flames out and seek professional help. They are sick, not criminal… Give them a place and a way to rest their weary heads.

    I am so glad that I have a support network who love me, and solid pro’s to adjust my meds. I’m grateful God saw fit to let me live today, to feel the sun on my skin and the wind in my hair. And I’m so grateful that I did not let go…

    Living Breezes
  • Fear of Falling (failing?)

    Fear of Falling (failing?)

    • 76ffa3807cc44b63a98d60a087d9fe8b
    Ah, yes…The Lion’s Den

    Have you ever felt totally overwhelmed? That has landed on me today, a crushing weight, and I feel powerless. I like to forget my illness sometimes, and it is SO deceitful to me; top of the world for weeks, but It is always waiting. Just around the corner.

    My cat Zagnut loves to play hide and seek, and he’ll leap out from around a corner, swat me on the leg and dash away, one hundred miles an hour. If I am cogent, I’ll dash after him, then retreat-to leap out at him in turn. The only problem is that “It” doesn’t let me play back. It just leaps out, when I seem to be doing well, latching onto me like a 150 pound panther, dragging me into It’s lair.

    The Rummage Sale, w/p ©STMartin2021

    It’s dark in here, and smells of sweat and fear. I just know It is coming back, but I’m wounded. All kinds of nasty doubts swirl in my head…was I a fool to think I could be a sculptor? Why do I want to, anyway. Nobody buys my art, I’m a failure and the house seems to be echoing my mood by failing too. Leaks, creaks, holes, breakers tripping, no AC…I can feel that panther’s breath now…

    In the Lair, w/p ©STMartin2021

    This is not new, this trip down into It’s den. No, I recognize it oh, so well. I believe the worst is the immobility, standing frozen in It’s gaze and being unable to dash away. I know what I need to do, but the strength escapes me. The therapist I liked so well has left the building (literally), I know I can call for an appointment with the new one…but. I know that I get paid in a few days and the house won’t collapse any time soon…but. I know that I can call any one of many friends and talk, if I just pick up the phone…but. But but but butt head.

    Inside Voice #2 ‘Not Quiet Down’ ©STMartin2021

    So I have done the one thing I can do without moving. I went inside my head, got on my mind’s knees, and cried out to God. You see, I know he is the ONLY ONE who can close It’s gaping jaws. He did it for Daniel and he will do it for me. I just have to exercise patience and make a tiny effort to climb out of this death trap of discouragement. It is It’s favorite tactic, because It knows that despair and feelings of worthlessness lead me to the edge of the abyss. And when I stand at the edge of a great hight it feels like I’m being pulled right over the edge. But my God hears me, he helps the broken hearted, and those crushed in spirit he saves.

    Peach Trumpets ©God

    I am able to write this, and that is my answer for today. I will not lose this fight, for my God is stronger that anything my illness can do, or anyone else, for that matter. Sure, my brain is wired different, science has proved that bipolar brains behave differently. What science forgets is the One who created that same brain.

    “Growth” ©SusanTMartin2021

    I must have forgotten that for a minute, also. I will ride this one out today. And if the phone isn’t too heavy, I’ll call for that appointment. Thanks for listening.

    Inside Voice #1, “Can You Hear Me Now?” w/p©SusanTMartin2021
  • The Kitchen Drawer, a short story

    The Kitchen Drawer, a short story

    Dreaming of daisies and butterfly gardens, I find myself running thru mazes and tunnels, sure there are blue skies somewhere above ground…

    How do I get there -Is it safe to come out now?

    Deep in the cellar of abysmal memories, I remember a guy who pretended to love me.

    Remember the father who left without leaving-a mother whose mothering I would attend to.

    The weather has taken a turn for the grey. Icky, foggy, similar to brain matter…if I just lie down for a minute, I will just rest here…

    …the dream begins…

    Whats for Dinner, Mom? Aw, carrion again?

    The girl stands in her yellow kitchen. Her husband will return soon. Boring old Jed. Why did she marry an accountant? She wonders at times if she ever mattered to the one she truly loved:

    The windows need cleaning, the tea has grown cold-cold like the heart, cold like the hearth.

    Cold, blue steel-a dead weight in the hand; Cold, dead stone in the heart of a man.

    ( Sing mockingbird, sing your bright song , sing of such joy can you bring me along?

    Top of tall tree, float over hill, please let me join you, oh sing, if you will!

    Remind me of meadows the smell of fresh hay : we’ll gallop, we’ll frolic , we will dance, we will play!

    Gentle moonbeams gather far over our heads, a blanket of bluebells will cover our bed.

    hands needing holding…

    Hold me till morning with kisses on lips and hands needing holding in the tenderest grip.

    My head lays upon your ever-strong chest, “You’ll never leave me-no not like the rest.”

    “I will not let you”, I scream in my pain, ” you will regret ever straying again!”

    “Let darkness fall- you will not run :You’ll know my rage from the end of this gun…”)

    ****************************************************************************

    Yes, maybe I did matter, the girl muses…sighing, she wraps the revolver gently back up and tucks it deep under the kitchen towels, bumping the drawer shut with her hip.

    solar bipolar art lamp, 2022. sold.

  • Just Another Artistic Wednesday!

    Just Another Artistic Wednesday!

    Roll on Cupcake! Since this month is designation Sexual Assault Awareness Month, or SAAM, I decided yesterday to work on boosting my Art Health. So often my negative self image creeps into my work…

    A Little Self Absorbed Angst Here

    I am a big fan of Egon Shiele and his work, and in many aspects feel a sort of kindred spirit-especially when viewing his self-portraits. While my style does not compare to his in most aspects, I find it satisfying to bare my flaws in my art. Also, not being able to afford live models, he used someone he always had on hand, himself. I don’t know about you guys-my work has always included much introspection.

    Egomania? Or just working out deep emotional questions about my own psyche, in order to understand what led me to such despair in my opinion of myself? I lean towards the latter, but recently read somewhere that all artists are egomaniacs. Surely I’m not, I’m too nice!

    Like I Said, Nice!

    After careful study of my shape now that I turned ?7, I have embarked on a new eating/ exercise/living plan, as of right this minute (wiping the sugar-free-butter-free-bland old oatmeal off my little greedy face…) I know that I will feel better, like when I lost 70 pounds in 2013-2014… I had much more energy and my bones hurt so much less!!

    New Life of Hope!

    So, I will probably be a little (more) grouchy, but hopefully much more productive in my artistic endeavors. I have an Etsy Store open again, and some works available right this minute: Get Em’ While You Can!!!(free shipping too, whoo hoo!)

    I have more of my Outrageous Jello Molds nearly finished, they will be up in my shop soon!

    The JELLO MOLDS, revisited…

    We will see where my new endeavors lead, but just for today, I am happy-and hopeful!!

    Things Are Looking UP!!^^^^

  • A Neighbor’s Dying

    A Neighbor’s Dying

    I have a special place inside my heart for fellow addicts. Those without the ability to get clean, without a relationship with God, without a friend in the world. Carrying the weight of the huge monkey on his back.

    I talked to him from time to time, tried to impart some nugget of wisdom, a ray of hope. He would say, “I wish a train would hit me”.

    I remember that level of despair. That loathing for anything good in my life, because I did not deserve it. Hating my very being, a degraded piece of trash, discarded by society. Abandoning all hope, embracing the darkness.

    The pain is excruciating. It is no wonder he wished for death.

    I live across the street from his Grandma’s, where he would stay, in her laundry shed-shooting heroin. I saw him go from a funny, kind of hillbilly guy to a wretch with bloody scabs oozing down his arms. The last time I saw him he said he was really sick this time, he thought he had Covid. Well, it wasn’t Covid. First time the ambulance came, he had OD’d. They brought him back.

    This time, though, it isn’t the dope… They took him to hospital with pneumonia and a Blood infection, his very sad Grandma told me. He won’t be coming home, barring a miracle.

    I just hope they have made him comfortable…and that he doesn’t suffer for long. Poor, poor, Chris… I guess maybe your train finally came. I have said prayers for him and his family, and for everyone sick and dying…

    I will dream tonight of my Monarchs. I saw a caterpillar tonight who had just connected himself to the bottom of my wheelbarrow. He has probably changed into a chrysalis now. Soon he will totally disappear into a liquid, before miraculously turning into a beautiful Monarch, breaking out of the chrysalis and flying free!

    I hope you fly free too , my friend. I will see you again, one day soon.

    UNCHAINED, UNCUFFED, Mixed Media on Board, $400.00 (Available)

  • HOW TO SHAKE IT UP, BABY!!!

    HOW TO SHAKE IT UP, BABY!!!

    First things First>DO NOT GIVE UP!!

    take the time you need to heal, then: GET UP ON YOUR FEET AND FIGHT!

    “It’s not the size of the Dog in the Fight…It’s the size of the FIGHT in the Dog…”

    Mark Twain

    My physical health knocked me down for the past 2 weeks, any headway I had made in my Art Practice seemed to be slip-sliding away! I had given myself a wake up call, determined to make this a great year for my self expression. Motivated by many hours of study in art history, and of the great Masters, then the Impressionists, And on down thru the centuries…

    I was Fired Up and hitting on all cylinders! I even sought some marketing advise, only to be told that I had no idea what I was doing and probably never would. Ahhh, welll. That’s nothing new, my Dad told me that for 40 years!

    I will not let negative remarks cloud my Artistic Vision! As long as I am able, I will use this gift to tell my story: Sometimes messy, sometimes hard to look at…

    BUT ALWAYS UNIQUELY MY OWN! Hooray for Me, and for You!

    So, I had been sidelined, but I still have 5 works in 4 shows across the US right now! Not bad for a loser!!

    Just Being ME is Awesome! (detail “A Wee Bit Peckish” now showing at Woodwalk Gallery online)