The Artist and Depression

Hello friends, 

I've spent most of this past week staring into nothing, replaying all of the terrible things that have happened over the course of my humble thirty years. Everything from the time that kid in elementary school called my fat in the hallway between classes after he asked me to lift my shirt so he could judge my belly, to the last seconds of my mother's life in the hospital that unimaginably dark March night eight years ago; have run through the listless corridors of my brain this week. There is absolutely nothing fun or fanciful or cute about depression no matter what those ridiculous manic pixie cunts lead you to believe in the movies. 

They'll tell you pain is beautiful when you're an artist. I suppose for some it is, and I suppose at times for me it is as well. But most of the time, it's simply not. It's composed of me laying in my underwear on the couch for a solid three straight hours staring at a wall thinking about how awful I am and the time slips past me easier that a wisp of smoke in the breeze. Time makes absolutely no sense to me in these moments. I've been encouraged by a few people over the years to paint more dark subjects, despite them loving my lighter work, and I will always explain that painting like that requires me to be in that head space for a prolonged period of time and I generally only paint that way when I'm feeling like that. It's a hard process. I'm not a big fan. 

On the other hand though, using art as a tool for coping with depression is at times helpful. I never really know how it's going to hit me. Will I need to release it through paint, or will I melt into my couch for eight hours? I never really know. And, I think that's been the hardest part to deal with. This year, I was really proud of myself for getting through the winter without a major bout of depression, but then I woke up this morning and saw that it had snowed and I just cried. It all came crashing down and all those nasty thoughts from the past few days flooded to the surface and I just cried. 

It was a release. It needed to happen. Three days ago I could not have even imagined being able to sit down like I am right now and write all of this out coherently. I am without a doubt nothing more than a roller coaster of emotion, and I've decided to just ride it out. I felt the pain. I breathed. And even if I don't quite feel totally better, I do feel like I can breathe. A step forward. Every day that I don't let the demons in my head win is a win in my book. The fact that I get up every morning and at least try is a win in my book. 

Thank you for reading. I needed to vomit this out. 

xo. ❤ h.