Those people who have been kind enough to follow my blog through the past few years have probably noticed my distinct lack of presence over the past year. I have had some huge life changes in my personal life, and I am getting closer to being more settled and a healthier place in my life. I am working on revising my blog and web presence as an artist. So–for anyone out there who still has an interest in my blog, things will get back on track in the next couple of months.
Thanks for your patience and support of my work.
She listens beside the ocean for love songs of dead sailors,
Spanish pirates, and Viking warriors.
The soft moan of the sky cries across the stars.
The moon shapeshifts to the faces of those she lost
But she hungers for her prince.
The castle just seems too big and her nights are no Sleeping Beauty.
The fairies stopped listening to her wishes,
And now her regrets almost equal the water in the sea.
Piano strings make for good fishing wire,
And she hopes to catch herself a man
Who will fill the dull hours between dusk and sun rise,
Because at this rate
The sand dunes have a greater chance of major life changes.
Her peers used to call her Princess, and she loathed it so,
Because she was the lowest peasant in the village of her mind.
She scrubbed her porcelain skin of that invisible stain
She felt inside, but the anxiety only rises like the full moon tide.
All that is left is the trickle of blood, mixing with the white sea foam.
She watches it recede into that great unknown
And whispers with salty tears,
Someday my Prince will come.
Rabbit Hole (Or, We’re All Mad Here)
When Alice was a little girl,
She would run to the backyard elm,
And hiding in its shadow,
She would day dream til the dinner bell.
There was a little hole at the
Base of that old umbrella tree,
Where she saw white rabbits sprinting
In and out, mad men running free.
The Great Big Dark inside her home
Scared her more than that large earth tomb
And so one day, chasing an old
White hare spouting poems to the moon
She fell inside the cavern place.
Potions, pound cake, caterpillars,
Smiling cats and torrential twins,
What’s next? Human head-sized billiards?
The Queen she screams majestic tones,
The message soaked with nervous gloom.
Alice turns away a bit stunned
Before the painted flowers bloom.
Not able to take screaming noise
She runs to emergency glass,
And pulling the lever marked STOP
The dream continues on to last.
Alice takes this too personal,
And with an ax she attacks that
Nervous hare, and that dormouse and
That mad man with the old top hat.
And drenched in blood, she returns home
And brings light to that Big Dark zone.
With nothing left, and breathing tight,
She releases a heavy moan.
Alice never liked that rabbit anyhow.
Project Introduction: Last September, I was approached by a local actor/writer/poet asking if I was interested in collaborating on a body of work combining both poetry and art. I had met him a couple of times at other art events, and he seemed like a nice enough human. I was ready to take on a new body of work and hopefully find some inspiration.
To be honest, despite my love of music and lyrics, I have never been much of one for poetry. It isn’t that I don’t like poetry–poetry seems to exist in several levels (much like art, I suppose?) one level is super-abstract-beyond-my-comprehension-and-maybe-a-little-pretentious, while others feel very obvious or almost cliche. Of course, poetry is created everywhere within that undesirable dichotomy (at least undesirable to me). Luckily, some of the poetry in that middle ground is very striking, with imagery and emotions that strike something in my heart–also, luckily for me (and this collaborative project), the poetry of Jared Fladeland also fits, appropriately, in that latter category of poetry-I-actually-like.
After some discussion, we decided on a sort of back-and-forth artistic inspiration between our mediums–leading us down our own figurative artistic rabbit hole. He would begin by writing a poem, aptly utilizing the theme of rabbit hole, then I would create a piece based on his poem. From there he would create a new poem based on that piece of art, I would then create a work based on his poem—which would then inspire another poem, to inspire another work of art, to inspire another poem, to inspire another work of art…
I think you get the idea.
Other than the inconvenient annoyance of having depression itself, one of the things I struggle with is the obvious stigma attached to depression. I think it’s important to be honest about my depression, I am not proud of it, but I certainly find no shame in it either. It simply is. Depression isn’t something I seek attention for, but it isn’t something I should have to hide either. I took a pill everyday, one little copper colored pill—every single day. I have been taking it for over ten years. The issue is, this particular drug can loss effectiveness over time, which it seems to have done in my case.
I recently returned to a psychiatrist for the first time since I was eighteen and initially diagnosed. Admitting I need to see some sort of brain behavioral specialist is disheartening to say the least. The knowledge one has to go beyond herself for the ability to simply be normal, and respond to the simple stimulus of being alive like an average person, is difficult to face. Let alone the entire process of finding a new medication. I dread the idea of finding a new medication. I suppose I can’t be surprised my medication had become less effective after ten years.
I had my turning point several months ago, when the ordinary feeling of impending sadness turned into a genuinely (literally) debilitating sadness. I found myself curled up on the sofa unable to move, unable to speak. It was terrifying. I was conscious. I was fully aware that I wanted to move, to speak, to react to my husbands obvious concern, but I could only curl into a tighter ball with tears slowly streaming down my face. My mind screamed out that I just needed to explain, “I know I’m being weird. I don’t know why, but I just feel heavy. I just feel sad, everything—existing is just too much”. That had never happened to me before. It seemed to be a fairly obvious sign that my current mental state was inadequate at best, and I needed to step out of my comfort zone in order to take care of myself and get healthy. I’m not healthy yet, but I am trying.
My new psychiatrist diagnosed me with neurotic depression and anxiety. Depression is difficult to describe because it isn’t a tangible illness. I think the same thing to myself that skeptical people do—just be happy. Stop being weird, why are you so sad? What do you have to be sad about? So many people have life far worse, but their silver lining only makes me feel worse—only makes me feel like more of a waste of human life. Someone else given this life could have done so much more, could have been better and have achieved something. My life lived by someone else, they could have been happy. Not this broken attempt at living, I currently am.
Some people don’t real get that depression is indeed a real thing, my brain doesn’t make the right amount of the correct chemicals for me to act and respond to life like a normal functional human being. Granted, I’m sure some doctors are far too quick to prescribe medication, but I know I am a person who does need medication. And I have started the monthly-interval process of finding the new medication that helps take me out of my head. I’m not good at being happy. Not that I don’t want to be happy. Who doesn’t want to be happy? Being happy is awesome. My brain chemicals don’t make happiness my default (or even a commonly visited) state of mind, which is inconvenient for being alive.
I try not to think about my depression much. For obvious reasons, if I ignore that figurative looming dark cloud it is bound to go away, right? Well, probably not. Actually, no, for sure not. It looms and expands and seems to take over my being some days. I turn into someone I don’t even want to be around. I feel like I’m heavy and melting, cracking apart at the same time, like a cooling lava flow. But less scalding hot and dangerous, and more weird and in my head.
So I guess, my point is, why has my blog seem to have fallen behind? Because I’m struggling with life. Sorry for that. For anyone kind enough to take an interest in my artwork, or me this is—regrettably a part of me. A part of me I am working on making better. I am working on getting healthier. But it takes time.