Grief is a complicated thing and people vascillate between deep despair, denial, anger, making "deals" <--I never did that one, back to one of the ones just mentioned and over and over. About anger... they never really tell you why you're angry or what its going to be directed at, do they? I guess it could be anything.  

Day before yesterday, I saw Oil of Olay bodywash Mom had gotten me for Christmas and I just bawled. For 2 hours. The thought that I didn't do enough for her, make her feel loved enough, just kills me. Since I had Devyn, I didn't have the patience I used to and the thought I'd hurt her feelings, kills me. Not being able to call her to tell her this weird mix of haircolor I concocted looks good, kills me. Not being able to hear her blather away about dumb things breaks my heart. 

Last night, we go there and she's not waking up at all. They'd done a CT scan and there is nothing wrong with her head that she can't wake up... she's just sick. Its not pain meds, its not a high fever, she's just checked out. Hell, I've been sick as a dog, had 105 fever and saw things, yet I could still say hi. WTF?

Then I got angry. I'm actually relieved, anger feels better than that despair. 

A long time ago, a couple built a house. They didn't have everything that they really needed to make it as sturdy as they should, but they wanted one anyway and they built it where they wanted to. It turned out to be a really good house. In the early years of its "life", a hurricane came along, Camille. The house still stood, most folks were surprised given that the hurricane had 200 mph winds. Sure, it lost its shingles, shutters and porch, but somehow the little house made it.  

Other things happened throughout time, additions had been built onto the house, new rooms, renovations, celebrations, births and birthdays. More hurricanes came and went and the house creaked and moaned and the superfluous parts blew off, but the main structure still stood. The couple was proud of themselves and their construction and maintained life as usual, thinking that all is fine. They tended to the outside, the gardens, the furniture, but never thought to check the bones of the house.

Later on, a small but compact storm, category 1, hit the house and this time, it started to shake more than usual, making crumbling sounds. No one understood: its withstood the biggest and strongest of winds, why would it now begin to crumble? The winds are coming from a different direction, its a small storm comparatively, so why is this happening? 

No one heard the support beams splinter in initial storm's torrential rains because they were so busy mopping up the superficial water on the floor. So now, people are shocked that this small category 1 is about to take out the small, seemingly sturdy house. 

The ones living there even get mad at the house: this is a completely different situation! Why are you crumbling??

How stupid is that?? Well for someone seeing the situation for what it is, there are a few choices... strengthen the support beams, move the house away from the hurricane-habitat or watch it blow over. 

Such is the life of someone who is an ACOA when they live long enough to revisit situations that remind them of initial childhood insults. Even long after sobriety and the choice to live a better life, the structural damage remains. In my situation, I've saved my Mom's life over and over and over-- whether it was through hiding her booze so she wouldn't drink into oblivion and drown in the bathtub, begging her to leave a man who would eventually kill her, all the warnings I gave her to behave differently when Dad (if he knew what she was doing) would beat her for what she was doing, hiding her in my closet when she came back after "running off", to actually sitting on her lap as a human shield when he was going to shoot her. 

Today, I am tired of having to make life and death choices for someone who isn't present. 

No matter how many times Stephen tells me that the situation is different, I can't help but feel tired and resentful. Yes its different, but the effect is still the same. I don't get a life, I get sadness and fear and loss. Whether its by choice (alcohol, a husband) or by nature (Nocardia), I am fucking tired of this and angry. I want her to suck it up, wake up and make a choice between life and death and not leave me to do it for her, like most of my life.     

But as unfair as it is, thats not going to happen. And I'm still left here to look at limbo with the thought that something else could be done to snap her out of this. My heart still breaks and yearns for the person she was before the illness. I still see some fucking olay bodywash somewhere, all day every day. God, I miss her and I'm mad and I don't want to make this decision. But here I am. 

My beams may be wobbly, but my foundation is strong. So fuck you, storm, bring it. Blow the house down. I'll rebuild.  

This is about both #DaringGreatly & #vulnerability. This topic is the basis of courage (lifetime and creative) through vulnerability and it will take a while, so I may jump some abstract steps. This is the thing about anyone that makes other people comfortable, connected to others and themselves- and simultaneously its the thing that scares the hell out of others. It is a given in our culture that vulnerability is considered weakness (and women aren't any different than men here). Just through day to day life, its evident that many people see this as a risky venture.

Yet, this is the thing that makes art- paintings, movies, music- all breathtaking.

Case in point, I was honest at a public talk that I hated to give talks because I have a speaking phobia. One lady told me that I "didn't have to tall that". She was ashamed! It was so evident from the look on her face that she also had a speaking phobia and the thought of admitting she had a vulnerability triggered her own fear. I hugged her and told her it was ok. The more I thought, the more I realized many of my strong mentors are like this. Another anecdote are my friends who may laugh at bawdy jokes- even tell a few, love funny, risque cards, but to have one on their personal pages given by a friend? I thought I'd give someone a heart attack. IMO, I think that is sad. They were so afraid that they would be unfriended by something I (a stranger to the others) did, that they scrambled in fever pitch to get it off at 2 am. So afraid of judgement.... who would judge? Church people? Family? In-laws? How sad to not be yourself no matter where you are or who you're with. Take it from someone who has had the best and worst of friends and family: if they can't handle a curse word, they won't be there for you in hard times. If a word freaks them out, they're not worth the worry.

Not so for me, I'm incapable of living differently at this point. The thought made me want to upload my own art therapy paintings that are not on the mainstream Art Pages and discuss them. But, I have a new painting in mind. I've got a few under my belt already, in Art and People...pt. 2, but this one is going to be different. 

The painting is an internal portrait, the happiest place I've ever been- not bubbly-rose-colored-glasses kind of happy or even one that doesn't come through hard work and slide-backs, but a true contentment and satisfaction that living one's true life path brings. Your own honest-to-God value system. This piece is going to have funny, bawdy, loving, disturbing stuff shaped into a beautiful and spiritual scene. Thats been my life so far. If people don't like it, they can take it up with God :)

This security is the absence of subjective, yet universal, anxiety that comes from being open, real and transparent. No one has anything to find out and I'm not ashamed of anything. It sounds like an oxymoron when I say that I still do have shame. As in all of us, its a constant work in progress and I'll write about it. I'm not alone.

We all have it. Its that fear that there is something about us that will stop other people from loving, accepting or connecting with us. This is the thing that keeps us from writing the depths of our hearts, losing ourselves by belting out the song to the point of spit flying out of our squinched up faces, giving that talk that makes our hair stand on our arms (and everyone else's) and painting our truths (beautiful or ugly) to the ultimate of our potential that cause everyone to gasp.

This is what Robert Frost meant by "No tears in the writer, no tears in the reader. No surprise in the writer, no surprise in the reader." Of course! If you're scared to "go there", how can you take anyone else there? How can we, as creative people in no matter what we do, offer any kind of connection with deeper truths of humanity when we are afraid of opening up and seeing ourselves and allowing others to see us for how we truly are?

Back to Dr. Brene Brown (can be seen here), she articulates this part about human nature the best I've heard. Her book, Daring Greatly is just about that. I was taken aback when I saw her on Oprah's Super Soul Sunday because this is the thing that ended me up in therapy with a category 5 nervous breakdown. See Art and People pt 2.

If its not there yet, I'm working on it.... (as of 3/28/13)

How do we learn to fear being vulnerable? When do we learn to hide our feelings? One of the first times I remember something like that happening, I was playing with little neighbor kids. They were a little snooty, I was 5 or 6. I think I had mosquito bites and bruises all over my legs (being a tomboy) and they picked on me about it. Unrelenting in the torment, I went home crying.

That didn't change me, it didn't bother me that much: what stuck with me the longest was when I wrote them a note telling them how it effected me, my Mom telling me to stop crying and to tear up the note. It was the look on her face and the message "don't give them the satisfaction" and then something deeper... "how can she be so weak?"

My Mom is a strong woman who had a hard life. She cries for no one while they are alive and the only times I've seen her cry was for a pet, her brother and my Dad when they died. She has the hardest time crying (when she does) and her whole body shakes as if in a panic attack. So this is evident in her fear response towards anyone else's vulnerability. Cry if you fall down, sure, but the rest? Suck it up.

I'm not alone and neither are parents in these messages, given or received. So, that is how life went for me for 30 years. I never could understand why someone just couldn't be honest with their perspectives and perceptions and so I was completely conscious of keeping "it" all in. My art was the only release for the real me underneath so much so that I forgot how to talk about it. I had a realization something about me felt different from how everyone else appeared... and I wanted something unintelligible. Life felt like it had been inhabited by hard-shelled hostile entities, but I didn't know why. I felt de-skinned, ultra sensitive and exposed. 

Fast forward. Not only had I been dealing with invisible constraints and saw them in other people, I had also been dealing with a mild to moderate depression since graduation in '03, in '05 Katrina hit. The depression until then had taken the form of anxiety and agitated depression also known as mixed state or mixed episode (a very dangerous kind that infiltrates your thoughts, behaviors but with an anger and anxiety that makes one very scared of one's own capabilities. Most depressed people would kill themselves if they had the motivation, with mixed episodes, you have the energy, PLUS rage.)

Anyway, after Katrina, the need struck everyone everywhere and I couldn't help. People died, families were without anything, children didn't have homes, food, toys, anything. (I cannot stand suffering and have to do something.) At the time, I had JUST gotten into therapy. My father had just had a quintuple bypass (yes, quintuple. 5 arteries!!) and had lost everything in his home that had gotten 4-5 feet of storm surge.

The stress was too much to bear. One day, my Dad walked up to me in the kitchen while I was cooking chili for my whole family and instantly a tape played in front of my eyes in my mind of a scene of him with that expression, and I, when I was 3 years old. Front to back in complete clarity of me trying to talk him out of killing himself and trying to talk him into living. The "movie" included the sights, smells, sounds and emotions of that time. I was three, helpless, had no idea that the world existed outside my front door and that my dad's life--- and mine- were about to crumble.

That, my dear, is a flashback. And not the post-acid induced kind (which I never took, btw) or the fluffy, fuzzy flashbacks of romance movies. Its also symptom of PTSD.

For the first time since my teen years, I had been put in the position to care for my father. The first time was an unhealthy, parasitic version of exploitation in which I cared for his emotional health when I was only 3... the second was a natural progression of his own age and mortality, but the similarity was there enough to trigger the flashback.

I caught my breath, said nothing and finished dinner. It wasn't easy, but i did it. Throughout life in other areas, things had gotten progressively worse. People don't know that depression filters EVERYTHING that comes through your senses into your thoughts and heart and then filters everything that comes out of you into the world. It is like a black filter.

Something as simple as walking down a dock can be turned into an Alfred Hitchcock scene. As I was walking down a dock (we were looking at hurricane devastation), we encountered some fishermen on what was left of the dock. (what the hell???)

Instantly, I had the painting of Edvard Munch's The Scream flash before my eyes-- and I understood what he felt like. The people looked hostile (probably dealing with depression on their own, too, from Katrina) and had no friendly expression whatsoever. I got home and painted "Velveteen Scream". It was the pictoral expression of what vulnerability, and the lack of, feels like. Disconnection. Click the picture for more information on the painting and its symbolism.    

First let me tell you that...

I do love Albrecht Durer's Melancholia. Not only was he self aware enough to get it, but he could articulate it, too. Back then, I imagine that it was difficult to admit, having those times when nothing would come to mind "Aaaaah!! Artist's block!" Or just being damn frustrated with whatever it is that you're working on. Check out the details of this piece, the dog representing "loyalty" being skinny- or was the angel just too busy to feed him? Time is running out over the angel's head, so sayeth the hourglass. The sun has risen, yet nothing is finished, or even started on, and his marble piece and tools lay around, untouched. I've had those days. But not recently.

But I can't help but think the more we know inwardly, the less artist block we get. Why? There is so much emotional life inside each and every one of us and if you know what you're going through and can visually articulate it, you got a painting. Take Frida Kahlo, epsecially the movie scene where she was having a bath and was looking at the water and thinking. (If you haven't seen it, get it.) The name of her next painting was "What the Water Gave Me". Wonderful for her to acknowledge where her inspiration came from, just sitting in the bath and thinking.

The key is that she was aware of it and knew how she felt about the things she was thinking... enough to draw upon it and allegory. The issue is then you need the time to think.
 
Me, for instance, right now I have a painting in mind, but I'll brainstorm new ones for experiment's sake. My mom is getting older and I'm seeing the change from child role to mother role for me and mother to child for her. What does this translate into real world feelings??? I feel responsible, drained and worried. I can see a finished painting of a woman breastfeeding two children (one is a real baby) and the other one is a mini-adult--- the baby is getting skinnier (meaning that he's not getting the time and attention/nutrients he needs) while the other "infant" is getting fed. The woman is getting dangerously skinny, worse than the other two- meaning that there isn't enough of me to go around and thats how it feels. (Note, this isn't a bad thing, its just acknowledging where I am and this relates to acceptance. We can't accept things that we aren't even brave enough to acknowledge. Get your head out of denial. Denial=Artist's block). I don't wish her gone, I wish her healthy, but that isn't gonna happen at this stage in the game. I miss her being healthy and capable, I mourn her fun and light side. 

Thats another painting about another topic, too, but its too personal to put into public. I don't wanna go there yet and don't have to for now. That makes two, three actually, if you count the one that was already floating around in my head. Four: I feel comfort and love here at home and gratitude. Thats a "my cup overfloweth" piece :) Five, another issue floating around in the back of my mind about how men and women interact, ha ha.

Humor is an awesome inspirational source. Translate something serious into something funny. No one may want to buy it, but why are you painting, anyway?? I've sold a bunch that make me shake my head, anyway. Apparently, they got the humor and for that, I'm glad. But I always sell myself short anyhow.

Anyhow,  about the one I'm gonna start on next: I love to paint "quoting" old master's artwork by add onto and turning their pieces into another meaning. I'm going to use Albrecht Durer's melancholia up there and then put all around the angel (me) the things that distract me throughout the day, keeping that damn hourglass running out when nothing is done.

I've got adult ADHD and some days, its terrible to be in my head. Its such a pain in the ass to try to have a conversation when all of these extra things that no one else notices just overwhelm the thoughts in my head before I can get them out of my mouth. End of conversation for me, anyway. Now, forget about listening, too, for that matter. Yesterday was horrible. Sorry for TMI, but hormones play a role in how bad it gets due to PMS fluctuations effecting concentration, too.

Anyway, to do this, your feelings and the paintings have to be in sync somewhere. What Melancholia and I have in common is that we are both frustrated, feeling pretty unproductive and tense because time is running out. Ditto. The angel has the company of a cherub (Bun for me) and all of his/her wonderful tools.

What is the twist is that the angel is going to be exchanged for a frog. Yep, a frog. I love frogs because they're just funny looking and have these blank expressions on their faces. They just look like goobers and thats what I feel like. What am I saying with this??

That my brain is so reactive to sounds/lights/flickering that it reminds me of a reptilian brain. I can't direct it with will alone, (and I've got a strong one) so the damn thing pays attention to what it wants to no matter what I actually want. Perhaps I'll put bells here and there in the piece, with flies on them. That would signify "attention" on two levels. You know what a bell is for and you know what flies do for a frog. Scratch that, everything is going to have a fly on it and the frog is going to look all googly eyed like cookie monster, ha ha!

The understanding of an ADHD brain being (or feeling, for me at least) like a reptilian brain came from an article about working memory and adhd and thinking patterns. Normies think TOP DOWN in their functioning (internally driven attention). ADHD folks often think BOTTOM UP (externally driven) in their patterns, making them more reactive than other people. Ain't that the damn truth. Lemme see if I can find that article:
http://gazzaleylab.ucsf.edu/topdown-findings.html <---Thats not it, but it'll do.

Anyway, this is doing for me a few things.

First, I get to acknowledge the irritation I'm feeling. Second, I get to translate it into something light and funny and poke some fun at it. Thinking is fun, too.