I successfully drew “The Conversation” the night before last and I did it without spiraling into mania. In some way, I should be proud of this accomplishment. I even started it at three in the afternoon convinced that I wouldn’t be up all night. That was an epic failure. Up ’til 3am, drinking two pints of rum and smoking an endless chain of cigarettes. As always, the morning after I woke to an art-strewn living room with a very striking image taped up to the large dining room mirror. The first thing I thought of was, “well you nailed the hand” and that was what I was worried about. I couldn’t seem to get it old enough. I had to get the generational gap to come across. The girl, I knew, would be satisfactory. I always can get the faces right. She was however eerily disturbing. Someone I couldn’t take my eyes off but didn’t exactly want in my house.
Her eye was completely black, as it was in the photo. The pencil I used (that was supposed to be graphite) turned out more like charcoal and made it unworkable, I remember that. And even with all of the fixative that was sprayed on, it smeared just by looking at it. So, I just stared at her, knowing that I couldn’t go back in and work the eye into something more delicate, so I framed it, if at all just to keep the medium on the paper. I have her in my living room now. Facing the wall. She was supposed to be a late Fathers Day present, but now I don’t think I can give her to anyone… I’m not sure.
The same thing happened to me with my self portrait. She hangs above my desk, staring at me right now with her haunting eyes and blank expression. It took me a long time to get to know her. She was frightening as well, especially since she was supposed to be me! Absolution, I named her. It was my way of getting the bipolar disorder out of me and onto paper so I could forgive myself for the unforgivable. She acts as a reminder that it’s okay. I’m okay. So I leave her there. My illness can be outside of me, and I go somewhere outside of me when it strikes.
I go outside of me when I draw as well. I don’t like it. I don’t like the space I go into at all. I want to stop the creation of these things altogether, but as someone once said to me, “If you have a gift, you have a moral obligation to share it with the world.” I remember the girl at the bar who said that to me, young and naive. Of course I have no obligation. I can do whatever the hell I want with my life and haven’t picked up a pad of paper in 20 years because of the feeling I get along with the act of getting the images out of my head. Possession. I’m convinced someone is taking over, even if its my own alter ego. I felt that years ago and used to like it. But it pulls me down into a very deep and dark place and I wake the next day to a feeling of confusion and guilt for allowing it in again. To take over.
I guess I should date these, although I think I have it all written down here. Reason being that I wouldn’t want to do this more than once every few months. I fear for my own sanity and I have to remain solid – strong – for my son. My job as a person afflicted with a mental illness is to protect him from the worst of it. Protect those that I love from the mornings I wake up to the house in shambles due to a psychotic break from reality. That’s what they call it. The doctors. A psychotic break from reality. Ha! That’s one of the things that I agree upon with the DSM. Though those writing it and diagnosing with it have not actually experienced it.
I wonder how I am going to get through this move. I want to tell those that need to know that my sole purpose right now is to keep this under control. Meanwhile, I’ve been to my doctor and have gotten refills on all of the drugs that I took myself off. Klonapin for anxiety. Mirtazipene for sleep. And now I have Hydrocodone and Ibuprofen 800’s for the cracked ribs. Ahhh yes, with a little bit of rum in the evening I feel just fine. Then I wake the next morning feeling like a toxic waste dump. Abusing my body by trying to control my mind. Knocking down the rapid cycling. Up and Down. Up and Down. It’s usually not like this for me, and because of it, I don’t have the necessary tools to handle it. Except for this. Back to the journal. This gets it out of me at least a little bit.