On the Need to Create, Escape & Tiny Nuggets of Things I Generally Hate to Talk About:
If you ask an artist why they're an artist, it would be in your best interest to get comfortable because there is no singular answer. I could quite possibly fill a book with the multitude of responses to that question. I don't recall ever stopping to think about why I began creating or why I've stuck with it through the majority of my life. But I do know that I need creative outlets to survive: that if I didn't have a means to export the things going on inside of me, I'd assuredly go insane. Standards of normalcy suggest Van Gogh may have been an absolute lunatic for cutting off his ear, but I kind-of get it. Studies have proven that if you were to bind the arms of someone who fervently talks with their hands, they would lose the ability to communicate effectively. They would stutter and babble and become quickly frustrated by the absence of their tools to transmit. Given some time, they become agitated, depressed, and filled with a sense of loss. -- Take away my camera, canvases, muses, brushes... and the next portrait of myself may very well be shy a little symmetry.
I wouldn't even say so much that artistic output is my therapy, although there are therapeutic benefits. It's a focal point. It's a horizon line on which to fixate when the boat just won't. Stop. Rocking. It's a distraction from all of the things I can't escape: more specifically, my body. Were I prompted to sum up what it's like to live inside of a body plagued by a chronic illness, I'd tell you to imagine being bound in a straight jacket, locked in a small, hot room that smells like vomit. Every so many hours, days or sometimes even weeks, someone will let you out for fresh air and a maybe a relaxing bath before going back to the shackles. Which, upon re-reading that last analogy, seems rather flared for the dramatic. And I hate that. I hate that an honest discussion about my body feels like an exaggerated complaint. I hate it so much that I don’t talk about it. I so desperately do not want to be that person: the one focused on the Shakespearean, martyred tragedy of it all. I’m so adamantly against it that I’ve filled my life with activities, people, laughter, deadlines, projects, life, excitement and love just to give myself a sense of sanity over my complete lack of control.
I live hard. I live so hard that I wear myself out (understatement. See: epitome of exhaustion), and then I’m back in bed rejuvenating for the next round of punches. Oftentimes people ask me why, oh why do I do that to myself? I can’t think of any answer to give other than it’s the only way I know to survive the state of entrapment in one’s own body. If I didn’t push my body to physical limits, if I didn’t fuel my life with pockets of adrenaline, I’d be on the sofa at home on disability. I wouldn’t have anything to cling to to get me out of bed every morning. I would get too tired and depressed to fight with my body every day. I’d be miserable. I much prefer cycles of “go, go, go! Aaaannnnd CRASH” to the alternative of spending my days focused on being trapped inside of myself. Even if the crash period is extremely hard on me. It’s still better than lazing about in a constant state of depression. At which point, I’ve no doubt that I would literally try to claw out of my own skin. And just like that, Van Gogh appears far more kindred than spectacle. Like I said, I kind-of get it.
Not too long ago, I was talking to someone about the fact that I can’t remember what it’s like to mindlessly attack life. To take on each day without having to first plan it out in scenarios where potentially I’m so ill I can barely move, or the nausea stays at bay for the day. I never know what’s going to happen so I have to prepare for everything. Every minute. Of every day. Because of this, I used to be terrified of purchasing tickets to events or planning any type of formal evening away from home. Travel would freak me out. Any group situations where an attack of my nausea would affect the good time of multiple people would make me nervous. For a while, I had a serious complex about going anywhere. Eventually I got over it and decided I could just handle it on a need-to basis instead of closing myself off to life. But it took me a long time to get to that point and that’s not to say that I still don’t get uneasy about those situations. I’m simply more adapt at standing up to the anxiety. I’m also far more comfortable with the guilt complex I’d suffer for feeling as though I’m inconveniencing everyone around me. I can handle the CVS affecting my plans, but when my illness affects the lives of the people closest to me, I have a hard time swallowing that pill. But again, I’m much better at letting those things go.
The point remains however, that my brain is in some way constantly focused on how to live around the nausea. I obsess over what I eat. I have to schedule periods of rest in preparation for things like concerts or travel. Where most people need about 45 minutes to freshen up for an evening out, I have to schedule a couple of hours and 45 minutes so that I can nap first. Otherwise I can almost guarantee a breakdown of my body. There are some nights when I’m so exhausted I can barely see straight, but I can’t go to sleep until I can quell the overwhelming feeling of vomit in my chest. There are days completely free of nausea, but every bone and muscle in my body still ache from dealing with the stress, dehydration and exhaustion from previous episodes. My body is constantly changing. Because I don’t absorb all of the nutrients I put in, my skin has become incredibly sensitive. My weight yo-yos drastically. My immune system straight-out sucks. Consequently, this means I further obsess about things like vitamins, skin care, and keeping a wardrobe in a range of sizes because I never know what my body type is today. It makes shopping for clothes extremely frustrating. It makes me want to cover up all of the time. I tend to hide my skin and my weight behind oversized clothing. People like to criticize me for being too thin. Even when they know I have an illness and I fight the fact that I’m too thin every day. Solution? =Baggy jeans and hoodies.
January 27th will mark the eighth year of battling the Cyclic Vomiting Syndrome. And where yeah, it's hard, it's gotten better. Or at least, I've gotten better at managing it and a life around it. Most of the time you wouldn't even know I'm sick because I'm damn good at living a really happy and awesome life around the illness. I try not to think about it any more than I have to. It's not a focus for me, regardless the amount with which I have to address it on a daily basis. It's a part of me and how I live my life, but it has nothing to do with who I am. And my only major concern is that I'm able to keep it that way.
I wouldn't even say so much that artistic output is my therapy, although there are therapeutic benefits. It's a focal point. It's a horizon line on which to fixate when the boat just won't. Stop. Rocking. It's a distraction from all of the things I can't escape: more specifically, my body. Were I prompted to sum up what it's like to live inside of a body plagued by a chronic illness, I'd tell you to imagine being bound in a straight jacket, locked in a small, hot room that smells like vomit. Every so many hours, days or sometimes even weeks, someone will let you out for fresh air and a maybe a relaxing bath before going back to the shackles. Which, upon re-reading that last analogy, seems rather flared for the dramatic. And I hate that. I hate that an honest discussion about my body feels like an exaggerated complaint. I hate it so much that I don’t talk about it. I so desperately do not want to be that person: the one focused on the Shakespearean, martyred tragedy of it all. I’m so adamantly against it that I’ve filled my life with activities, people, laughter, deadlines, projects, life, excitement and love just to give myself a sense of sanity over my complete lack of control.
I live hard. I live so hard that I wear myself out (understatement. See: epitome of exhaustion), and then I’m back in bed rejuvenating for the next round of punches. Oftentimes people ask me why, oh why do I do that to myself? I can’t think of any answer to give other than it’s the only way I know to survive the state of entrapment in one’s own body. If I didn’t push my body to physical limits, if I didn’t fuel my life with pockets of adrenaline, I’d be on the sofa at home on disability. I wouldn’t have anything to cling to to get me out of bed every morning. I would get too tired and depressed to fight with my body every day. I’d be miserable. I much prefer cycles of “go, go, go! Aaaannnnd CRASH” to the alternative of spending my days focused on being trapped inside of myself. Even if the crash period is extremely hard on me. It’s still better than lazing about in a constant state of depression. At which point, I’ve no doubt that I would literally try to claw out of my own skin. And just like that, Van Gogh appears far more kindred than spectacle. Like I said, I kind-of get it.
Not too long ago, I was talking to someone about the fact that I can’t remember what it’s like to mindlessly attack life. To take on each day without having to first plan it out in scenarios where potentially I’m so ill I can barely move, or the nausea stays at bay for the day. I never know what’s going to happen so I have to prepare for everything. Every minute. Of every day. Because of this, I used to be terrified of purchasing tickets to events or planning any type of formal evening away from home. Travel would freak me out. Any group situations where an attack of my nausea would affect the good time of multiple people would make me nervous. For a while, I had a serious complex about going anywhere. Eventually I got over it and decided I could just handle it on a need-to basis instead of closing myself off to life. But it took me a long time to get to that point and that’s not to say that I still don’t get uneasy about those situations. I’m simply more adapt at standing up to the anxiety. I’m also far more comfortable with the guilt complex I’d suffer for feeling as though I’m inconveniencing everyone around me. I can handle the CVS affecting my plans, but when my illness affects the lives of the people closest to me, I have a hard time swallowing that pill. But again, I’m much better at letting those things go.
The point remains however, that my brain is in some way constantly focused on how to live around the nausea. I obsess over what I eat. I have to schedule periods of rest in preparation for things like concerts or travel. Where most people need about 45 minutes to freshen up for an evening out, I have to schedule a couple of hours and 45 minutes so that I can nap first. Otherwise I can almost guarantee a breakdown of my body. There are some nights when I’m so exhausted I can barely see straight, but I can’t go to sleep until I can quell the overwhelming feeling of vomit in my chest. There are days completely free of nausea, but every bone and muscle in my body still ache from dealing with the stress, dehydration and exhaustion from previous episodes. My body is constantly changing. Because I don’t absorb all of the nutrients I put in, my skin has become incredibly sensitive. My weight yo-yos drastically. My immune system straight-out sucks. Consequently, this means I further obsess about things like vitamins, skin care, and keeping a wardrobe in a range of sizes because I never know what my body type is today. It makes shopping for clothes extremely frustrating. It makes me want to cover up all of the time. I tend to hide my skin and my weight behind oversized clothing. People like to criticize me for being too thin. Even when they know I have an illness and I fight the fact that I’m too thin every day. Solution? =Baggy jeans and hoodies.
January 27th will mark the eighth year of battling the Cyclic Vomiting Syndrome. And where yeah, it's hard, it's gotten better. Or at least, I've gotten better at managing it and a life around it. Most of the time you wouldn't even know I'm sick because I'm damn good at living a really happy and awesome life around the illness. I try not to think about it any more than I have to. It's not a focus for me, regardless the amount with which I have to address it on a daily basis. It's a part of me and how I live my life, but it has nothing to do with who I am. And my only major concern is that I'm able to keep it that way.