When I was first diagnosed as bipolar (2005), I painted as a coping mechanism. It was a stress release for me. I got great satisfaction out of it, it kept me out of trouble, and it gave me a way to communicate what was going on in my brain. I even got an electric staple gun for Christmas because I was stretching my own canvas over frames the bf made for me out of scrap wood at his job. I painted whatever I wanted, however I wanted, with whatever I wanted, and on whatever I wanted. That's a lot of I's, but the point is, it was my outlet, not anyone else's. I was free to express myself.
As the years passed, I painted less and less. In fact, all of my creative outlets disappeared. I stopped writing and drawing as well. One day early last summer I was asked why I didn't paint anymore. When I said that I didn't know, it was suggested that we go to Michael's, pick up some supplies and give it a go. Of course I agreed. I didn't have much of a choice, really. I didn't really want to, but it didn't matter. It didn't matter that I preferred to paint alone or that I preferred medium bodied acrylic. No, none of that mattered, because like everything else about me, it wasn't mine anymore. I didn't have the right to enjoy things by myself, as an individual.
We came home with oil paint, canvas board and a value pack of brushes. Let it be known that I don't like oil paint, I'd rather paint on actual canvas, and these particular brushes were terrible. I couldn't get the paint to be as thin as I wanted, the brushes were losing bristles left and right, leaving them all over the smeary, sticky thing I was calling a painting. I was so frustrated...I felt stunted. I wasn't allowed to express my emotions, so how was I supposed to paint anything? I'm not the kind of person who can just paint for no reason. No bowls of lemons here. I need a meaning. And when I'm not allowed to have that meaning, I can't create.
In my last therapy session, my therapist asked what colors I would describe my emotions about--well, everything really. All the hurt and the anger at myself for allowing another person to take away my identity and the anger at that person for doing it, and the sadness for the time that I lost...I said they were navy blue, purple and orange. She said she wanted to see what that would look like.
So there I was today, in AC Moore, staring blankly at paints and brushes and canvas, reminding myself that it was ok to buy acrylic and it was ok to not want the value pack of bristle brushes. Flashbacks of that day in Michael's were spinning through my head so fast I didn't know what to do. Eventually I figured it out. I got Liquitex basic acrylic paint, a 12 pack of medium-firm taklon brushes and two 12x16 canvasses. I'm very happy with my purchases. Almost defiantly so. I'm taking back my painting. It's just another piece of me that I can put back where it belongs.
There is a lighter side to my trip to AC Moore. A very nice gentleman and (I'm assuming) his mother asked me a question about the brushes they were holding. I answered them, bade them a good day and moved to the end of the aisle. The gentleman then said that he wanted me to know I was pretty and he liked my outfit. I was wearing my coat though so all he really could see was big blingy earrings, skirt, stockings and flats, but still. It made me smile. Couldn't have come at a better time because I was on bad memory overload.
Ok I'll quit babbling. Sheer grey striped tshirt that says "crash & burn" across the top and a black pattern down one side with a black shirt underneath, a cardigan over top, denim skirt, striped stockings and t-strap flats. Complete with big blingy earrings and matching ring.Enjoy your evening...I'm beat. I'll probably end up painting...if I do, I'll post a picture.
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