Art is hard; A crisis of artistry, identity, and disability.

[content note; mention of self harm]

There is a summary at the end of this post for anyone who struggles with the full text.

I’ve been talking a lot about my mental health lately, a part of finally trying to put together all the pieces and understand myself; who I am, and perhaps even a little bit of how I work. Right now I’m at a point where things are not positive, I’m in a hell of a low and yet
somehow, in this darkness, a spark of creativity has turned up.

I was suddenly itching to do something, fidgety, almost vibrating. I wanted to create something, to paint. This is something which is intrinsically linked to higher moods rather than lows like this and I had no idea what to expect, I still don’t. Usually when creativity rears it’s head and I feel compelled to find an outlet I’m in a place where I’m almost high. I’m happy, confident, and proud. I can’t be dragged away from what I’m doing and while I’m self-destructive and coming apart at the seems,experience of making something ultimately leads to an immense feeling of relief and satisfaction, even of affirmation.

23103330665_7d005bd0b3_kStereotype as it may be, my art, and creativity more generally, are very heavily linked to my mental health, particularly mental ill health.

Spouse and I just had a big chat about art as being a part of my identity, a part of who I am from it’s presence in my formative years, my always doing it, and it’s sort of helped me to wrap my head around why it’s such a frustration now when it used to be such a happy passion. It seems like this new development for some people I’ve got to know, a kind of ‘ooh I didn’t know you could paint’, but I’ve always had ‘artist’ as a big part of me in so many ways even if at times it felt fraudulent for my lack of creating.

I would always have a sketch pad around when I was younger. I’d be chatting away on IRC or reading and drawing at the same time. It was just always there, every day.  Art supplies of all kinds littering the office our computers were in. Over time this familiar artistry started to go, and not because I wanted it to but rather my body just didn’t want it to happen. I kept having to take longer and longer breaks, spend more time on individual pieces.

As puberty kicked in my Ehlers Danlos began to really make itself known. To hold I pencil I started having to tape my fingers and
wrists to try and hold off the dislocations and restrict movement. Sketching turned into painting as it was easier on the joints in my fingers, I kept going with projects here or there instead of having it as a constant. I started putting breaks between works, putting away the sketch pads and adjusting to a life without it. While the tape reduced the dislocations and strain on my fingers it’s not a perfect solution, and the strain still took it’s toll. Over time I continued to do less and less, brushing it aside where possible to save myself the pain and dexterity loss, and it’s reached a point where it’s become a rarity.

Art helped to keep me toge22673896828_3b2f33ceb5_kther as it was a distraction from everything, all the time. Now I’m at a point where, while all my creativity comes out in massive bursts, it doesn’t offer that same escape from my pain and problems because it’s a bringer of them.

Every time I do a project I want it finished, I want it perfect. I disappear into it like I’m completely detached from the world and it absorbs my full focus, often accompanied by a severely negative or destructive set of behaviours and lines of thought. It’s something that it’s hard to drag myself away from and if I do I feel a deep sense of loss, like I’m incomplete.

As things are now, I seem to just be turning the corner after a week of having meltdowns. My desperation to paint has consumed me and it’s taken over everything, bringing with it explosive irritation and anger, immense frustration at seeing my limits so plainly pointed out and a sense of loss along with it, very little sleep, my desire to self harm has gone up enormously, I’m quite literally tearing my hair out at times.

I’ve not finished the painting that I started, a large project I’ve been wanting to do for the best part of 2 years, the urge to get on with it surfacing intermittently in that time. My hands are taped up heavily in micropore and my wrist is in a brace, I can barely move my fingers for bruising and any strain or movement brings grinding clicks and a feeling of movement or something being out of place deep under the skin of my hands. Under a haze of oramorph, I still have that same drive to make something pulsing away. I want to finish and I’m deeply upset and disappointed in myself that my body has failed me so close to it’s completion.

With losing this ability, having a constant creative outlet turned into a bizarre, frustrating, and painful performance of human fragility, it’s like I’ve lost a big part of who I am. Something that was part of the very fabric of my life and helped me escape so much has been stolen away piece by piece.22470032224_580c6a3145_k

The more that I create, use my hands to excess in ways requiring strain or dexterity, the less I’m able to in future. Each time I try to do something like this it’s stretching me beyond the limits of what my body can cope with and, while my brain is pushing me not to stop until it’s finished, in doing there is a significant pay off. Over time it amounts to expedited though inevitable damage and a greater chance of additional mobility and pain problems post-recovery (usually 3-4 months).

What frustrates me further is that, having this change over time from a tool of calming escapism to an almost traumatising experience at times, finding the pain and harm I’m causing myself by pursing it, I fear I’m going to begin hating this part of me. I already find myself feeling negatively of any desire to be creative, trying to force it aside when it arises, and I have worries that this very part of my identity is going to become something I both desperately want and deeply resent for no longer having access to it.

I’m losing my artistry and along with it a part of my identity, and it’s dawned on me how much of it has slipped away over the past 4-5 years. I have this massive part of me that I’ve been trying so hard to ignore for self preservation, this great love in my life, and to pursue it is going to cause irreparable harm both physically and mentally.


Art is hard.

Summary: I have always considered being an artist to be a large part of my identity, but in recent years the decline in my physical health and difficulties with mental health mean I have been unable to paint. It’s difficult to let go of such an intrinsic part of who I am.