11-25-11 Photobooth
In-home art studio
East Side House, Saint Paul
Notice the top photo, hanging on the wall the three images. The first one, it has a deep, dark pigmented black and I still remember the feeling of the brush against the paper. That mixed media series remains one of my favorites to these days - perhaps there are 8-10 pieces within in; a story of setting free what words can not encapsulate. It's tucked away in the attic of my parents garage, along with the plethora of pieces that came out of those years of searching within to find where I had become lost in my own life.
I am at a time now where I can begin to look back and reflect outwardly the experiences of those years when I lived so deeply within my self after starting life over. It is not just time that allows these words I share, I will not give time that value. It is the hard work, and grit, determination, that having a second chance at life, NOT dying, means work as well as reward, extremely uncomfortable situations and feelings and processes, and learning to go through versus around, or over, or under or in any other way of complete avoidance. It eventually comes back in one way or another. Trauma does not hide. It will present itself at every opportunity. An opportunity also for me to confront, and see, and take in, and breath despite the truth.
Avoidance means safety, often, to the mind in a troubled dynamic with trauma. This was the case for me. There have been events in my life that were too much to look at directly. I had to learn to tap into these feelings and memories without allowing them to take me over. Creating was the first way I was able to even think of what had taken place in my life and begin to find a way to let it out of me. It was a safe space that I could begin to unravel the images that would stand out in my mind, suddenly coming out of nowhere memories evoked that had been so long hidden, making me feel unreal and out of touch. Flashbacks...I can't begin to explain how scary they are. Or, perhaps, I just don't care to divulge some of the scarier details, is more like it.
Even though I showed and shared this collection of art with people, hanging at cafes, and having openings and celebrations, I never actually talked about the paintings/pieces themselves. I didn't have words and would direct any topics very far away from the truth. In that time, I suppose I just wanted to share them because it was such a need within me to create them. I thought that even if I did not have the words, there must be others too who do not have the words and can relate in some way.
Now, however, I do have the words and abilities to speak of that part of my life. The healing is ongoing in my mind, something that never ends, it is just a living of life, however, I have done the intense work through brainspotting trauma therapy, primarily, as well as medication therapy and my general therapist who has seen me since the age of 18. The triggers, the activation points, the memories no longer hold me in place, frozen. They simply are.
Yes, if I do not care for my self I am much more susceptible to the CPTSD taking over. However, I can count on one hand the number of episodes within the last two years. Compare this to years of daily episodes, and episodes lasting days and weeks and months. I just did not know what was happening. The gratitude of finally receiving the help I needed still moves me. I am continuing to find ways to live a lifestyle that furthers the health and wellness of my self and my life. It endlessly intrigues me, this exploration, the condition of being human.
I'm reminded that we all live our stories. I'm reminded that I do have so much control of my story, and some of it just is what it is, and I can choose the lens in which I take the narrative to heart. What is the story I am telling my self?
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