A writer? A poet? An artist? And WHY didn't I recognize them as building blocks of The One True Self earlier in life?
Here's my tale of how I needed to derail before I understood creativity got game.
Writer
I started writing poetry when I couldn't escape the words that kept popping up in my brain. Poetry was there during the hardest of days. The cruelest of nights. When mental illness wasn't "elsewhere" but right here, right now.
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Even before mental illness became a reality, I wrote to understand life. Life asked me to take notice, and so I blogged about subjects that mattered to me. The subjects varied - yet, injustice, (animal) cruelty, and suffering were returning topics:
Elephants abused by circus employees who wounded them by using metal hooks.
A young man in Russia killed by former classmates by pushing a bottle so far up his ass that he bled to death. Just because he was gay.
The Deepwater Horizon oil spill in the Mexican Gulf destroying nature and wildlife.
At the time, I didn't recognize that I was - in fact - attempting to suffocate my own suffering. I would reason away my torments - yes, I was in pain but these awful stories needed a voice! What I didn't know was that the mask I had on for ages was slowly fading. A friend asked the one question I didn't want to face:
Why do you continue to write about injustice and abuse when it hurts you this much?
It wasn't right that I was bawling my eyes out every single time before I could write another blog post. The first signs of my deteriorating health were there; I needed to work on myself rather than focusing on animals and people I didn't know.
Art
Things would get worse before they got better. I had been wandering through life all the way into adulthood failing miserably. I didn't fit in. I was paddling between heaven and hell without knowing the waters. As a teenager, I figured:
The Adults are in the know - I should listen to them.
The multi-cultured working-class adults, that is. The ones who lived by the How to become a successful Regular Joe For Dummies. The index of the handbook quickly informed me: getting off the beaten track isn't in here.
Employment, earning good money, face value, family life, and security - that was what one should strive for!
Art just wasn't a realistic career goal. I needed to secure a job, a life - a better life - that included a steady income and - yes - raising my own family.
But that wasn't for me. I became the one black sheep of the family - sandwiched between "suit yourself" and "boh", which roughly translates into I really don't get you or See if I care.
At least, I did fulfill one wish: I earned good money, more than they had hoped for. Which - oddly enough - made me even more of an outsider.
In time, my trying times turned into disgust. Not only didn't we get along, the love I once had for the family, left me completely. I got diagnosed with PTSD, and lost the will to live.
After decades of struggling, I was sure that my inability to fit in was exactly what was wrong with me.
But - as it goes - in the struggling one can find the answer:
You forgot how to play!
Authenticity
DRAWING!
And so, after decades, I decided to get back on track. I derailed for a reason. The career did serve me for a while but now the time had come to (re-)claim my authenticity.
I am an artist. And at 54, I better stay with it.
I don't need a label. I am not just a writer. I am not just a blogger, a poet, or what have you. I am not just an artist, a creator.
I am like a rope: strands tied together, different layers, different principles.
"I did my best in trying to understand what life is - now I would like to start living."
I didn't become an artist and a writer earlier in life because The Adults taught me I wouldn't stand a chance. They made decisions based on their own experiences, and I can't blame them. We are responsible for our own right AND wrong-doings.
I do blame myself for using their measuring stick for far too long.
Authenticity really is the only point of measure that matters.
