Art

I have always been an artist. My father, an architect, never ceased to lecture my sister and me on the principals and history of architecture. And my mother, an art teacher holding a Masters Degree in art history, covered my appreciation of fine visual art.

Always encouraged to explore my inner artist, it was a natural behavior to express my feelings, frustration, and confusion of living with mental illness through the creation of drawings, poems, collage, and digital data visualization.

These posts include my collection of mentally ill charged art. 

be thankful

No, my life is not the fairy tale that it once was in terms of money, homes, and travel. But it is a fairy tale of sorts. I am hoping through my writing and work, I can take this cataclysmic story of mine and use it to shed hope and light on someone else’s darkest needs.

Is there such a thing as a “normal day?”

I often reminisce about the good old days when I could attend work and successfully direct my employees. Back then, I appreciated their innocence and youth. Back then, I would have never suspected that they were undercover secret agents.

a secret message from a street vendor

I recognized the young grasshopper phrase from Kung Fu, a show on television I watched when I was a child. I don’t know what prompted him to address me in such away. But my internal response was quick and powerful, this man was a government secret agent and he was delivering a message to me.

self-portrait

my first diagnosis

Psychotic tendancies didn’t appear in my early twenties as they often do with the many that find themselves waging a mental war fretted with hallucinations and delusions during that age. My constant deliberation with the the probability that I might be hunted at large by an underground sex cult didn’t reveal itself until into my mid 40’s. But my late twenties bore tell tale signs of possible trouble ahead.

art overload at 12 years old

But now, in my darkest days of living with psychosis, this bittersweet memory provided the fuel to substantiate the conspiracy. Now, I could only reference the forced study buddy system as clear evidence. It was all the proof I needed to confirm my belief that my mom was part of a clandestine government initiative to create a private citizen that was covertly engineered and conditioned for the greater good.

“breathing with a noose” – a drawing

I can think of no better way to express how I’m feeling. Drawing a caricature of myself, I perch naked and wild-eyed, perilously teetering on the edge of a stool. A noose hangs loosely around my neck.

The caption reads, “Yes, I can breathe . . . but it’s still a noose.”