Art is a fleeting look at a moment of the artist’s life.
I make emotional art. The kind of art no one wants to look at. The kind of art that shows the ugliness in my life. Maybe, if I’m very lucky, it’s the kind of art that will unlock past trauma and let me feel the feelings I’ve refused to feel for so long.
I’m not responsible for the trauma. I am responsible for allowing or not allowing myself to feel things I couldn’t feel during the trauma because releasing those feelings at the time of trauma wasn’t safe.
I’m in the process of recovering from my last blog post. I put in that post things I’ve never told anyone. Things I was ashamed of. Things that, at the time of the trauma, seemed not exactly normal but also not unusual or special. Didn’t everyone hate their siblings as we were taught to hate each other? Didn’t everyone have parents who hated and beat them? Didn’t everyone stagger through hell while denying they were in hell?
I couldn’t feel anything growing up because it wasn’t safe to feel anything. At one point, I convinced myself that I didn’t have emotions. Prozac without the prescription. Now, it’s safe to feel what I couldn’t feel before. Except now I can’t feel those feelings. I can’t access them. I don’t know where to find them. I don’t know how to let the feelings out. Maybe that’s why I can’t find the feelings. Those feelings are buried under raw terror.
What would happen if I allowed the pain from neglect, emotional abuse and physical abuse to release? Would I explode? Would the feelings be horrifying? Would the feelings hurt? That’s the one that terrifies me. The feelings would hurt. I’d have to relive a hell I’ve buried.
More than anything, I want to heal. I want to be normal. I want to be able to make friends. I want to attend services at my temple without wanting to be by myself curled up in a corner.
I don’t’ know how. I don’t’ know how to be normal. I don’t know what to do with people. I don’t know how to be part of a group. I go through life believing I’m all I’ve got, all I’ve ever had, and all I ever will have. What does it feel like to be normal? What does it feel like to be happy? What does it feel like to feel? To be fully alive?
Lose a tooth and find myself.
I don’t recommend it.
I’ve sketched a couple designs that may become quilts. I’m not sure. I’ve tried drawing my trauma, but it has never seemed to be accurate. I think I’m coming closer to drawing what’s hidden inside of me. It’s emotional art. I’m not sure I want to look at it.
My mother, a violent drunken narcissist, hated dentists and thought teeth were temporary and everyone should have dentures. Consequently, my siblings and I never went to a dentist, my mother didn’t buy us toothbrushes nor insist we brush our teeth. One day, feeling brave, I told my mother I needed to see a dentist because I had a cavity. I was 16. The dentist wanted to explain to my mother what work needed to be done on my teeth. She stood outside the room, did her melodramatic attempt to look frightened, and told me – over and over – that I should have all my teeth taken out and get dentures. I refused. That was an act of bravery. This demand that I have all my teeth removed was made periodically and I always refused. Losing a tooth means my mother wins. I cannot let my mother win.
The dentist used nitrous oxide and one day, I had a bad reaction and threw up. Vomit landed on my blouse and in my hair. My mother made me go to school wearing that vomit. I was 16. A junior in high school. Dressed in vomit.
My mother was a horrible person. When I reached puberty, I got my first pimple. It was on the end of my nose. My mother announced the fact to my siblings, and then told them I looked just like a witch. I didn’t say anything. Just got my coat and went out to wait for the school bus. I was 12. She bought me clothes that were a few sizes too big and bras that were a few sizes too small. She called me fat ass. I weighed 103 pounds. She called me selfish and lazy. I had no social life because I always had to babysit my siblings while she and her husband went out and drank themselves into a stupor. When my siblings got an allowance, I didn’t. After a few weeks, in another moment of bravery, I asked to have an allowance. When her husband beat me with a belt, she made no effort to stop him. A couple days later, she asked how I got belt-shaped bruises. I was too embarrassed to tell her so I just said that she knew how I got the bruises.
Now, I have a broken tooth. My dentist told me she might not be able to restore the tooth and it may have to be extracted. I told her I wanted the tooth restored. As she looked at my tooth, another piece broke off. The break went clear down to the bone. She told me the prognosis for a crown was horrible. It would be expensive, time consuming, and I’d end up losing the tooth in a couple years.
I cried. I told her I have a repeating nightmare about having a tooth break and having to have the tooth removed. I told her about my mother and how she demanded I have all my teeth pulled and get dentures.
My options are a bridge or an implant. The dentist told me that many insurance plans won’t pay for an implant, and implants are expensive. A friend had a horrible experience with an implant and I’m reluctant to have an implant. Plus, I’d have the tooth extracted, wait for that to heal, have a post installed, wait for that to be healed, then have a crown put on the post. A process requiring a minimum of three months. With a bridge, I’d have the tooth extracted, wait for my gum to heal, then a bridge would be made. She told me the bridge would last the rest of my life. I have to choose one bad option or the other bad option. As I type this, I think that a bridge would be the best bad option.
I hate my mother. She’s been dead five years, and she is still hurting me. At least I won’t have to listen to her gloat about my broken tooth and once again demand I have all my teeth taken out and get dentures.
For me, art is therapeutic. I think I need to make a quilt about my tooth. I’ve been working in my sketchbook, but I haven’t discovered a design that works. Either I need to keep sketching and letting my hand put on paper what’s in my heart, or I need to take a couple days off and then look at today’s designs again.
Maybe I’ve got this figured out. It’s too soon to know for sure. I’ve battled insomnia for five months. Sleeping pills don’t work. Melatonin doesn’t work. Relaxation music doesn’t work. Music that’s supposed to trigger brain waves to promote deep sleep doesn’t work.
I’ve always had an inordinate amount of anxiety. Lots of reasons for that, and none I want to discuss. It’s okay; I discuss those reasons with my psychologist. For the past five months, I’ve battled extreme anxiety. Relaxation music doesn’t work. Klonopin helps, but I’d need to have an increased dose to defeat the anxiety. I’m not going to ask my doctor to increase the dose. I’ve been on the lowest dose since August 2007. I take it when I need it and don’t bother when I don’t need it. Having been through the hell of psych med withdrawal a number of times, I’m not about to risk addiction to deal with a temporary problem.
I’m out of ideas.
I’m done fighting insomnia.
I’m done fighting extreme anxiety.
We live is terrifying times. There’s a virus that has caused a pandemic. There’s no vaccine. There’s no cure. Scientists are discovering the virus attacks far more than the lungs. It attacks other organs and causes irreversible damage.
That’s terrifying.
In the United States, we have a narcissistic sociopath running the country. He’s lied, dismantled environmental protections, pissed off leaders of other countries, treated the Queen of England horribly, mocks disabilities, mocks veterans, mocks the parents who have buried sons or daughters killed in Iraq and Afghanistan, decimated the economy, and encouraged people to drink bleach.
That’s terrifying.
In the United States, we have a presidential election in November. The narcissistic sociopath has threatened to send the military to “protect” polling places, dismantled the postal service in an effort to thwart absentee balloting, and claims if he loses the election (please God let him lose), it will be the fault of the post office.
That’s terrifying.
Being terrified when in the midst of terrifying events is healthy. Being anxious and sleepless in the midst of terrifying events is evidence of mental health. Only a psychotic person wouldn’t be terrified by what’s happening in the world and in the United States.
I’m terrified. I’m worried. I’m afraid the narcissistic sociopath will get re-elected and my country will be destroyed. That’s evidence of mental health. I don’t care if the military, the police and Putin stand between me and the voting booth. I’m voting in this election.
I once offered a friend the following advice: Your feelings are your feelings. They aren’t good or bad. They are just there. The appropriate response to anyone who says you should or should not feel a certain way is to tell the person to fuck off.
I’m done fighting. I accept that I have extreme anxiety and that anxiety is reasonable. I accept that I have insomnia and that insomnia is reasonable. I finally figured out that I cannot battle my feelings. They’re my feelings. I’m entitled to have them. I get to decide how to respond to things that are out of my control.
I have this to say to extreme anxiety and insomnia: fuck off.
I’ve had extreme anxiety for so long that extreme anxiety feels normal. I don’t notice it until I have a small frustration, then the bipolar nuclear warhead explodes. I’ve no idea how to lower the anxiety. I have a prescription for Klonopin, but Klonopin isn’t helping as much as I need it to help. I’ve been on the lowest dose since 2007. I take it when I need it, and don’t bother when I don’t need it. That has kept me from becoming addicted. Having gone through psych med withdrawal five times, I can say with great authority that coming off heroin is easier than coming off a psych med. With heroin, you puke and poop for three days and you’re done. With psych meds, withdrawal lasts at least three months. I’m careful with Klonopin. I’ve had extreme anxiety for five months, and that’s more than long enough to become addicted to Klonopin. I haven’t yet, and have no plans to ask my doctor for a prescription for a larger dose. As bad as the extreme, unending anxiety is, withdrawal is worse.
I listen to relaxation music. I meditate. It doesn’t help. It may keep me from screaming for a few minutes, but that’s the best I can expect. I think of the high stress events in my life – law school, taking a bar exam, a trial where I was in the courtroom when I grabbed my stomach and doubled over in pain, having a supervisor scream at me, having a stalker terrorize me, suing the New Mexico Public Defender Department….none of that compares to the anxiety I’ve felt for the past five months. None of that prepared me for the anxiety I’ve felt for the past five months.
I’ve been in an extended manic episode for the last five months. Something about a killer virus and a pandemic. Once the frustration arrives, the vitriol ensues. It’s not nice. For me or anyone around me. During this manic episode, I’ve had severe depressive episodes. The last one was scary because I felt dangerously close to suicidal. The suicide rate for people who are bipolar is 20 times that of the rest of the population.
My physiology class started on Thursday. The class is via zoom complete with technical glitches, internet disturbances, and a significantly lower risk of becoming infected with covid-19. I did not handle the glitches well. It took me a half hour to get into my class, and I don’t remember how I accomplished that. I had tried so many things, I have no idea what actually worked. I’m supposed to fill out a covid form and take the covid quiz that’s online, except it isn’t on line. Or if it is online, it’s in a super-secret location. I don’t see the point of this quiz. Dona Ana County and specifically Las Cruces where I live is a major hotspot in New Mexico. New Mexico State University has classes via zoom and on campus. I had predicted that the university would have to shut down by Halloween due to rampant infection. I’ve revised that. I predict the university will shut down by Labor Day. The university has had five months to figure out how to sanitize classrooms and restrooms with a janitorial staff that has been decimated due to budget cuts. Plans have yet to be finalized. The campus police apparently have no intention of enforcing state, county and local laws mandating wearing face masks in public. Jim is on campus daily and he has yet to see a student wearing a mask in public.
I spent this morning terrorizing the university administration. In my defense, the administration deserved it. There is a survey students are asked to take regarding a monument in the middle of a traffic circle. Some engineer who may have been on acid at the time, decided it would be a good idea to remove traffic lights, and have a traffic circle with exits and entrances to I-25 as well as exits and entrances to major roads and the university. I suggested rather than the three boring ideas proposed that a caduceus be erected as a monument to all the injuries caused by collisions that will happen in the traffic circle. Next, I took a survey for theater arts majors. Although I’m not working towards another degree, I declared a theater arts major as a matter of convenience. Jim works in the theater arts department and I needed a clearance in lieu of mandatory academic advisement each semester. It was easier for Jim to handle the paperwork if I were a theater arts major. The survey contained questions about upcoming plays – none of which are going to be produced because by state law there won’t be an audience because only 48 people can be seated in the theater. Every year, the theater arts department, in clear violation of the First Amendment, puts on a Christmas production. I suggested they have plays for Hanukkah, Rosh Hashanah, Yom Kippur and Pesach. Not that anyone in administration will know that Pesach is the Hebrew word for Passover. I then asked if the department was going to continue to cram Christianity down everyone’s throat. I used to be on the board for American Southwest Theater Company – the organization that financially supports the theater productions put on by the theater arts department. I resigned in the middle of a meeting when it became clear that not only was ASTC and the theater arts department going to continue to crap on the First Amendment, but ASTC didn’t carry insurance to protect me in the event someone woke up and sued the university. New Mexico is a community property state. Being on the board meant risking I would be sued, I’d be forced to sell the house, and we’d only be able to keep half the proceeds from the sale.
Then, I finished breakfast.
My broken tooth won’t be fixed until August 28 and my birthday is August 22. There will be a subdued celebration. I can only eat on one side of my mouth so my food choices are limited. Restaurants in New Mexico are limited to patio seating and take out only. I’d like to spend part of the weekend in Albuquerque but hotels are restricted to 25% occupancy and Albuquerque is a hot spot. The fanciest I can do for a celebration is to make Welsh Rarebit.
I’ve been doing photography, but that’s not helping as much as I would like. I calm down a bit, but the calm doesn’t last.
I’ve been working on manipulating photos to use for fabric designs which will be sold at Spoonflower. You can find my Spoonflower shop here: https://www.spoonflower.com/profiles/deb_thuman
I do not like this pandemic. I have money, time and gas is cheap. I have more than 135,000 points and can fly anywhere Southwest flies for free. Except flying isn’t safe. I can get a good deal on a cruise. Except taking a cruise isn’t safe. I have nowhere to go. Hotels all have restricted occupancy. Restaurants in New Mexico are take out or patio dining only. I’m surrounded by hotspots. It’s not safe to go anywhere. At first, I amused myself by documenting in photos spring in the desert. Then, I amused myself by sewing masks. Next, I amused myself by photographing summer cactus flowers in the desert. Now, I’m not amused. And I broke a tooth Friday evening.
I have put 30 new fabric designs in my Spoonflower store here: https://www.spoonflower.com/profiles/deb_thuman I manipulate photos I’ve taken of assorted subjects and turn the manipulated photos into fabric designs.
To sell fabric designs on Spoonflower, the designs have to be proofed. I use the economical 30 designs on a length of fabric to proof designs. I think I found a good use for the fabric. Quilt backing and making boxers for Jim. The only sewing I feel like doing is making boxers so I’ve been using up leftover fabric for Jim’s boxers. He’s used to getting a leg of this and a leg of that.
I am battling depression at the moment. In an attempt to banish the blues, Jim and I went to the Bernina store and I looked at fabric. Jim looked at sewing machines and discovered the Pfaff I bought two years ago was a huge bargain. It was on sale and it’s the nicest machine I’ve ever had. Next, he discovered the machines that cut out quilt pieces are expensive, the dies are expensive, and – as Jim put it – the machine doesn’t help you put the pieces together. Lots of opportunity to stretch fabric cut on the bias, not get the seams even, and end up with an expensive mess.
I found two pretty batiks on sale. Four yards of each have had the ends serged and are being pre-washed and run through the dryer. Serging the cut ends keeps the ends from unraveling and giving me handfuls of thread messes. Plus, if the ends are serged, I know the fabric has been pre-washed and run through the dryer. If fabric is going to shrink, I want it to shrink before I cut out a garment. Also, I’ve yet to find fabric that was folded on grain when it came off the bolt. I’m thinking blouses for this fabric. I got some patterns on sale a few weeks back.
Jim has been busy, and I’ve been listing the seam rippers he makes in my store here: http://www.DebThumanArt.com There are 8 new seam rippers. Here are a few of them.
I’m closing in on the quilting design. I’m playing with the idea of heaven and earth, dead and alive, and how they are separated. I’ve been thinking about how there’s no communication between dead and alive. I don’t believe mediums can communicate with the dead. We have assorted beliefs about what happens to a person after death, but those are beliefs. We have no actual proof of what, or if, anything happens to a soul after death. I believe a soul is alive before conception and lives on after the body dies.
There’s no communication between heaven and earth. Maybe. Those on earth pray, but we’ve no confirmation that anyone or anything is hearing the prayers.
I’d like to put all of that into the quilting and I think I’ve figured out how to do that. If the quilting works out the way I have it in my head, I’m going to have a strange quilt. That’s okay. It will work well with my other strange quilts.
I’ve been sending short stories in to writing contests and I got a rejection email the other day. The short story that got rejected is 1800 words and four chapters. Now, I need to find another contest to submit this story. I submitted two stories to the Chicago Tribune in February. Those are still pending. As I go through stories I had written for my writing classes, I’m struck by how weird my writing is. When I was in college, my writing was normal. When I was a journalist, my writing was normal. When I wrote appeals for my clients, my writing was both normal and constipated. I don’t know when or how I started writing weird. Although I’m an avid reader, I’ve never read anything remotely like my style. That I write weird was an almost disconcerting discovery.
I’m working on a novel. Anyone who thinks writing a novel is easy has never tried to write a novel. When I was a journalist, I’d sit down down, starting a story at the beginning and going straight to the end. All in one sitting. Novels don’t work that way. At least the novel I’m writing doesn’t work that way. The story is about a woman who is my age, bipolar, a criminal defense attorney, a widow, and she’s in love with a police officer. I had to kill Jim off to write the novel. He’s taking it well. New Mexico is a community property state and any royalties I get from this novel are marital property. Translated: Jim and I will jointly own any royalties.
Because I don’t consider any book that doesn’t have at least one dead body to be worth reading, I’ve put three bodies in my novel including an officer involved shooting. My view of officer involved shootings is nothing like the views written about in The New York Times. It’s also nothing like the views held by the majority of criminal defense attorneys. I’ve never been good at conforming. In the novel, I use capitalization in an odd way. Not only am I working with a story line, I’m working with unusual concepts requiring unusual capitalization.
Deb's Art 