sigh.
the past couple days have been alternately great and gruesome, fueled by live music and gin and wine and food and rain. i am worn out, not sad, but have been feeling a bit anxious for the last 3 or 4 days. i've been having strange, sad dreams that leave me feeling guilty and full of regret when i wake up. i've even been feeling the urge to pray lately (which is something exceedingly rare for me). and then i realized that i'm right smack dab in the middle of a very strange anniversary of mine- my college graduation. it is the day i became disowned.
i'd made a statement once that if anybody ever tried to get in the way of my art practice, i'd cut them out of my life quick and sure and without any regret...
and i found myself in a situation where i had to do just that.
i'd need to write a memoir in order to explain what happened... suffice to say that my resolve to become an artist had been tested in the most extreme and unbelievable ways that, at that point, all i wanted was to graduate. i no longer cared about grades or honors or anything other than getting the damn piece of paper. i was hanging on by a very thin string and was living in constant fear that a complete mental break would seize me at any moment. i'd begun having panic attacks... something i was not at all familiar with and it took me awhile to identify that that's what was going on. they'd hit, one right after the other, as i sat quietly on the BART train on my way to campus each morning. it felt like i was about to have a heart attack. the uphill walk from the BART station to campus would work to calm me down but the panic would find me in short order once i was sitting in class. i couldn't even keep track of how many bouts of this crap i'd suffer in a single day.
12 hours later, i'd fall asleep on the train on my way back home and, surprisingly, i never missed my stop.
i was preparing myself to become homeless. i actually wanted to be homeless because it meant i'd be out of the situation i was in. walking in the door to death threats and hunger strikes isn't a happy experience.
so i walked across the stage and got my little scroll and was almost immediately carted off 500 miles away to my mother's house. it was hard to be without jared but i didn't want him to see me lose my mind. he was in a very painful, angry place as well. the situation had re-opened so many things and ghosts and traumas for the both of us... so i made sure he and inga had a new place to live and then i left. they were safe and knowing they were safe was such a huge comfort. and i felt safely hidden from anything and everything that could hurt me at my mother's house. i slept and slept and slept and cried and cried and cried. i woke up to fresh coffee and i'd sit out on the back porch with my mom and we'd talk for as long as it took. my brother and sister stayed by my side and the full weight of the family history was dealt with... together.
all that talking and crying kept my mental slip at bay and i've been working ever since to bring normalcy and regularity and truth in to my life. it has definitely been a hard, confusing year but at least there's been no yelling, no death threats, no hunger strikes, and no deception. there's been lots of writing, lots of walking the dog, lots of painting and drawing and crocheting and reading and talking and (lately) wine with the neighbor.
and so i've been feeling a bit wild, a bit out of sorts, but also extremely thankful for the fact that my life today is nothing like what it was on this day a year ago. i'm in a much better place. i'm safe and healthy and generally happy. i no longer fear for my sanity and i feel optimistic and strong and capable. jared and i are happy and in love. both our careers are moving forward and our home is warm and safe and full of art and honesty.
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