It has been over a month since I have posted. During that time, I have been hospitalized in a psych ward for safety, and I am now fighting a common cold. The cold will go away. Not so with the mental earthquakes.
Mental earthquakes happen quietly. No one can hear the agony within our heads. No one can hear the despair, the upheaval, the turmoil. And describing it is as painful as experiencing it, because one puts themselves in a super-vulnerable state.
Yesterday, I painted for a while. I felt like I was in heaven. I began to think of things in polar opposites - shadows and lights, lights and darks, detailed and fuzzy. I realized that while writing helps to process the earthquakes, painting does so even more. The interesting thing is that most people would never know what is going on in my head when they look at the painting.
Painting is a vulnerable, personal process. We put ourselves "out there", for everyone to see and feel. Thank goodness, not everyone gets it. that would be a disaster. But the people that do "get it" are part of the healing process. Without words, they help me heal.
Right now, I have lost my literal voice, due to the cold I have. I have not seen my therapist in weeks, and I am starving for counsel. I am raw from the hospitalization experience. So I write and paint in the safety of my home, where I can be as open as I want, and as vulnerable as I need to be.
With time, these past three weeks will be stored away in the "important life lessons" section of my brain. It is the little area where my raw edges live and learn. And my next art exhibit will honor the mental earthquakes, that rock my world, and those around me, without a single sound.
cathy
