The Dulling of My Creative Spirit

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Hot 9 by Jackson Pollock

I would never have called myself an artist. However, I did DIY cards and gifts. I dabbled in different areas – knitting, charcoal, paint, ceramics, photography, poetry, etc. Drawing could calm me often – even if I didn’t like what I created.

But the medicine dulls that desire. My mind goes blank at the page. I know a lot of people on mood disorder pills suffer from this. Many stop taking their meds because it’s not worth the sacrifice.

I miss that creativity because it also allowed me to see a deeper beauty in things. I would spend time looking at wind blowing the trees, or look at each individual piece of grass. Now, I can acknowledge something is pretty, but I don’t feel the beauty.

And while I miss my creativity, I can still feel excitement, love, sadness, charm. Things still make me cry and laugh, or both at the same time. I think if I had pursued acting or comedy, perhaps my depression would have made me better, more intense. But I didn’t.

I was worried when I started to feel better that I wouldn’t be as gregarious without the depression and definitely without the alcohol. I was wrong. And I can still be just as pessimistic and misanthropic as before – I guess cynicism is not necessarily a symptom of depression but a personality trait you can hone over time.

A lot of time, with depression, it’s all about weighing options and often times both aren’t ideal. I suppose life is really like that but with depression the stakes feel higher, especially because making the decision when you are anxious and depressed takes far more energy. When it comes to creativity, I am willing to dull that part of myself for the chance to feel a greater variety of feelings, perhaps more muted, but also greater in range.

But I do miss it. Putting a pen to paper and watching my hand move on its’ own. Going to a gallery and feeling a painting all over my body, wanting to immerse myself in its’ unique ambiguity or feeling.

It’s a price to pay to not feel the intensity of pain that helped guide my hand. A price that allows me to view art and not spend the rest of the day enveloped in feelings that immobilized my brain and my actions. I’m not saying it isn’t worth the price but that doesn’t make me miss it any less.

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The Disadvantages of Being a Blank Canvas

I used to write poetry, as I suppose many emotionally-wrought young adults do. I remember how intense the words felt, how little I had to try – the release of my pain, my frustrations, my truth just spewed out of me.

I decided to read my poetry today. I think most of it was from college. I remember how soothing it felt to put my emotions on the page. But my goodness, it is truly awful shit. My metaphors are painfully melodramatic. I wrote about things I only understood from movies. I was tangential – though that hasn’t changed.

Since I’ve been on medication, at least when it works, my creativity seems to evaporate. When creative opportunities arise, my mind is blank.

Those with bipolar I often say that medications drain them of their creativity. And many of them refuse to take medication because they fear losing that integral component of themselves. The mania, for many, has helped define their selves, their passions, their art. I have bipolar II so it’s not the same thing in terms of hypomania. However, I do believe my medications dull my mind.

I kinda miss it: the intensity of it all. I think it was indicative of my resolve to find a way to still get what I wanted. I was yelling then – in my behavior and actions: “Someone listen. I am in pain and it is killing me. I want things like love and laughter and all I feel is rot. And I fucking deserve those things. My gentle, loving soul is slowly vanishing and I don’t know how to stop it. This is bullshit and it’s not fair!” I was angry at this disease and how it punished and controlled me. I just wanted it to go away. I’m still angry I suppose. Frustrated by the damage, the uncertainty, the lack of control.

But there is a sad acceptance nowadays. Maybe after medications, ECT, countless attempts at different therapies, efforts in life changes (in diet, exercise, sleep,) I’ve come to a melancholy understanding of the possibilities in my life and the restraints that come with the mental illness that will always be a part of me. Funnily enough, I think I know less about myself now than I did then. Back then, even with all the self-hate and self-harm, I still felt like I knew who I was underneath the depression. But maybe, living so long with the depression, it had come to define me, mold me, make me. But now the depression has lifted and I am, much like my brains’ creative canvas: blank.