Swamping the song
In an individual session I did a mixed media piece with pencil, chalk, and oil pastels about the night in September when everything came crashing down and I ended up crying on the curb alone at 10 o'clock at night, pretending I was talking on the phone so that people walking by wouldn't pay too much attention. What came up was that feeling of incredible loneliness, and of being swept away by the emotions, and silently crying out for help, and feeling stripped bare. So I drew a bird crying out from the bare branches of a tree standing alone amongst a tumultuous sea. There is a wall of waves rising up from the left behind the bird. The sky is dark and chalky and dead.
A couple of days later, S and I met to process the piece. She had me put myself in the bird's place and asked me what I would say. I meant for the bird to be mournful, but he looks almost peaceful, though sad. The bird would be saying, "I'm sorry; it's not my fault," and crying out for help. He looks at peace with the fact that he is using his voice. The tree is being pulled in the direction of the branch that the bird sits on (the left, leaning toward those giant tidal waves), as if it were trained to grow slightly skewed. It is a static figure amidst a glowing, tumultuous sea. The pink in the waves represents the light and hope growing from the bottom of this sea of depression and ED and anxiety and perfectionism and self-abuse; hope, promise in the dark, goodness hidden with all these "bad" things. Maybe my troubles and weaknesses can be my strengths.
S asked if there is anything I would change about the picture. I said that maybe the bird wouldn't be alone in the tree, that there could be a flock on the other half. And maybe it could be a few hops closer to the trunk and to them, not so far out on the limb. And back in September? Back in September that bird would be on an even lower branch, one sagging under its weight, dipping perilously close to the sharp waves below. It would be hunched over and definitely not crying out for help.
The sea is not always tumultuous. It crashes down, cascades and rushes out to the right where there are calmer waters. It recedes, it doesn't always threaten to swamp my life. My parents got it wrong when they pushed me so hard, but they did the best they knew, and they didn't know much because I wouldn't speak up for myself. But if I keep doing so, the sea might just calm down a bit.
