I think of my heart not as a muscle, or a stone, or a vase to be filled, but like a flower.
A delicate flower.
When it’s content, it blooms.
Art Archive
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10 Aug 2012
Feeling The Truth
When I was in hospital this year, I started working on this “book of truths” with my roommate. She was doing it as part of a group housing program she was in and she introduced me to the concept. I photographed some of my favorites and made this little poster to hang on my wall, so that they would be easily visible when I needed them. The concept is to write them down in a notebook and then read them outloud. Saying things out loud is one of the best ways to make yourself believe them, which is why just reading them doesn’t work as well.
03 Aug 2012
Fuck. Schizoaffective?
The last few weeks have been chaotic for me. I’ve been in a mixed episode, and starting last week, I’ve been hearing voices. Whispers, chatter, and someone calling my name. All either alone, or only with my partner nearby, and she’s confirmed that they aren’t things that she’s heard. I’ve also been feeling like the crows that wake me up in the morning are mocking me. I’ve known for months that something like this was inevitable, but it’s still jarring to experience a psychotic episode for your first time.
26 Jul 2012
Untitled
It was created during a stay in the psychiatric ward at my local hospital… I don’t know what else to say about it. I kind of went into a zone and just painted until I felt finished.
25 Jul 2012
Devotion
I would like to welcome the newest member of our writing team, Reba Overkill. In its first post with us, it speaks through poetry to recall its struggle with being heard by the people who matter. Thanks for sharing with us, Reba!
Trigger Warning: allusions to sexual abuse, self-injury & suicide attempts.
it all came together a few nights ago, weak and bent
in your lap, feeling lost, feeling like it was years ago when
i was never anything like the me that you know. i was
someone who was trying to speak, nobody listened and i didn’t
understand because i can hear so fucking well, i listened and
i heard sirens, and songs that i would sing with people who i did
not end up loving very kindly. i heard calm assertions by
people in authority that left cracks in parts of me. i heard
the breath i took in when i woke up and was not dead, even
for all my trying. i heard people leaving hints for their departure,
inclining heads towards one-way tickets to not existing.
11 Jun 2012
Hyperacusis: the Shade Garden
the problem is there is no ethical answer.
one hello––from a stranger
: a cannon shot.
how are you––from a friend
: a packed audience
in a 360 degree stadium,
looking at me with a magnifying glass,
an echo chamber
hung on my reply.
06 Jun 2012
my kitchen smells like food & i hate the smell of food
nothing fits.
what makes sense is not what i know.
i can’t function.
i am a crazy person.
there is a bird in my throat trying to sing.
why can’t it sing?
04 Jun 2012
Dissociative Identity Poem
I would like to welcome the newest member of our writing team, Billie Rain. Ze is a wonderful poet who writes about hir experiences with Dissociative Identity Disorder and PTSD. Thanks for sharing with us, Billie!
How can I write
a fucking poem
with everybody fighting
all the time?
04 Apr 2012
The Human Condition
Trigger warning for mention of incest
…I love the definitions of stigma and mental illness. They complement each other so well, don’t you think? Kind of like a cocktail, a drink made by mixing various spirits and/or fruit juices…and any hybrid mixture…and any number of different drugs used together to treat a condition. I personally like 1 part stigma to 2 parts mental illness: it has a nice little kick to it. Combine the three and well, whew, you have a real drink here. I – a person – can only be facetious about this. If I wasn’t I’d be blubbering all over this keyboard.