Dear God, can you hear me? Dear God, What a beautiful dream.

I do not deny anything because I don’t see the purpose in that. I act vicariously through the part of me I dislike most. I entertain the illness I dread seeing as it is the only thing no one can take from me. Beyond it is a world that will phase me and hurt me, but within it no such thing exists. Perhaps this is why recovery is so hard, it causes one to feel, to endure the pain and seek resolution from it. But no such thing comes my way. I know the illness hurts and is deceptive, but which hurts more? This I am not sure of but regardless what choice do I have when its addiction is ever to difficult to refuse for long periods of time. If only I did have a resolution maybe I would be ok.

In this world I have myself and myself only, but myself is not enough, myself is unknown. But no one else can give me myself or what I need. For so long I have given to others but nothing was even reciprocated. For too long I have people-pleased, listened, reached out, helped and healed. In return I have barely received any of the such, but when I did it was because I paid for it. How is that fair? I am sick of being walked on, sick of being a doormat, but at the same time how can I not help but think I deserve it? I must be one heck of a shitty person. I like to think this is why I inevitably ended up the way I am as opposed to any other. I think it was my brain’s way of saying f* you society. I was only to rely only on the internal, core power and holding it was saying: world, look at me. I can live without it. I can live without feeling. I am super-f*ing-human and I deserve a goddamn medal. My way of saying, No one can hurt me. Only I can hurt me.

How do I escape this? How can I stop asking this same question over and over! What is wrong with me? What did I ever do to deserve this? I do not want to invest any more time in these thoughts. I want to live every day as if it were my last and take every opportunity available to me without caring whether or not others think its stupid, good, or bad. I want to decide for myself and be content with that decision and not let others influence my thoughts thereafter. I just want to feel like I belong and find things I like about myself, find a talent, and then hold on tightly to it as I attribute whatever it is to the world. I want to be good at something!

What a dream that would be, can I just be granted such? I promise to forever be grateful :)...please?

This is what I paint.

What is it like to wake up every morning and pretend that you aren’t dying?
I don't pretend I'm not dying, we all are. I completely accept that I will one day have to face the fact that I'm going to stop breathing. It's not something I like to think about at great length but we can't deny it will. However what it is like to live feeling like you are already dead? What is true happiness? Will I ever stop getting by and actually living? No matter how hard I try it just never seems attainable. What forces are against me? Why am I so feverishly against myself? After various readings I've concluded to be against psychotherapy...many philosophers have labeled it poisonous and until others influence me to believe otherwise I am now whole heartedly contrary to it. This is one of my various downfalls...I am so easily influenced, unable to formulate my own opinions. I do try, but they are quickly torn down. I don't know where I am getting it and I continue to paint but I don't know where thats getting at either.

What’s the difference between ‘living’ and ‘existing?’
I spend a large portion of my life just existing. Skating along and doing whatever anyone tells me I guess. I mean I don't feel I consciously do whatever anyone tells me, but when I take a moment to think about it than I must right? I mean I am persuaded by everyone else's opinions- both those around me and those in the media, magazines, books etc. Its a crazy type of existence- never knowing what to think, hopping along from one idea to the next. Can't someone just give me a clear cut formula... can there not be one channel to live by? Living is finding yourself, developing your identity, and learning to get through obstacles. All things I seem incapable of doing. As previously stated, I do try, I also pretend, but I always fall again. Like Munch I paint this soul...but how much longer can I paint it? Never something new to add on, a repetitive image..so morbid, loosing its beauty. What is the point when life is so bleak, when all one does is question themselves. When they just wish they could be like someone else and say whatever is on their minds and let a personality shine through. When you wish you could be like someone close to you and get jealous when you feel they are stealing away your other friends lively, fun, and full spirited selves. When they are smarter and easy going. Perhaps if I had fame and money than nothing could touch me, I would be above all the regulars and jealously would be their turn to keep. Cruel that is to say but when all else fails you just don't know what to think. Than again fame...me? How laughable. None of the sort could ever be possible for an individual so incapable of anything at all. Wanting so bad what I see others have and already concluding it will never be me...how sad, what then is there to live for? A tiny, thin, unthreading string keeps me going somehow...but something has got to change. Time is running out....the screams of food deprivation call my name to succumb into bone and retreat back into a place I will exist, be known and cared for by others. Is love all she desires?

How do I paint that? Just like I paint the rest of my soul...dark, not much else to add.

I do not really know, but in the mean time I shall continue.

The Morbid and the Beautiful

"We can never hope to duplicate Nature anyway-

therefore it is better to express one's own feelings.

How could one possibly paint real grief- tears that well up from the depths of person's soul.

Her contorted face, the swollen lips, her bloated crimson chin.

Her eyes were mere slits from which rivulets of tears were flowing-

and her reddish purple nose.

That anguish-racked face had to be painted the way I saw it then

against the green walls of the hospital and the inquiring, suffering

eyes of the child I had to paint just as I saw them staring out of the

tiny, pallid yellow body.

We need something more than just photographs of nature. Nor should

we content ourselves with painting pretty pictures to hang on sitting

room walls. Let us try and see, even though we ourselves may not

succeed, if we cannot lay the foundations of an art dedicated to

mankind. A style of art that will fire man's imagination. An art that

springs from our very hearts." - Edvard Munch

This man I never knew till a couple of days back when I was assigned to read an article by him. How crazy to read the words of a man who lived a life trying to pursue the art of expressing his soul onto canvas just as I am attempting to do for my action project. His writings now hold a significant position in my heart; he in a moments time, brought to my attention exactly what it is I am attempting to express not only in this project but in life. I could not formulate the words to make myself or another fully understand what I meant by this sort of expression, but this article allowed me to finally really understand. I guess I had this whole unconscious idea going on inside me for longer than I knew and even when I tapped into it I just didnt know how to explain what it was or what I wanted from it.

Like Munch, I do not just wish to paint my mood, or simply emotions, but rather the actual feeling- my soul. I want to see my soul in the art, not just the feeling of sadness, but rather the deep pathos for the soul left behind. I want to explain life and its meaning to me. To paint the essential, from within not without. That is why he feels we shouldn't paint nature, it is not ours, not of our imagination. He says the imagination is the organ of perception of the soul and that the works of the imagination can only be understood and appreciated through the imagination. Precisely: "There should be no more paintings of interiors, of people reading and women knitting. In the future they should be of people who breathe, who feel emotions, who suffer and love."- Munch

As far as my piece goes, I agree with this imaginational aspect, for as I previously posted I am clearly able to depict my soul in it even though it is composed of colors alone. It takes the soul to appreciate it and really grasp its meaning. Jung says we should derive our psychic conditions from these figures rather than deriving these figures from our psychic conditions. I am not sure if I am quite doing that, I guess in a sense I am, seeing as I am free floating- painting how I feel but not thinking so deeply into it that it will cause criticism and "how" or "what" I should paint. He says to loose touch with these figures in the archetypal sense is to loose touch with the soul. I guess one must be archetypally personal then.

"The image can only be studied through the image, by dreaming

images as they gather in reverie. It is nonsense to claim to study

imagination objectively since one really receives the image only

if he admires it."- Bachelard

Art is imagination, it is from within, I know many wont understand what I did. I know they will ask why I did it in this form, I know many will see nothing and think its hideous. But I see so much- a beauty in something that looks so morbid. A mute verbalization from the soul, of the soul, to the soul.

He states that soul is a perspective not a viewpoint toward things. This perspective is reflective, it mediates as a middle ground between me and a given event. Soul is an unknown component that makes meaning possible, it deepens an experience. A special relation with death is created out of experiences whether it be in love or pain. It is being able to see with an inner vision, a second sense making it a bodily experience. Making the soul alive. Munch asks that we see through the realism of our own lives, to see beyond the actual.

"It is soul with deepens events into experiences, making soul out of history."- Cobb

"The face of the soul moves, is alive, shows its grief, its fear, its painful vulnerability, its shy longing. Where before, the soul had little voice or face, now it has both: the soul embodied- no longer a bodiless soul and a soul-less body." -Jung

"Nature is not something that can be seen by the eye alone- it lies also within the soul,

in pictures seen by the inner eye."- Munch

Alone, I only hear the tapping of the shovel outside my window. Where is everyone? I am left behind again. I leave myself behind actually, leave myself to my own tears that stain my sheets as they drip ever slowly down my face, onto my chin, and into the air till each one hits the surface re-joining all those previous to it. 

What am I to do when the pains of hunger subside and I am able to run on empty without feeling ill? How is one to stop this behavior when reinforced by the beauty of bones in a photograph? How does one still go out with her friends when she fears the calories of an alcoholic beverage, and if she ends up going she despises herself the next day, all the hard work and restriction  gone in a moments time, consuming in 2 hrs as much as she would originally in 1 week. She will have to starve extra hard- whatever that means and exercise till she can't stand. Of course her body will result in a hideous burden that ruins her day or week, she is failing at the game she was once so brilliant at, nothing was able to tempt her for calories were the enemy and cause of death. Why is her body always looking for a battle? I paint this all but I begin asking myself how I should paint it, rather than just doing it. Criticizing that which I have previously  begun to be a beastly disaster. 

Thoughts, to many...surly this is my problem. Is there a such thing as being too aware of that which surrounds you? Being to questionable of it all, for you wonder all the possibilities that a given situation, thing, act may result in? And beneath each possibility is another and yet another, and then you question the people involved and their true motives. Then you think of exactly what to say and how because you don't want to sound stupid, then you say it and ask yourself if it was in fact stupid. And of course it will be so then you will repeat the phrase over and over in your head and beat yourself up for that which you voiced, and you will think of what you could or should have said instead. You question why you lack structure in verbal communication. You question your beliefs and realize you cant even establish a belief system because there are just to many others in the world, to many influences, to many unanswered questions. Words can't even explain this unquestionable feeling. 

Why think so much? It has not helped me in any sense, if I could only put all this unconscious effort into my studies, maybe I would be intelligent. 

I paint stupidity. And questions. Pain and tears. I attack my canvas head on, full force. 

I think of how to make the number go down. 

My name is Stephanie...

Though I continue to fight this,

I know I will never win.

For I have already lost this lifelong battle...

You lose as soon as you begin. 

Rip.

And this is what I paint...the painting of my life. 

Light at the end of the tunnel- something which makes you believe that a difficult or unpleasant situation will end.

I feel this exact sensation today, however not to the extent of its definition for I I know it will be short lived. No sense in dwelling in such negativity, I am simply going to embrace feeling lighter today. I say lighter not metaphorically for I sincerely feel so much lighter, a weight definitely lifted off my shoulders- yet I know this is impossible but strangely still very possible. Anyhow, my piece too endured some of the brightness of my day :). I painted some pinks and lighter shades onto it. It is still overwhelmed by darkness which is appropriate because only a hint of me feels better. Perhaps its due to all this writing, all this releasing onto paper (or blog I should say) and onto canvas. Our current reading Unbearable Weight too is a positive distraction. It is not so much a motivational literature that gives me inspiration to change, but rather a gift in a sense. The gift of knowing there are others out there who completely understand my thought process and give evidence to its existence. It helps me know my thoughts are not crazy and one of a kind. I can't really word what I am trying to say-but reading the book is like reading myself. So often I want to scream and describe how I am feeling to the world because I feel no one knows what its like, but reading the words of Unbearable Weight helps lower my anger and frustration because I now know this book is out there and its spreading the word- my word- to others. 

I know this assignment is not about Susan Bordo's book but in a way it is a perfect depiction of all that I am expelling onto the canvas. All the tangled thoughts which I painted. 

" Women are, literally speaking, slaves to their bodies, and glory in their subjection,...

women are everywhere in this deplorable state... Taught from infancy that beauty is woman's scepter, THE MIND SHAPES ITSELF TO THE BODY, and, roaming round its gilt cage, only seeks to adorn its prison." - Foucault. 

This quote along with many others in the book reminisce in me. My mind constantly conforming to that which my body desires, that which much of culture has made me feel I must adhere to. I had long ago vacated my residence on the nature side of the nature/culture duality and took up residency instead within the culture side. I did all this without conscious effort, without know there were words, organizations, books spoken for such. 

I guess what I paint is my story, a personal history that is recurrent to the present. I paint without words but instead through colors, texture, thickness, force/gentleness, shapes, emotions. Though it relieved my pain mildly I did not find it would help sooth me long term, but I now have hope. This hope resonates from the calmer self I feel today, a self which feels this activity with its combination of blogging is becoming greatly therapeutic. It's as though with each period spent expressing myself, less and less baggage jumps back into my being. To clarify, as I previously blogged, when I engage in painting and then writing about my experience I temporarily feel a sense of relief; but as I also mentioned that feeling is temporary and "the demon" quickly jumps back into me as soon as I seize all efforts. However, over time I am seeing the demon become weaker and hence disallowing all of the negativity to become one with me again. 

I wish I could write as well as Susan Bordo and all other books I have read in the past. Re-reading this causes anger. I can't explain clearly enough what I am trying to say, yet all articles and books that I read ALWAYS word everything so perfectly, writing their thoughts down effortlessly, correct grammar in tact. Such jealously I feel. 

How do I paint that?  

Unbearable Weight

My canvas is so thick. Piles of emotions. Accumulation. Layers and layers. Paint everywhere. Its so dark, I want color, I want to see clearly. I don't even know If I am blogging correctly. Is my assignment incorrect? How do I present this? I can't, I am going to fail- as always. But I paint, I continue, I pretend like there is hope, like there is a goal, like I will succeed. But truth be told I won't. I get by but I don't really. I am just occupying space and time. I am a chore, a burden, an expensive bill that comes at the end of each month. A waste of money that one must pay off with no end result. But I paint and paint hoping to find insight, true hope and happiness. I connect with my body and soul at such times but then again I never truly escape them, for both are constantly attacking me. However at least when I paint I connect with them a bit more positively. Dualist- I think I am. Unbearable Weight- a good book. Insightful- but can anything really help such a broken soul? Can anything help a mind which sickens there body more and more each day? A spirit so weak its hard to get out of bed but one still must for she must burn energy which is not there in order to give herself a little peace of mind. 

My canvas feels this pain. It can barely hold anymore paint. Is it on the verge of dying? I am not sure so I continue to paint. So conflicted, I must continue to paint for I must keep it together and not be selfish. I can be in pain so long as I do not cause my family anymore pain. I cannot bear their suffering. I must suffer for us all instead.

"That inescapable animal walks with me,

He's followed me since the black womb held,

Moves where I move, distorting my gesture." - Whitehead

" The body-what we eat, how we dress, the daily rituals through which we attend to the body- is the medium of culture. The body, as Mary Douglas has argued, is a powerful symbolic form, a surface on which the central rules, hierarchies, and even metaphysical commitments of a culture are inscribed and thus reinforced through the concrete language of the body. Our conscious politics, social commitments, striving for change my be undermined and betrayed by the life of our bodies- not the craving, instinctual body- but the body regulated by the norms of cultural life." - Susan Bordo

Yes, could not have said it better myself. 

I miss it there, I miss Selah House so much. I was the happiest there. A few months ago I was so sick of that word, didn't want to remember I was associated with them. I don't know why that is. Maybe its because I was finally feeling happier and hated the thought of needing someone to care for me, but right how all I want is for them to hold me in their arms and love me again. They have forgotten me I am sure of it, its like a tease- they love you and warm you while you are there, but as soon as you commence its like ADIOS! I don't know you anymore. It would have been nice if they checked up on me. Ok this is starting to get me angry now- WHY DON'T THEY CARE?

No one knows, but I am still so afraid and in so much pain but I appear as if I am fine. Which hurts for I thought they learned it does not matter what you see on the outside- it is how I feel on the inside, and to be honest that its disgusting. Its like my heart is decomposing, dripping everywhere, blood everywhere. SAVE MEE, no I must save myself. I can't! I don't want to give up- I am still fighting after all, but I am feeling so weak right now so I kinda do want to give up. 

That which holds me together is age, meaning I am older now, I think more and have no time to waste on harmful activities. Yet where are my current positive activities getting me? I don't see a future for myself, I see a life of poverty and I NEED wealth. I wont get those things- so why not just give up? Why not be sick and loved at Selah or somewhere else? Oh right they require money- that which I don't have. So I am stuck, stuck in hell, walking in a circle and often falling into the deep hole that stands at its center. Might as well paint and pretend like I am going somewhere. So I paint, and paint, and paint. Then I attend class. As I painted I recalled all the artwork I did at Selah. Do you know I actually came to believe that I was a somewhat decent artist? HAHAHAHA what a joke right? But that goes to show how good they made me feel. It made me more creative too- for a moment. Surely can't say the same for this action project, for my canvas looks a mere mess. But whatever its an expression of my emotions- it is my yoga. 

How do I become that which I fantasize of being? How do I become someone else completely? I tried sooo f* hard to change one to many times- not fake trying- real trying- real effort and It NEVER EVER lasts. I am such a ball of complication I can't even understand myself. Yes a ball indeed. Gross I am nauseous. The tears in my throat burn as I hold them back- swallow them down. It hurts. 

No one wants me. I paint this. 

If I sleep I won't feel, If I sleep I won't need it. Should I just sleep?

You won't see it. You'll look in the mirror and see disgrace. Other people will see it but you won't get to watch. You'll never see the truth. Others will though. Everything you do will result in a bruise. Everything.

You could always go to your room to escape though. Then you can lie in bed & bite your lip until it bleeds. There's nothing you can do. You just get to lie there & try not to scream. & trust me...you'll want to.
Sacrifice it all, throw it all away. But remember, you can't tell. Telling is forbidden & asking for help is weak.

Your teachers will not understand. Students might find out. They won't understand either. Their comments will hurt, you'll want to scream. You know it now, but it's too late. Its too late & you have to fight this or die...& fighting it is the hardest thing you've ever done. Maybe you will cry. Maybe you'll freak & spit it back out. Maybe you'll refuse it all. Triggers are everywhere. Maybe you'll fight & fight & just fall- wait thats not a maybe but a fact. After fighting for the longest time, maybe you will get out. Maybe, after numerous slip ups & times that where so hard you thought you'd die, you recover. It takes a while. You start to wonder if it will ever be the same again. It might, but you won't. No. This will always be a part of you, it will never go away. Years later it will still be with you, you will still have those moments. You'll panic & shake your head, trying to clear the image away. Something will happen in your life, maybe you'll lose your job. Something will happen to take away your control & you'll try to gain it back through it. You will NEVER be the same. You'll see an article on a someone & you'll start to cry because you are jealous and want it back. Only the psycical pain is describable. There are no words for the mental anguish. It can never be described. It's unimaginable. You'll never feel another pain like that, another pain so filled with self loathing, vulnerability, terror, rage, desolation... So why the jealously? Why would I want such a terrible thing back? I guess its better than becoming that which I fear.

Just paint Stephanie. Let all of this out, breathe slowly, focus your energy on something else. I escaped the tortures of his grip for an hour today. It was nice. My painting is so ugly though, I still can't do anything right. 

WHY do you want this?? WHY?!? I know, even after writing reading this, I will sit here and still want this. Why? What is it you want?? Show me the glamour. Is it control?? You have NO control. None. Yet I have it all. 

Should I just cry, should I just seize all efforts? Whats wrong with me I ask. Terrified of the world, scared of all, I wander what feels like a liminal state- not knowing where I belong, entering new environments yet still invisible. I curl and hide, I belong no where. Who are those that call me by my name? Do they even know who I am?
 What runs through their minds about me? Did I say too much? Do they treat me as they do because they know my interior- my weaknesses, my lack of self----. Perhaps, but I was also told to release these thoughts, never to hold them in for they only drove me to ruins in the past. But now I feel its a danger to say what I truly feel- a trap onto the battlefield, a reason for others to take advantage. 

I paint today, I paint sadness and anger, doom and hatred. Why do I think these things- why does this demon possess my entire being?! I do not wish to be this way or to feel this way and that is why I still risk things- that is I still take chances and do things which terrify me, for instance NYU. I am there but so scared that I am barely present. I wish they saw me but at the same time I panic, my chest burns, and I loose breathe when they do. When they notice me I wish they never did for all I think of is how to get out of the current situation and back into hiding. What has scared me so ever deeply that my wounds now remain exposed, bleeding, and refusing to heal? Whenever I have a moment of peace within myself the stitches pop off, flying across the room, leaving me bleeding on the floor. I paint red. My brush splatters the canvas- I jab the sponge at it. Colors of hell are unleashed, or maybe earth for earth is my hell. This release feels good, anxiety lowers, though I know its temporary. Purging on canvas I call it. LET ME FREE I ask of it in black liquid. I feel shattered- I paint this. I feel like tears thus I paint this too in murky grays and blues. The energy I expel onto the canvas feels therapeutic. Letting go of the negativity- or better yet temporarily removing it from inside me and shifting it to outside of me and onto the canvas- exposing it to light, giving it a form. I know the second I breathe it will like a demon, once again posses me.

I stumble upon them but cannot utter a word, a tortured soul I am. I just don't want to care anymore! I care so much that in trying to avoid coming across as that which I don't want to be seen as, I end up being seen as just that! I am loosing opportunities and connections.

Alleviate me of this pain, fear, trap, and animosity I have toward myself - I paint this as I splatter, brush, and  circle my piece. Allow me to be a free spirit I ask, be myself, show the world who I really am! I feel suffocated- I too paint this, I feel claustrophobic- I express this in a small corner of my piece as the rest closes in on me. 

My piece is thus far a combination of the abstract, confusing, dark, screaming, and loud. Its a combination of that which many won't understand, but I on the other hand can see which stroke, shape, and color depicts which emotion- even if the observer sees no shape at all. I criticize it- its ugly, no talent, no artist am I. Nothing I am. No one can ever see this I say. I need talent- I can never be an art therapist. AHH!!!!!!!! Will I ever prove myself wrong? Must I forever be trapped? Must I pray to a God I don't believe in? 

I am on my knees- I paint that too. 

Rambled, Ramble, Rambling.

I try to forget, to no avail. I try to remember and am met with too many variables, too many options. Floundering, flailing, falling, failing – crying to reveries like movie screens in my tired mind before I sleep. You are only but a dream and I am nothing but the dreamer. My masterpiece, but I’m not Leonardo Da Vinci – they won’t hang you anywhere, your skin is too delicate and I was too rough with my brush. The artist forever too far, too distinct from her work, too separate and too concrete, but this is what I have. I dreamt you into life, made you all you were not, because I wanted what I wanted and would not have you any other way. But I had you, and you were not parallel to my work of art, my perfection, so you disappointed, and I strayed. I strayed and fell away. I stopped painting, and you found other hobbies. I cried for your absence, unable to paint anymore, at all. I watched my masterpiece fade. 
You faded, you’re fading, please fade, please stop this. I can’t have you, I don’t want you, I don’t need you, can’t need you. Oh god, is there a god? If there were, he’d have kept you away. But, I have to paint, and you have to be someone’s muse, and you are the only muse I’ve ever known. So pose for me, bleed for me, be for me. I will make you beautiful. I will make you something. Anything. I will make you whole. -Melillo

Tired. So so very tired. I can't think anymore for I am mentally exhausted. Painted today to relieve the pain and injustice I feel. Body war- today stronger than yesterday. Its features frighten me, I can't consume a morsel, the grumbles in my stomach ache but they numb everything else. A pain that blocks all other pain, a focus which I feel is the only one I can control. The only one I am or better yet was good at, but now even that title has been taken away from me.  You won't understand, I leave to much out. I make no sense, and yet make so much sense. Am I in control or out of control? My canvas says Out of Control, but as long as I walk, walk, walk, burn, burn, burn, skip it, skip it, skip it- then I feel like I am ok, though my heart feels weak. Why is this happening again, why can I not feel good. Art helps though...it is art therapy that healed me back in 2007 when I thought my life had ended and it is therefore why I am taking it up again. I felt taking this course might help me heal again, help me think in rational terms, and turn off the fire that has once again reignited. I must remove the negative voices that haunt me day in and day out. It is for this reason I chose to paint for the action project. One might think it does not incorporate much of the "body" but it does. My thoughts to often lead me to attack my body and alter it- hence engaging in studio art helps me to reevaluate and rewire these harmful behaviors, thus ensuring that I "get back on track". Perhaps in terms of physical effort one can not see its involvement, but for me "physical" goes way deeper than what meets the eye. Yet I still use physical force when I feel a lot of anger- I paint angry using more power and energy. 

I don't even know what to write on here. My canvas is so very dark, much like my entire being. I just transferred to NYU, I should be feeling blessed to be where I am today for if you only knew what I had been through then you would know this is much of a miracle. But I now feel like I am falling apart, trying to keep it together because I was life so very much, yet it almost feels out of my reach. Everything is so far away, yet the bottom of the pit keeps getting deeper. Every time I think I've reached the lowest of lows I am still able to fall even deeper, and yet when I rise back up and feel the beauty of all that is around me it ends up being so short lived- why does everything wish to be against me? Or am I against myself? I am not sure- but this is what I paint. 

Painting on Canvas

Trying to depict my emotions onto a blank canvas has been harder than I pictured. The painting itself is not of difficulty, unless I begin to criticize it, but I try to remember its not about creating a specific image, but instead about throwing paint freely onto a canvas. This task allows me to feel a sense of release, that is releasing all negativity from my system. The difficult task is painting when I can't identify how I am truly feeling. Today for instance I have felt happiness, sadness, pain, and a load of other emotions I have no names for. Tears crowded my vision, but creases resembling somewhat of a smile had its moments on my face today as well. I didn't know how to describe this in color, shape, or force so i just painted. I softly brushed colors onto my piece and slowly pondered my thoughts until my mind felt lighter. The time I put into painting today really made me feel better- as if for a moment I could forget everything else that was going on inside and around me. Purging onto paper is how this whole experience is making me feel. Therapy. Art. <3. 

This self imposed choice will definitely suit me in the future for I one day wish to be an art therapist. What better way to improve my skills than to get hands on experience and self induced knowledge by learning different techniques and generating ideas of that which may one day help others. I am not sure if any of this is making much sense. I am not one who does well with words. Its quite odd to me because everything always sounds so smooth and intelligible in my thoughts, so well thought out- but as soon as I want to explain something, prove a point, share my ideas, or defend myself, everything comes out in a huge knot, all nonsense with nothing making sense, so so stupid? I just can't ever word my phrases the way I wish, lacking a strong vocabulary, always feeling inferior of those around me who use such long beautiful words- words which I understand but could never utter, words I can't even pronounce well. Hence, never being able to speak up.

Its hard to let this all out. I think so little of myself, I hate it, I guess thats why I am so tough on myself. I never feel like I can be as good as anyone else. Everyones better than me- no matter what I accomplish. How can I teach art when I am the worst at it and everything else? Why can't I do anything right? These thoughts consume me everyday and it relates back to my action project and the body and soul because I am hoping that it will be a way for me to better myself and these unbearable thoughts. A positive self-talk project in a sense- that is talking in my mind as I ponder my thoughts, and talking through art by throwing paint onto a canvas. Perhaps this small step along with the help of other techniques will help to better my perspective of who I am- if anyone, in the future. If not at least doing this project helps me to escape such thoughts temporarily. Well saying I escape them is not always true- but at least they quite down to say the least. 

I must go now. Can't bear this day. I shall return at a later time.

Sincerely,

Stephanie ~