The Tortured Artist

A story some can relate to, but written in hopes that it may help someone understand what someone might be going through. A lot of this is taken from parts of my life, but I just hope it's useful.

My name is irrelevant, and my physical description doesn't matter either.. For all intents and purposes, feel free to just call me artist, and imagine me without a face. I have no face, as to say that anyone can call themselves artist, writer, sculptor, painter, designer, or anything in the category of arts. Their face is their own.

I had a relatively normal childhood by some standards. I grew up with my two brothers, me being the middle child, raised by my mother and father in north-east Ohio. My older brother, who will call Brother A, was 2 years older than I, and was the problem child. Always getting into s**t he had no business in. My younger brother, who we will call Brother B was 6 years years younger than me, and was the baby of the family. He could never do any wrong by my parents, who coddled him to the N'th degree. So to paint a picture so to speak, Brother A got all the bad attention, and Brother B got all the affection my parents had to give. I, being a quiet kid, required almost no maintenance, so I got whatever was left over.

Growing up, I had never really been into sports, or any real physical activities. I have been an artist all my life, or at least the parts that I can remember. In the early days of school, all the way through middle school, I led a "normal" existence. I had a few friends so I could be social, and went outside, played in the mud, made trails through the local woods....etc.  You know, normal kid stuff. It was around mid to late middle school that I really fell, or tripped rather, into my skills as an artist. I fell in love with drawing and painting, and it would eat up most of my free time. I would spend hours and hours, drawing the same thing over and over. Same with painting, Until I got it "right" and I could be happy with what I had made. For years I honed my skills, and techniques to get where I am today with the quality of my works. 

Now for the uneasy topic that everyone knows about but doesn't want to talk about.  Depression. I recently discovered studies that showed that creative people such as artists are more likely to have various mental disorders, and to commit suicide. I first realized I had depression in my early years of high school. I just never "fit in" with the other kids my age. I had no interest in being popular, or being a jock, or really going into any of the other social cliques. That singled me out and I was teased relentlessly all throughout my school-life. It gets to you eventually to where you can't just brush it off. Some of that s**t sticks with you, for years and years. You can only be so resilient to the constant torment of the people you've grown up with over the years.

Now, you might think so far, this seems to be kind of choppy, and doesn't really seem to have a direction yet, but no worries. It's getting there I promise.

Depression, for a lot of people is a very touchy, scary subject. Not a whole lot can help you understand it, unless you have it. Then you know all to well what it is and how it feels/works. So as the title describes, I will do what I can to explain it from the perspective of an artist, and how torturous it can be at times. It's like an ever looming cloud you cannot escape. It swallows the things you enjoy and doesn't give them back.

In my case, it swallows everything, but the only exception is art. It gives art back, but its tainted, and not the same when it went in. And each time it is swallowed by this cloud, it comes back a little more skewed and distorted. And in a direct correlation, the things that are produced over time get darker and just a little more fucked up in the feel of them. Not always but usually. I do have days where its nice to just do a portrait, or a simple painting. But there are other days, the depression is in charge of what goes onto the paper or canvas. 

Think of depression, kind of like a circle. That empty circle, is a persons capacity to feel emotion. Joy, anger, sadness, all the emotions can take up a part of that circle and still have room for other things. But for someone with depression, that circle is drastically smaller. So any amount of emotion eats up a vast majority of the space in that circle leaving only a small fraction of space left to feel things. So you get these bursts of short lived emotions. It isn't so much that you are sad all the time like most people think. There's just a void that you want to fill so badly but anything you try to fill it with just isn't good enough. For me, its that feeling that helps me make some of my best art. Because I try to fill that void or distract myself with it, so I pour every ounce of whatever I have into it, and most of the time it turns out really well. Hence the tortured artist.

It's like a game of tug of war. Always a battle with myself to either be ok, or in a pit. But like I said, that's where I draw from, to really pour feeling into what I'm doing. 

I guess, what I'm getting at, is that depression is in a way a very sick blessing, or a beautiful curse... at least for an artist. I love art. I always have. There are plenty of days I don't want to get out of bed, and go to work. There are days I am so full of life that I feel like I could conquer anything life throws at me that day. But if I'm being honest, most of my days are spent in a zombie-like state. I don't really feel things, but I go through the motions of being a normal person. I go to work on time, and I do the same tasks every day. I shower, eat and sleep almost on a routine basis. But inside, I cant wait for the day to be over, so I can just go back to sleep. But the bittersweet part, is knowing that I'm going to do it again the next day, and the day after that, and the day after that. But when it comes to my art, I always have time for it. ALWAYS. Some days its the only thing I look forward to, are the moments where I can doodle, or do calligraphy or ANYTHING to get my mind off the world that seems to be collapsing around my head. 

So, if you know someone that's dealing with depression, the best thing that you can do for them is just.... be there. Be there for their good days, and their bad days. Be there when they want to go out. Be there when they don't want to get off their couch. Be there when they don't want to do anything but stare at the ceiling and wait for the day to be over. Just being there, having that human interaction, can make someones day infinitely better, even if it may not seem like it.  Now if you know a depressed artist? Encourage them. Support them. Be there for them, maybe as an inspiration, or just as a shoulder to lean on. 

But the concept of the tortured artist, is one that is as old as time. Anguish fueled works, finding beauty in death, just as in life. Artists have the ability to convey feelings without having to say a word. But it is amongst the anguish and hurt, that, like a phoenix, some of the greatest works are born from the ashes of a broken person. But while that work rises from those ashes, the ashes of anguish still remain. and its only a matter of time before the ashes are gone. Turned into beautiful works of art, with a portion of the person embedded into the work itself. But when those ashes are gone, so usually, is the person.  

SO. Now that that portion is over with, we can get to the STORY portion of this story.

So yeah! I am Artist. My friends know me as a joking, fun loving guy, with a knack for artsy stuff. One of my best friends growing up has always supported my art and encouraged me the whole way. We will call her Best Friend. She actually saved my life, but we will get to that later. She has been there for me, through thick and thin. I love her to death and would do anything for her, just short of roping in the sun and giving her the world. Best friend is the most caring person I know, and if I'm going to be honest.... She has been one of my biggest inspirations. To keep going forward in life, and art. She is a strong, compassionate person, but just... don't ever get on her bad side. I promise it's in your best interest.

Some of my best memories are when I'm with her. But for this to be a story, I will start at the beginning, when this convoluted story actually begins. Then, you can decide for yourself if it's worth reading.

It was a late summer day, and I was going to school, for the first day of that grade. Roaming the halls, recognizing the familiar faces of kids I've known for years and grown up with. Everyone scurrying to get to their classes and swinging by their lockers to grab whatever they needed. I took my seat in the Literature class not knowing that my life would take a very different turn that day.

The teacher got everyone's attention after the bell rang, and we dove right into one of my favorite books, Animal Farm, by George Orwell. It's a phenomenal read, if you ever get the chance. But, second period, was Art. Drawing fundamentals to be exact. The teacher was kind of an off-putting guy, but a solid teacher for sure. We started the trimester off on gradients and blending and slowly throughout the course of the class worked our way through still-lifes, portraits, and a plethora of other topics.It gave me a really solid base working with pencil, and I spent the following trimesters practicing and practicing. Through color fundamentals, and a class specifically on portraits, I was getting quite good at painting and pencil. I remember I started doing portraits of people for fun, as people would come to ask for them. 

Best friend REALLY came into the picture before this though. It's going on 17 years of friendship and I wouldn't trade her for the world. But I digress, I had done a portrait of her, and she never knew, but there were days that I would draw her in the middle of class. We only really ever had a few classes together all throughout school. For instance, there was a class that we were doing a pig dissection and she had to go out into the hallway, and I sorta kinda faked being a little nauseous so I could go sit with her. Anyway, we have been thick as thieves for a long time.  I worked up the nerve to ask her out freshman year, but was turned down because her parents wouldn't let her date until she was 16, which is perfectly reasonable. I told her I would wait, and had every intention to do so.

Then along came the one we will call the Ditch. A horrid creature that would soon turn my life into a literal nightmare. It didn't start off that way though. In the beginning of us dating, it was sweet and fun. But, like most things that seem too good to be true, it was too good to be true. I went on a 3 day trip to New York with my parents on a ski trip. I thought everything was fine before we left, and had no idea what was about to happen to shatter my world. The ditch, out of seemingly nowhere, flipped out and refused to talk to me for weeks. 

Now, I can introduce the guy I will call the Snake. I had been friends with the Snake for some time, but didn't expect the knife he buried up to the hilt in my back to come from him. Long story short, the Ditch and the Snake had told each other they had feelings for each other. His excuse was that he thought someone would have told me. Lying piece of s**t... anyway... Weeks went by of this nonsense. The ditch finally came out and was feeding excuse after excuse as to why she was done. As an afterthought she added,

"Oh, by the way, Snake and I are going to give it a shot."

I couldn't help but think, "AH. There it is, the real reason." Now mind you, I was only 17 at this time. I had no real grasp on what love was supposed to feel like. I had a pretty good idea, but wasn't sure. But I was so tore up over the Ditch that I had a pain that couldn't and wouldn't go away. Even then, Best Friend was there. Just like she always has been. 

But this part of the story, is where the torture, and the anguish really began. Not going to lie, I was not OK. Not even a little bit. My parents were going through a nasty divorce, school sucked in general, the relentless teasing didn't help either, and I was just... done. With everything. So I did the only thing the shattered me could think to do, or bear to do. I started writing my goodbye letters. Everyone who mattered to me had one. It had to have been 15 or maybe 20 letters I had written that night. I went into detail about how I felt about each of them, and things I wish I could say, or things that I wish I could change. I had each of them cued up to be emailed.

I wont go into detail about the plan I had, but I did have one. I was going to email those letters, and do  it, I was ready. Best Friend caught wind of what I was planning, and with one of my other best friends who is practically my brother, got a hold of my parents and told them what was about to happen. My parents stopped me, and I have those two to thank for that. I mean that. I owe them my life. I wouldn't be here if it wasn't for them.

I carry that with me, even today. It's not something you just get rid of, or get over. The ghost of that time period haunts me still. But, I learned something through that. Pain, real pain, can be turned into something amazing. After that incident I turned to art as my saving grace to help pull me from that pit. I channeled all the hurt, the anguish, the anger, all of it, into making art. I still have those paintings and drawings. I don't think I will ever get rid of them They are very special to me. They serve as a reminder that there can still be life amongst the ashes of a broken person. Like an idiot though, I took the Ditch back. Because I thought I loved her, and couldn't live without her.

After all that, I graduated high school and went off to the army, where that badge I had to keep hidden. I pretended to be fine, so I wouldn't get singled out. I finished Basic Training and AIT, to return to the reserves. Where, I found, that my Mother had taken my room after the divorce, so I got booted to the basement, which turned out to be a breeding ground for depression. It was an unfinished basement, with concrete floors, and brick walls. The washer and drier sat in the comer, next to the hot water heater and utility tub.It was a very dead feeling space.

Between drills with the reserves, I had a job as a bartender. So, every month I bounced back and forth between being a bartender and a part time soldier, still hiding that badge I have carried for years now. I couldn't let people know how I felt. I mean, how could I? But I carried it nonetheless. But it didn't take long before bouncing back and forth got old, REALLY old.

Now I should probably mention, that the Ditch and Best friend HATE each other. But only one of them has valid reason to. Ditch hates Best Friend due to the simple fact that I have known her longer. That's it. Best Friend hates the Ditch because she is the one that drove me to the brink of suicide. To this day, That holds true. If anything its only gotten more intense over the years, especially since I regrettably married said ditch. 

I am well aware I fucked up. I fucked up bad. But that mistake, I have to live with for now. But despite that I still try to make the best of things. There are the good days, and the bad days. But over all, no matter what kinds of days I have, I know that I have people who really care about me, and I can go to them with anything. But out of 3 miserable years, there were very few moments of joy in my marriage. I spent the majority of the time trying to work s**t out between us. Trying to make things better.

So that being said, it hasn't been easy always having to take the high road with her. The arguments would be initiated by her, and would be vicious. I would bite my tongue, despite wishing to lash out in a similar manner. But it's not who I am, so I take it standing up, She has been an immature child since we met. I grew up, she never did.  She has it in her head that I am a filthy cheating husband and a liar. So weekly accusations about "SHE" started. WHERE IS SHE. I KNOW SHE'S HERE. WHO ARE YOU SCREWING...etc. I have done nothing to warrant this, and yet its been a semi daily occurrence almost weekly even.

For instance, we spent some time apart while I am trying to hold what little of myself is left, together. But there was a Saturday, it must've been around 1 AM. I'm sitting in my living room, minding my own business, drinking some amaretto and orange juice (delicious by the by)  and playing some Halo. I get a call from her, screaming at me, WHO THE F**K ARE YOU SCREWING. I had no idea what she was talking about so I tried to figure out why she was accusing me.... again. Turns out she had an STI. Swore up and down that I had to have given it to her. So I have already asked for a divorce by this point and the cheating accusations were a big part of it. I don'[t like having to constantly defend myself from something that I did not do, and have never done.

So like any rational human being in this case, that has had all I could stand, I told her that I was going to go get tested and if it came back negative we were done a lot sooner than anticipated. Guess who didn't have an STI? That's right. This guy. SO I think she realized when I gave her the results that SHE had fucked up royally this time. Irreversible damage had been done up to that point and it was just the.... the cherry on top. 

So anywho, I guess that brings me to the next s**t-show. The army. Now for anyone who has served, and did more than 3 years active, hats off to you. That was by far the absolute worst Ive been aside from being with the ditch. Where I was station, was an absolute hell hole. I have not wanted to off myself in a long time, but that place.... It's almost like they were encouraging it. Or how far could they push an individual until they just, just snapped.

It was about a 2 month span with a couple weeks of leave tossed in, but they hung me from the rafters, in a sense. I went from being viewed as a leader, to being a scapegoat for just about anything they could get to stick on me. Being mentally exhausted already, it definitely didn't help. Honestly I am quite surprised I wasn't demoted over anything in that short amount of time. But let me tell you, when you are an ocean away, from your friends and family and everyone you hold dear in your heart. To feel totally alone and isolated in a different country, surrounded by people you can't stand, and you're hanging by a thread, when the command looks at you like hungry wolves, and you're just waiting for them to stop playing with their food...And wishing and hoping that they would just go for the jugular already....

     THAT is the moment. That is when I realized how deep the pit I was in was, and how I would give my left kidney, since I am awfully fond of my right, to just leave, and come home. I looked up, and saw a tiny spec of light and knew that I had to get out of that pit. 

     It has not been easy that is for damn sure. Multiple psych evals, and a few antidepressants coupled with bi weekly visits to behavioral health have been exhausting. For those of you who are in the same boat, you already know. But I would encourage any of you, who might be struggling even to see the light at the top of the pit... Give it a try. It helps in its own way.

     So to put a neat little bow on top of everything, and bundle it up all neat and tidy. Life is hard man. Its an uphill battle, with nothing but a soggy loaf of bread to defend yourself with. But that can't stop you. Find the ting that keeps you going. It might be a who, rather than a what, but either way. No matter how far down the pit you might be, if you look just right, you can see the pin prick of light at the top. For this artist, the torture of existence is met with subtle nuances of irony. After all I kinda got myself into this right? So who better than to get me out of it than yours truly?

     Fight the good fight. Fight with whatever you have. the worst torture you can endure is the torture you put yourself through. Life might be ugly at times, but you have a certain amount of control as to how ugly you let it get. Stand up for yourself. Do the Thing. Eat that 2nd cupcake. Go for a run promptly after. Tame a Dinosaur. Conquer a foreign land. Train a spider to do back flips. Whatever it is that floats your goat.

     So from this tortured artist, I would implore you. stop torturing yourself, and Enjoy the funny way life messes with you, and turn it into a positive thing.

      The tortured don't seem so tortured,

      When a graceful tear of light is shed,

      Upon the sweaty brow of a tired face,

      To which, with hopeless eyes, do gaze upwards,

      And a beautiful future is beheld.

      With trials and tribulations ahead,

      And with a determination of the fiercest fighter,

      Does one find the strength,

      To do what he must,

      So as in order to bathe in the light again.

      And once more feel the warmth,

      The spoils of his struggle.

      He will lay his head down on that day.

      Sleep with the peace of the heavens above him.

      And suddenly,

      Or maybe not so suddenly,

      The pit is a distant memory,

      And he will rest, and when he awakes

      He shall say,

      Today is a new day, and all that it comes with,

      I put down my shovel, for I am done digging 'neath my feet.

      One foot in front of the other, and so his journey began.

Reviews

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You were so honest with everything you wrote. Glad you are an artist too.

Good Luck !

[Deadline Jeffrey]

Thank you for the review! I need all the good luck I can get haha. But Art has really been a great outlet for things and has helped quite a bit.