A couple of years ago, I was completely lost. I had no idea what direction my life was going to take. I knew what I wanted to do with my life, I just didn’t know how to get there. I was taking a course for Business and failing at it miserably. The course had me in a position where I was my own teacher. A mentally ill person responsible for his own learning…it was a bad combo (I have since failed the course.) I wandered the streets seriously debating on whether I should just step in front of a bus, when I passed by a mental health facility called Likemind. I paced back and forth in front of the door for a few moments. I thought of my partner and how he would feel if I just gave up, so I stepped through the doors, walked up the receptionist and said…

“I need help and I don’t know what to do.”

Since then, I am generally happy, though I still struggle with anxiety and depression and dealing with my new diagnosis of PTSD. I published two books relating to growing up in domestic violence, school bullying and homophobia. I discovered my story was more about hope than about despair. Though I’m not as financially sound as I’d like to be, I’m no longer lost in the direction I want to take my life.

I’ve met some pretty amazing people this last year. As my social media expands and more and more people are reading my books, my poems and everything else I write up, I’ve been able to interact with an assortment of people. E. G. Perez is one of those people. One of these discussions led to how our art reflects/expresses our anxiety and/or depression. She showed me a couple pieces of her art and I instantly connected with one. I saw myself in the painting very much positioned the same way as the body in the piece. So, I asked her if she’d like to guest blog during Mental Health Month in a post where I was going to talk about how I sought help and found myself again in the shattered pieces around me. She agreed. -Michael Stoneburner

Mental Health Awareness

I used to think there was something poetic—romantic even—about tormented artists like Edvard Munch, Vincent Van Gogh, and Caravaggio, but I’m a millennial. Being emo was cool when I was a child. We idolized suicidal musicians and bragged about how sad we were. We read Edgar Allen Poe for fun and pretended not to adore Harry Potter. The irony is that, now that I have something to paint about, I wish that I didn’t. I’d rather paint frivolous images like Edgar Degas’ ballerinas or Bob Ross’ happy trees. But it can’t be helped. My brush is my voice, and now I am the emo artist I always dreamed I would be. This is the story about my painting.   

I stared down at my feet. He was angry again. I didn’t know what I’d done to make him so angry. When I got home from work, I made sure the house was clean. I prepared dinner. I made everything from scratch—even the biscuits. I looked nice. I’d made sure to change after I’d gotten flour on my shirt and jeans. Nothing was amiss, and yet, he was angry. I nibbled on a dense biscuit. I’d used too much flour. Damn it. But that wasn’t why he was angry. My eyes flicked to his face. I was hoping for anything. I would settle for an awkward white girl smile. 

He scrolled through his phone and avoided my eyes. It hurt. He didn’t used to be like this. He used to come home and kiss me immediately. He used to smile at me with relief after he had a long day. He used to look at me like I was his oasis… but not anymore. 

He ate the food quickly and stood. He didn’t say thank you. He didn’t say he liked it. He was silent as he strode to the sink and threw his dish into the dishwater. He hadn’t scraped it. Chunks of biscuit floated at the top and I tried not to let him see me cringe. He was already angry. I didn’t want to push him over the edge. 

“Did you have a good day?” I asked. I was so hopeful. I don’t know why. I was foolish to think I could pull him from his storm cloud. 

He shrugged and made an unintelligible sound. Then he flopped onto the couch and continued to ignore me. Tears started to build up in my eyes. He hadn’t asked me how I was doing or showed any positive interest in me in weeks. Sometimes he stopped to criticize me or insult me. I either felt attacked or invisible. I was starting to get jittery. I wiped my tears away quickly and steeled myself. I grabbed my hand to stop the tremor that was building. Then I gathered the rest of the dishes from the table. I scraped them and put them next to the sink. 

I couldn’t wash dishes in water that had soggy bread in it. I had too many sensory issues. I’d throw up if that soggy bread brushed against my skin. I drained the water and washed the sink before I refilled it. I hate washing dishes, but I washed them in painful silence. When I finished, I sat next to him and asked if he wanted to watch a movie. He shrugged but didn’t look up from his phone. 

I noticed the remote across the room and asked him if he would get it. He dropped his phone on the cushion in between us. It landed with a slap. I flinched. Just before he stood, he looked at me like I was garbage. Then he rolled his eyes and stalked across the room. He snatched up the remote and carelessly tossed it near my face. I flinched. Not because I’d almost been hit by the remote, but rather because his contempt for me was so thick I could almost taste it. My lip started to quiver. I bit it. I shoved my pain down as I fixated on the television. I forced myself to laugh when something funny happened. I laughed too loudly and he glared at me. I pretended not to see and laughed louder. I even threw in a snort as I chortled. He stood and walked down the stairs.

The moment I heard our bedroom door close, my dog appeared. My sweet black and white australian shepherd. Kenai usually hid from Him. He wasn’t nice to my sweet boy. Kenai crawled up on the couch next to me and put his head in my lap. 

I put my face against his, “Oh Kenai, what am I going to do?” 

Kenai licked my cheek and I started to cry. Then I started to sob. My body shook as I wept into Kenai’s soft fur. Kenai always stayed with me—even when I fell apart. I couldn’t have asked for a better dog. 

When I eventually made my way downstairs he was on the phone with his best friend. He was laughing. Then his eyes met mine and his laughter died. A sour expression took over his face “Hold on man,” he said, “I’m going to take this conversation outside.” 

I wasn’t allowed to see him smile anymore. Even if he was smiling for someone else. His joy was too good for me. I felt the shake in my lip and bit it. He pushed passed me and I heard the front door slam as he left. I sat down on our bed. It smelled like him. I felt the tears again. What did I do? Why is he so mad? I pushed them back and went to my dresser. I changed my clothes and then crawled beneath the covers. I stared blankly at the wall until he came back. I sat up in our bed. 

“Can we talk?” I asked. 

“Oh, you want to talk?” he sneered. 

I almost said never mind. I almost chickened out. That night, however, I had to know. So asked him, “Why have you been so angry with me? What did I do?”

He deflected and turned the focus back around on me, “I’m not mad! Why do you always think I’m mad? It’s pathetic. God.” 

My lip trembled, but no, I couldn’t cry yet, I needed my answers. “No!” I said with more confidence, “There’s something going on. You treat me like crap and I’m sick of it. You make me feel like I am nothing. So, tell me why. Why are you treating me like this?” 

I was seconds away from screaming or crying. My emotions started to cloud my thoughts. His gaze became cold. Goosebumps washed over me, and I leaned backward on our bed. He icy stare pierced through me like a thousand needles. I was suddenly terrified of him. I wanted to run, but I had to know. Why? 

His voice was emotionless, “Because you deserve it.”

Crack. Crack. Crack. My heart broke. Tears poured from my eyes as I tried to wrap my head around what he had said to me. Because you deserve it…  

“Wh-wh-what?” I stammered. 

He scoffed—annoyed by my tears, “You’re so dramatic. Would you be happier if I was dramatic like you? Would that be better? You want me to make a show of everything? Do you? Want me to cry?”

I shook my head and tried to stifle my sobs. I could hardly see as the salt in my tears started to cover my contact lenses. “No, no, I… I…” I didn’t know what to say. “I’m not dramatic. You…”

“I what?” he interrupted, “I don’t fawn over you like everyone else does?”

“No,” I shook my head, “No, you’re mean. You’re really mean. It’s like nothing I do is ever good enough for you.”

“Yeah well, that’s because you’re pathetic and lazy,” he spat, “Someone needs to teach you a lesson.” 

How could he say things like that to me? I worked full time, cleaned our house, took care of the dog, I folded his laundry… I wasn’t lazy… was I? I believed him. I was trash. I was lucky that he even put up with me. I started to weep. He realized he’d gone too far. He sat down next to me and put his arm around me. I wanted to shake him off, but this was the first time he’d touched me in a month. I cried harder. 

“I’m sorry, baby,” he cooed, “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it.” 

That night, even though there were worse nights before, and worse nights yet to come, that was the night I irrevocably broke inside. That was the night that I started experiencing panic attacks. That night was the beginning of the following ritual; after he fell asleep, I left our bed and made my way into my painting room. My dog followed me and curled up at my feet. I mixed alizarin crimson with ultramarine blue on my pallet until it looked like coagulated blood. Then I began to smear it on the canvass as hot tears streamed down my face. I couldn’t tell anyone how much pain I was in. He was so charming. No one would believe me. I had to let my pain out somehow. So, I painted ferociously. In the early hours of the morning I stumbled into the shower and violently scrubbed the paint from my arms and hands. Then I could finally sleep. 

It’s been years, but I still flinch when someone says my name too loudly. I still jump when I hear a slammed door. I still struggle to believe that I have self-worth. I struggle with insomnia and depression. I struggle with conflict. It frightens me. My heart starts to race any time somebody asks me too many questions at once, and I start to feel dizzy. I still have panic attacks. I still cry into Kenai’s fur. I still wake up and paint until 4am when I have to be at work the next day. It sucks, but I smile wryly to myself sometimes. Fourteen-year-old me would think I am so cool.