What do you call an Art?
What do you call an Art?
I’ve always admired artists, whether it be someone who works with paint or clay, words or film...their ability to create something beautiful from chaos has always been one of my biggest envies.
Saying that, being an artist isn’t restricted to just the ‘creative arts’ as people like to call them. I know plenty of people who are artists at other things. My friend is an artist at helping people, the skills she portrays when soothing an upset friend, or empathising with a stranger...I admire that just as much. Another friend is an artist in the kitchen. I can give her three random ingredients and she’ll come back with a dish that tastes amazing and tingles on my tongue. She makes the classic foods better than anyone I’ve ever known, and even my old family recipes - she’s managed to give a fantastic new feel to them. She’s an artist when it comes to food.
I honestly believe everyone can be an artist at something, that every person on the planet has some talent, or skill, or ability to do something out of the ordinary, to invoke admiration.
But what do you do when you cannot find your art form? What happens when all the emotions build up inside so intensely, but you have no outlet for them? What do you do when you feel lost?
I have this problem. I have yet to discover my canvas on which to paint, my clay to mould, or my words to scribe. I find myself freezing in front of a canvas, paint dripping on the floor, incredible images flash through my mind, ideas which I know would be beautiful. I see the images but I freeze and cannot draw. I have no control over my hand as it drags pencil over the paper, circles end up slightly square, shading turns flat...and I can find no way to make it work for me like others do so well.
I give up on drawing and try pottery, or sculpting...even just children’s plasticine, but that just ends up with me making a mess while a childlike blob of bright colours blur in front of my eyes. My vases are squat and ugly, and make me sad to see them.
My attempts at writing are almost as bad. Awkward attempts to reach out, to spill out my feelings on paper, or even type, end up with me cringing in embarrassment. Stories are missing something important, poems are cliche and boring, or embarrassingly senseless. I discover I never learnt grammar rules and though my spelling is alright I make easy, simple mistakes.
I sing and my voice hurts even my ears. I dance and I nearly break my ankle. I act and the old family cat can do better.
When I finally give up with the traditional artforms, I try alternatives. Remembering my friend’s skill with people, I attempt it, only to be awkward and slightly creepy. I’m no comedienne either, making people stare in bewilderment as I try to joke. Pets are afraid of me and stay away. I give up with people and animals completely.
I try making new food. It ends up with me giving myself food poisoning and being in the hospital for three days.
I try learning new skills, but I’m so clumsy anything physical makes me fall and injure myself or others. I get impatient, desperate to find any way at all to help express the feelings that rise up but I can find nothing.
Sitting on my bed I can feel myself sinking into a depression again. I don’t cry. I can’t even if I try. I have too many emotions, so many that finding just one is too difficult and I suppress them till I feel nothing. Laughter is forced, as are smiles. There is no relief with sleep, as my mind takes over in the dark and my imagination goes haywire. With no outlet my thoughts turn morbid and I cannot sleep from worry. When I do sleep, I sleep too much, dreamlessly, and wake up feeling no more energetic..
My days are filled with desperately pushing myself to do something, anything to avoid sitting on my bed, staring into space. I have to set reminders to eat, even if I’m not hungry. I push myself to get dressed each day, even if its just to move to the sofa. Going outside becomes an ordeal, the effort of making myself look vaguely human, and the prospect of human contact means I find the nearest 24 hour supermarket and do my shopping at 3am, passing through the automated checkouts.
I have always been an avid reader, but when I get depressed I switch between not having the energy to follow a story and feeling an inexplicable need for losing myself completely in another world, to follow a character’s progress as if it were my own. My emotions are inextricably linked to a character’s - I cry with them, I laugh with them, I fall in love with them, and when the story is over I go back to feeling nothing.
My friends drag me out, worried and attempt to buck me up with alcohol and dancing. I can’t help but feel my confidence nosedive as I see them effortlessly having fun, laughing, inner beauty shining out so strongly, I feel insignificant. I watch them, knowing they worry and that they love me and are trying to help. I try my hardest to make it seem like I’m ok, feeling worse, like I’m bringing a downer on their night, hating my own thoughts. I drink too much but don’t get drunk, my mind refusing to let me relax enough. I still suffer the hangover.
The university term restarts and I consider dropping out. I’m failing all of my exams anyway, and instead of asking for help, I bury my head in the sand and hope it all goes away.
Months pass by, medication doesn’t help, I still feel no happier. I don’t consider anything drastic simply because I know that would hurt the ones I love more than me suffering through this. The future and any possibility of future happiness is so clouded over its impossible to see. I feel hopeless. I still haven’t cried.
My alarm beeps, telling me that its time I got some food. I feel sick more than hungry, but I know I need to eat. Opening the fridge door, I sigh. I haven’t gone shopping yet. The fridge is bare, the only thing in there is a bottle of milk starting to smell a bit funny. The cupboards and freezer reveal nothing.
I look out of the window….it’s dark enough. Maybe I could risk going to the store. My hooded jumper is clean, and it’s late enough that the after-work crowd should have dispersed.
I grab my keys and purse, making sure my hood is covering my face and head out of the building. I take short-cuts down alleyways I know are dodgy, but it gets me there faster, so I don’t care.
The store is hell. Its busy, people keep bumping into me, and I’m convinced they’re giving me weird looks. There are some guys who’ve obviously had a drink, being rather loud, and I give them a wide berth. They don’t have what I really wanted - out of stock - so I just grab a few packets of ramen, some milk and eggs. I can feel myself starting to panic, breathing faster, heart beating so hard I can feel it in my throat, and I start sweating. Focusing on breathing calmly and pay for my food and rush out.
I end up suffering my full-blown panic attack in the alley by the store, away from prying eyes, hyperventilating as I curl in on myself - focusing on my breathing exercises to calm down. There are still no tears.
Grateful I didn’t lose consciousness, I stand up when I’ve caught my breath and hurry home. I climb the stairs and spot my next door neighbour unlocking his door. I avoid eye contact, bow my head and attempt to fit the key in my lock. Just as it clicks in, the handle to the bag in my hand snaps, sending milk and eggs smashing to the floor, ramen packets sitting sadly in the mess.
Its a small thing in comparison to everything else, but I break. Everything shatters around me like glass and I don’t even care anymore. I’m trying so hard and everything falls apart around me. I drop to my knees, right in the middle of the mess and let the tears fall. I cry and hiccup and let the tears drip down my face until my voice is hoarse and my jeans are heavy from soaking up the milk. It is only as the crying starts to ease up that I realise there are warm arms around me, a voice singing soothing songs quietly, hands smoothing my hair, and I’m being rocked from side to side. I hiccup and reach up to wipe at my face, mumbling a sorry. My feelings try to push up but I fight against them and squash them down again.
“Ssshhh, don’t worry. We all need to cry sometimes.”
“Yeah, but not about eggs.” I stand up, wincing at the feel of wet denim. I push my door open and walk in, grabbing a mop and cleaning things, I set about clearing the mess in the hallway. So much for food.
I notice my neighbour is still there as he helps me clean up, I blink in surprise. “Um...thank you, you don’t have to, really. I’m very grateful. Sorry.”
“Stop saying sorry, and there’s no reason to be sorry. I was starting to get worried anyway. I’m glad I’ve seen you.” He smiles at me and my heart skips. Thinking I’m about to have another panic attack, I take a deep breath and continue cleaning. Once I’m finished, I put everything and turn around to see him still there.
“I’m Youngjae, by the way.”
I blink, and tell him my name.
“Its very nice to meet you at last. Was that going to be your dinner, the eggs and noodles?”
I nod and he smiles. “If you want, I’ve got food cooking, would you like to share some? I always make too much anyway, so you’d be doing me a favour, really.”
I hesitate.
“Just food, I promise. You can even bring it back here to eat, if you’d rather.”
Eventually I agree to go eat with him, but I decide I need to change - I’m still covered in milk and eggs.
Somehow, he gets me talking over dinner, and I smile genuinely for the first times in months. It shocks me and I avoid him for a few days, until he manages to catch me again. Everytime he’s around I smile, I feel lighter - I find it harder to keep pushing my emotions down.
Late at night, in bed, I cry. I rejoice in my ability to feel - my emotions are slowly coming back and while not all of them are good, I at least begin to feel human.
Weeks turn into months and Youngjae slowly pulls me out of my shell. I tell him everything, and he’s understanding - but not patronising. Eating dinner together becomes a regular thing, and one night his friends show up unannounced. Its crowded and busy, and I feel myself start to panic.
I move to the edges of the group, closing my eyes, focusing on my breathing. A hand slips into mine and slowly I feel the attack slipping away. Opening my eyes I see Youngjae continuing his conversation, but he’d noticed, and he’s helped. I smiled, giving his hand a squeeze.
Youngjae can sing. His voice makes tears come to my eyes and my heart beat harder. I feel emotions I have no words to describe well up. I tell him it’s beautiful. I tell him he’s an artist. He looks slightly puzzled but thanks me, and sings to me until I fall asleep with a smile on his shoulder.
The girls drop by and are happy I seem to be doing better. They ask what’s the reason and I explain about Youngjae pushing his way into being my friend. They share knowing looks, and demand to meet him.
They finally manage it one night and corner him, whispering furiously as I’m making drinks. Suddenly the girls jump up and say something’s come up, leaving quickly. I frown down at the tray of drinks until I feel Youngjae’s warmth by my side.
“I like your friends.”
“Really? They didn’t scare you off?”
“No, they were just concerned about you. They’re good friends.”
“Oh.”
We sit on the sofa and decide to watch a film. I’m not really paying attention, my mind drifting back to my previous thoughts about artists. I feel the need to express myself when I’m around Youngjae. He provokes emotions I can’t hope to explain.
He notices and sits up straight, turning to me with a worried expression.
“Can I...I want to tell you something, but...I don’t want to ruin anything.”
“Go ahead.” I smile at him.
He scoots a bit closer and takes my hand.
“I think...I think I’m in love with you.”
Stunned doesn’t even begin to describe what I’m feeling.
“Say something, please. Its fine if you don’t feel the same, but I couldn’t lie anymore.”
He leaves with promises that I’ll think about it. My emotions are in turmoil again. I need an outlet, but don’t have one, so I sit and think. What does Youngjae mean to me?
He’s safe. He makes me happy. He makes me feel strong. I blink. I think of all the times he’s smiled at me. He makes my heart beat faster.
I get to the ultimate question. Do I love him?
I can’t see myself without him. Is that love. What if he left? I frown. What if he got a girlfriend? I feel a pang in my chest and rub at it absent mindedly. What if I never saw him again?
Its late, I know it’s late, but that doesn’t stop me from standing up and rushing to Youngjae’s door, banging on it until he opens.
“Hey, what’s the matter? Are you ok?” He looks concerned.
“I’m broken.”
“You’re not broken, you just have a few more things to deal with that most. It doesn’t mean you’re broken.”
“I’m needy and I cry a lot, and I can’t control my emotions.”
Youngjae smiles, seeing where this is going.
“If you need me, I’m not going anywhere, and I’ll just buy stocks in tissues. You can learn to control, and if not, fine. Emotions aren't really supposed to be reigned in to much.”
I look up at him. “Do you really love me?”
“Yes. Since I first saw you move in, laughing with your friends. I have loved you even as I was worried about you, seeing you withdraw but not being brave enough to introduce myself. I loved you when you finally broke down and I forgot about everything else and ran to help you. I’ve loved you every minute I've been helping you back on your feet, and I will continue to love you, no matter what happens.” He reached up to wipe the tears from my cheeks.
“I guess...I mean...Oh whatever! I love you too!” I jump on him, surprising him into taking a couple of steps back, with my arms latched around his shoulders. I pull him close and kiss him.
I know there’ll be a lot to work on. I know not everything will be sunshine and roses, and that we might not last forever and ever. I know I’ll need to work on being independant and not relying on him forever, but right now….right now I feel like love could be my paint, my artform.
I could finally be an artist.
Yeah...so, um....thats that. Cheesy and stupid at the end, but what the hell. Lemme know what you think.
Just as an aside, feel free to ignore. Depression is something which affects everyone. I know. I've had enough of people saying "Oh, you'll get over it" or "buck up". As if 'bucking up' is the way to get past something which wont let you see any hope for a future. Anyway, I just want to share, these are real feelings, and while everyone has a right to criticise my writing (I welcome any kind of feedback), try to bear in mind I'm a bit sensitive about the subject matter. I'm easy going mostly, but...just bear it in mind.
Depression Lies <- Everyone should watch. I cried.
Sorry for getting all serious on you.
xxClairexx
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