I wanted to write about my journey to creativity. Art is now such a huge part of my life. My journey involves depression which has been a constant companion. For me it was a little voice telling me that I was worthless and not good enough. I don’t know if many people will read my posts but I’m sitting at the keyboard engaging in a cathartic process. I truly hope my story will inspire others.
In September 2008 I hit rock bottom. I’m not embarrassed or ashamed to say it. It was a necessary journey. Depression runs very heavily in my family on my mother’s side. Apparently it has to be triggered (but don’t hold me to that) even if it is hereditary and my trigger was post natal depression with both my children. Looking back at my teens I think it was always there. I felt a sense of loneliness even when I was surrounded by my friends. I could hide the underlying feelings through my 20’s when I lived in London. I was busy enjoying (though not sure that’s the right word) climbing up the ladder as a Personal Assistant in various companies and I had a busy social life.
After London came Hong Kong, where I moved at the age of 28. I look back now and it all seems so surreal. I was one of a few corporate wives who wasn’t a professional. I spent my first weeks there too frightened to venture very far from my high rise flat but slowly gained confidence to jump in a taxi to Ikea – my life saver as I could now furnish our flat. After learning to say ‘stop here’ and ‘please’ in Cantonese I was on my way. It was a great experience but I do remember calling my mum and crying on the phone as I felt very lonely. I didn’t have the confidence to ask people to have coffee with me. Why would they like me? I didn’t have a purpose any more and hid myself in books, local Star TV (Buffy the Vampire Slayer was a highlight) and sunbathing by the rugby club swimming pool. Sounds lovely but I couldn’t have done it long term.
I do have to say at this point that I am from very humble beginnings, in case you are forming a different impression of me. My father was a policeman and my mum had various part time jobs whilst raising her two daughters. I grew up in a small 2 bedroomed bungalow in the seaside town of Bridlington, sharing a bedroom with my sister before moving to London aged 23. A huge step. I’m now very proud of what I’ve achieved. I would like to come back to that later, as my early years have played a huge role in my recent journey.
My daughter was born in Hong Kong, by an emergency C-section, and I remember again calling my mum in tears as it wasn’t supposed to happen like this. My baby had been in the right position since 29 weeks and now she was in distress. I didn’t care about myself – I just wanted her to be born healthy. She was. Twelve weeks later we moved back to the UK. I remember shedding a tear as I landed at Heathrow with a new life in my arms.
After a few months of living with my mum, we finally managed to get back into our flat in Battersea. It was 6 months after the birth of my daughter that my sister in law said I might be suffering with post natal depression. I had become too scared to make the simplest car journey and I’m usually a very confident driver. I’ve been on antidepressants since then to this day, where I’ve accepted I’ll most likely be on them for life – hopefully constantly reducing the dose. I feel determined about this.
Getting back to the start of my post – my breakdown in the September of 2008. Or as my therapist at the time called it – a necessary break through. I’d been in therapy for 2 years, on occasions talking to a cushion to vent my anger (those who’ve had therapy will understand this bit). My therapist guided me to a necessary place where my brain basically had to reset. I apparently came close to being hospitalised but my therapist broke the rules and kept in contact with me away from our weekly sessions. I couldn’t face getting out of bed, never mind planning my day and feeding my young kids. I was having very dark thoughts. She taught me how to split the day into sections. Waking up and just getting through to lunch time and so on. I find myself still slipping back into that routine at times if I feel overwhelmed.
Only 2 months later a friend in Battersea took me to see her home art studio. I was so in awe of her space but it made me feel nervous. I’d last painted at the age of 16 during my art O’level – proudly gaining an A grade. The only subject I achieved a top mark in. So I nervously picked up a paintbrush and painted a very bizarre looking flower. I felt so proud though and I took it home to show my family. From there I bought some paints, well actually quite a lot as I didn’t understand the art of colour mixing (I still have these paints now sitting and gathering dust). I put paint to quite a large canvas and created an image of Battersea Power Station (below). I was quite pleased with the result. My friends were amazed I had a hidden talent (though I was still unsure at this stage and still am at times now). Soon I was gifting work to them and eventually doing work for a small fee. I must have had all that creativity buried inside me for over 20 years. It had to come out somehow.
Since then I have made many mistakes but learned along the way, now proudly colour mixing without having to think too hard. That’s 9 years on though and I’m still learning with every piece of work. I’ve been told I’m on a constant journey and I like that. It does allow for mistakes, which my Facebook followers have been subject to, but from those mistakes you learn. Having someone want to buy your piece of work is the biggest compliment of all. My therapist was amazed that I could put my work out to a public audience, where of course not all feedback is positive, and now I’m doing the same with my writing. It’s a brave step I know.
I’m not saying that art is necessarily going to help manage depression but creativity is certainly a proven form of therapy. Have a go and don’t worry if you create a dirty mess. I have made many.
My first attempt at a canvas in November 2008. Copying a google image and painting straight from the tube.
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