I feel free
Posted: February 15th, 2015, 5:45 am
At 47 years old I am finally taking control of the train wreck that is my life. I grew up in an alcoholic home with a depressed mother and a hyper-critical father. As a young person I had a propensity for creative expression, and some of my first memories involve digging clay out of the ground at the edge of the pond where I grew up, and making little animals or pinch pots. In high school I took ceramics every semester, and had a key to the art room junior year. It was my refuge. Once I remember having a conversation with my father about building a kiln on our property, and converting and old outbuilding into a pottery studio for me. I was so excited I bought book about kiln building, read it, struggled to understand it, and brought it to my father. He dismissed me and the project: the conversation we had had about building the kiln was just drunken smack talk, and by the way, everyone knows you can't make a living as an artist.
I wanted to apply to art school and major in ceramics, but my father told me he would't pay for my school if I went into art, so I studied literature. (how useful). So I graduated college, married the wrong guy, got knocked up, had a daughter, got divorced, had a zillion different jobs that all sucked for their own special reasons. Shortly after my daughter turned 18 she moved out and away. The empty nest was sudden and shocking, and happened a lot sooner than I thought it would. I fell into a deep deep depression.
At some point I knew I needed to feel something good (besides the cool slide of ice cream across my tongue or the soft warmth of getting high) and I said "fuck it" and I bought a kiln and some clay. I got connected to artists in my area who sold at local craft shows, and started selling my work. It became clear to me that I was absolutely capable of earning a modest living as an artist, but it would not happen overnight, and it would not happen in my current location. And I needed to get a handle on my depression.
About a year after my daughter left I experienced PTSD related to sexual trauma, and spent the last year of my life in the most exquisite pain, unimaginable to me for its reach, it's depth and its pervasive strangle hold on every aspect of my life. Everything became ugly and frightening: there was a boogey-man waiting to jump out from behind every corner. The only thing that has kept me from opening my veins was that i could go out into my garage and get lost in making pretty things out of clay. I was also in therapy with an awesome counselor who helped me unpack and examine all the crap and all the ways my old behaviors kept me safe then but don't help me now. (And the MIHH podcast was a LIFELINE!)
I made the decision to move back to the place that I always regretted leaving. I put my house on the market, and out of the blue, after several silent years, I had occasion to talk to my father. It took all I had to simply inform him that I was moving (again), that I was changing careers (again) and when he scoffed at the thought that I could earn a living as an artist, I said something like,
"Well I can't fail any worse at this than I have failed at all the other things I have tried, so I may as well enjoy what I'm doing while I fail."
There was a silence on the other end of the line, and the he kind of snorted and said, "I guess you have a point there."
But here's the thing. I'm not going to fail at this. Just because he can't imagine it doesn't mean I can't do it. It felt good to tell him off.
I'm 16 days away from the closing on the house I'm selling, and I don't yet have a new place of my own, but I have a place to stay until I get my own place. I am terrified and thrilled, and I am finally moving forward.
I wanted to apply to art school and major in ceramics, but my father told me he would't pay for my school if I went into art, so I studied literature. (how useful). So I graduated college, married the wrong guy, got knocked up, had a daughter, got divorced, had a zillion different jobs that all sucked for their own special reasons. Shortly after my daughter turned 18 she moved out and away. The empty nest was sudden and shocking, and happened a lot sooner than I thought it would. I fell into a deep deep depression.
At some point I knew I needed to feel something good (besides the cool slide of ice cream across my tongue or the soft warmth of getting high) and I said "fuck it" and I bought a kiln and some clay. I got connected to artists in my area who sold at local craft shows, and started selling my work. It became clear to me that I was absolutely capable of earning a modest living as an artist, but it would not happen overnight, and it would not happen in my current location. And I needed to get a handle on my depression.
About a year after my daughter left I experienced PTSD related to sexual trauma, and spent the last year of my life in the most exquisite pain, unimaginable to me for its reach, it's depth and its pervasive strangle hold on every aspect of my life. Everything became ugly and frightening: there was a boogey-man waiting to jump out from behind every corner. The only thing that has kept me from opening my veins was that i could go out into my garage and get lost in making pretty things out of clay. I was also in therapy with an awesome counselor who helped me unpack and examine all the crap and all the ways my old behaviors kept me safe then but don't help me now. (And the MIHH podcast was a LIFELINE!)
I made the decision to move back to the place that I always regretted leaving. I put my house on the market, and out of the blue, after several silent years, I had occasion to talk to my father. It took all I had to simply inform him that I was moving (again), that I was changing careers (again) and when he scoffed at the thought that I could earn a living as an artist, I said something like,
"Well I can't fail any worse at this than I have failed at all the other things I have tried, so I may as well enjoy what I'm doing while I fail."
There was a silence on the other end of the line, and the he kind of snorted and said, "I guess you have a point there."
But here's the thing. I'm not going to fail at this. Just because he can't imagine it doesn't mean I can't do it. It felt good to tell him off.
I'm 16 days away from the closing on the house I'm selling, and I don't yet have a new place of my own, but I have a place to stay until I get my own place. I am terrified and thrilled, and I am finally moving forward.