my life (refer first and third words of blog title). Well, they're
supposed to be. Writing is hard: not the words or grammar or
even the typing - no, it's hard because it's painful and scary
to let my words out for anyone to see. Because what they see
is what's inside me.
Writing is perhaps the scariest thing I do. Drawing, on the other
hand, is easy. Just sit down and scribble. Perhaps people see
what's inside of me through my doodles and sketches, I don't
know .. but also, I don't care. I can hide things in pictures, that
in words just leap out. Sometimes I think it's easier because
the person I'm hiding them from is me.
These two most important things .. how is it that I put them
at the bottom of my list? There is ALWAYS something else
that seems to matter more. I suppose my problem is that the things
that matter to me never seem to be as important as the things
that matter to everyone else.
So naturally, here I am with stress-induced uveitic relapses
(sounds impressive but what it really means is an eye infection
that keeps coming back because I don't take care of myself), and
it's only when my niece points out that drawing might be
therapeutic and stress-relieving do I give it further thought.
Tonight I decided, no more delays, no more excuses, and I took out
a sketch pad and a bunch of pencils. I didn't know what I was
going to draw, but I kept telling myself that whatever it was,
it would be healing. The TV was on in the background - Criminal
Minds, an episode about a child molester. I'm not a person who
allows myself to feel the rage and outrage of my childhood very
often, and as I drew, the lines got darker, the marks got deeper,
and it struck me that art IS healing. But maybe only because
I can't bring myself to use my pencils in any other way.