Art Trauma

Isn't it supposed to be art THERAPY?

Some years ago, I landed an ongoing contractor gig illustrating chapter books and graphic novels for kids. For someone who likes to draw, that sounds like a dream come true, right? The go-between who was negotiating my hire told me there would be pressure—that I would need to work quickly. No problem, I thought. I’m pretty fast and can get by on the first draft of drawings at times.

Well, I didn’t know the project manager of this team was going to be demanding and manipulative to the level that after three years of working that contract, I had to quit because my mental health had taken such a beating I was rarely able to get out of bed in the morning. If I didn’t have little kids at the time who needed to get to school and eat meals, I probably would have hid from my life and my deep self-hatred 24/7.

(Pro tip: If you are working for a client that attacks your character when you ask to be paid, run away.)

Throw in perimenopause, a pandemic, and chronic illness, and I collapsed under the load. I was very sick from around 2015 to 2022. I essentially lost the ability to make any visual art without risking panic attacks or exacerbating my illnesses. Thankfully, with treatment and God’s grace, I am coming back from that deep, dark pit and beginning to enjoy drawing again.

They say your passions are the things you can work on, and suddenly you’ve lost hours of your day in a seeming blink. Passion plus neurodivergence, and you have an equation for a person who might just vanish into a hyper-fixation that pushes eating and other basic daily functions out of sight. Now that I’m finding my way out of the PTSD from my experience with the killer project manager, it’s been almost a relief to rediscover that “where did the time go?” feeling, without it accompanying a sudden dread about how you were about to hear your best was still not enough.

It’s tragic when something you love, and should generally be considered a positive in your life, gets so distorted that it shifts from self-care to self-destruction. But I’m thankful for the truth that the way out is only a few choices away. They might be really hard choices, like walking away from half your income or more. But no amount of money is worth your health, because ultimately, you’ll not only deplete your bank account trying to get well, but you’ll lose things you can never get back: soccer games, concerts, reading at bedtime, making pancakes together, meaningful friendships. Being so miserable and anxious, I missed out on so many memories I could have shared with my family and friends.

Today, I’m thankful I can create. Whether the projects I’m working on will ultimately become “useful” pieces or just exploration doesn’t really matter. The simple marker of progress: I enjoyed making something, holds a whole lot more meaning than any other human’s opinion on my creation does about where I am and how far I’ve come.

Thanks for walking beside me on this journey. Wishing you all a blessed Easter, full of gratitude and joy.