depression and anxiety – set fires to papers

When an artist is in pain, they can only create art. They can not edit it, nor publish it. The purpose of an artist’s pain, is the creation of art. This was why it was so greatly frustrating to not share my pain with all of you. For I was still creating art from it. Thank you for your patience.

The purpose of sharing my journey through anxiety and depression is for anyone who may be feeling the same, and feeling alone in it and through it. This is not meant to seek forgiveness nor understanding from anyone. The only person I need do that for is myself. My voice and style is meant to share what’s real and what my truth is. I seek to know the truth, because I know it is only the truth that has the power to set me free. And as Nayyirah Waheed said, “It is being honest about my pain that makes me invincible.” Thus, begins the start of a very long journey that may never end. If you are reading this please know, I am here for you, as I am here for me. We can all get through this, together.

Meg Barrett Bandana

I’m angry or sad, but sick of being both or either. I know emotions come and go. They flow like waves. I know healing can be fun and doesn’t have to be a painful misery all the time. Here I am, trying to make it not.

I’m angry I can’t sleep even when I want to and have the time. Because of noise, where I am, and the fact that I’m a light sleeper who drank wine. Now, I wish to just sit at a desk forever, pounding coffee, and smoking an imaginary cigarette that I wish were a real joint.

The anger and sadness is leaving me now. Tiredness and fatigue are back as their replacements. Depletion, overall. I don’t think I’ll fall back asleep, so I stay here with not much else to say. I hope I’m finally taking control of my life and changing into who I should’ve been this entire time. I have so much to live for. My ancestors and friends’ mothers stare at me, pleading for me to move forward and live this life to the fullest. I’m sick of pouting over invisible ink all over my arms. Like scars everyone else can see.

I want to move or do something else, but don’t feel ready. I feel blocked. Like I’m on the way to writing something good and true. I have random spurts of inspiration and movement, but for the most part I’m lost and hazy. Missing something that I’m unsure if was ever mine in the first place, let alone if I’ll ever get back.

I understand I could be thinking the worst. This anger, this sadness, is so overwhelming. I don’t know what else to do. I know I need to breath, because I’m forgetting how. I’m moving too quickly. As if there is something to do, somewhere to be. I feel a rush of anxiety and shallowness of breath, all too often.

What is this anxious feeling, here for? Are others rubbing off on me? Is that why I must protect my energy so much? Because what I’m feeling, isn’t even properly mine? How can that be so? And if so, what can be done about it?

I don’t know. 
But I do know, I will find out. 
I will figure it out. 
Removed of doubt.

What else needs to be released? How have I not already released it? How many papers, must I set on fire?

The answer: a lot.

set fires to papers - meg b

when an artist is in pain, they can only create art


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