How Creativity Helped Save Me

The body was born to be creative. Think about how it heals itself. Not a single injury or cold will be exactly the same and yet, when called, our body miraculously attempts to heal itself. This is creativity at its most biological form. However for the purpose of this piece I am talking about the varieties of art, music, dance, prayer and meditation that call on our creative soul. 

No one or circumstance has the power to remove creativity from us. I would suspect that if that happened, the results would be devastating. The point of this isn’t to talk about the devastation but rather to help us through when disaster or illness strikes in our lives and we feel helpless or even hopeless. Receiving news of a physical or mental illness can feel as if the world has come crashing down around you. If you are in the middle of depression or other mental health disorder it can feel like a mixed blessing, both an answer for all that is happening inside your head and crushing realization of something taking over your brain that you feel helpless against. I am sure some physical maladies feel the same way as both an answer and a curse. 

How does one stumble through it all when weighed down by the heaviness of depression or caught in the grips of anxiety caused by PTSD? These are the topics I know from personal experience. How does creativity help heal in the middle of these dark places? 

Let me start with some basics that I have gleaned from doing some reading around the internet. There are studies that show that act of creativity changes the brains wave patterns, positively affects the nervous system and affects the neurotransmitters. Creativity can reduce one from stress to relaxation and decrease fear into inspiration (which means working “In spirit”) as well as creating a deeper connection with oneself. 

In my personal experience, Creativity has saved my life. My own story has a past of mixed blessings and deep pain and trauma stemming from domestic violence. This is hard for me to come to grips with and will shock some people as they may not know. I have kept it to myself for a long time. I bring it up now only to demonstrate how crucial creativity was and IS to keeping me alive. I have lived through some serious bouts of depression, to the point of crushing and agonizing pain. PTSD plays its own tricks and when it decides to make its presence known, Creativity keeps me going. Creativity is healing for me. 

A simple and accessible form of healing creativity is Journaling. When I journal, it gets everything that is dark and horrible out of my own head onto the page where it can’t do as much harm. My head should not be entered unattended sometimes so by brain dumping onto the page, I can allow a safe place for all the dangerous and dark thoughts that come into my head. Brain dumping it a way of letting go. Releasing all the toxins AND it also allows one to relive all the good that may have forgotten about during the course of a day. Sometimes I write about something specific and sometimes it’s a random mish mash of thought “stuff”. There are many types of journal prompts as well if you don’t know where to start. Here are a few. 

Sometimes instead I go for Mandala drawing. This refocuses my brain in a completely different way. Allowing my mind to quiet as I focus on the swirls and lines of a specific type of drawing. Coloring is also a way to use creativity to quiet my brain. My mind settles as I follow the details of the picture in front of me. In fact, mandala drawing and adult coloring books are a current trend because of the benefits a person receives from participating in such creativity. This visual medium is also great for when words fail me. For a great tutorial on drawing mandala’s check out Kathryn Costa at 100mandalas.com.

Sometimes, a person takes to the paintbrush, collage work, art journaling, colored pencils and sketchpads because there are things that sometimes are too difficult to say with words. Using visual creative arts as a medium of release leaves the need for verbal explanation behind. Art isn’t right or wrong. It doesn’t need to be corrected. It simply is as it is. Other people find their safety and hope in dance. That is where their personal strength lies. Or perhaps it is in composing or playing music; possibly singing as loud as they can with all the passion they can call upon. 

We are all called to our own creative paths. The beauty of the vast amount of creative choices is the role they can play in healing our hearts and souls when we feel at our worst. I know visual arts are also used in art therapy techniques where the project is guided by a trained therapist to purposefully help a person work through their pain or trauma. Shelley Klammer, at Intuitive Creativity offers some wonderful art prompts for working through emotions. 

At my darkest hour, all I could do was summon the strength to draw mandalas over and over again. My mind was so dark that I couldn’t think to write so I drew instead. I still rely on this practice to keep me centered and focused. It also keeps my anxiety from gaining to much power. I journal most often at bedtime.In fact, I keep two journals: one for brain dumping and one for affirmations, gratitude and positive thinking. I am alive due to the help that creativity gave to me when I needed it most. Yes, there were people who cared but when I was in the space of no longer being able to hear them, then creativity was be able to help. 

Who Earns the Right to Your Story?

In world that wants you to do your best to cover your flaws, do your best to be seen. It is not easy showing up to the world every day, especially when mental illnesses such as depression or anxiety tell you to stay home, nice and safe, in bed. There will come a time in most of your relationships where it will be necessary to open up about your mental illness. How and when and to whom, is really an individual choice. Brene' Brown has a good rule of thumb..."tell your story to those who have EARNED the right to hear your story."
There are people who are close to me that know my whole story from start to finish, and not only know my diagnosis but also know when to alert me to signs that I am heading for a depression or that I am having irrational anxiety. They are also kind in that they let me have my little idiosyncrasies like taking the seat with its back to the door, so I can see the exit. They also know the plan I have in case I ever feel suicidal again and who is in charge of what aspects of my life and care.
There is the second level of people who know parts of my story in a generic sense. They know I have domestic violence in my background. They also know I have PTSD, depression and anxiety. I have given them enough information so they can understand my background some but they don't know all the little details. Also, this group is not involved in my care plan if something were to happen. Could they come visit me if I got hospitalized? I would decide on a person to person basis.
The next level of people simply know I have different diagnoses. They are not privy to any of the details. This is usual people outside my main circle of friends and includes new acquaintances, the pharmacists or old friends that I have been out of touch with for a while. The conversation regarding my mental illness was glancing at best, usually said because there was something in common with what was shared with me. But nothing more. They have not entered into the level of trust to know my story
The last group...They don't know anything. This group includes my ex (believe or not, he feels that there was no violence in our relationship but he has his own mental health issues), people I have just met and anyone I "run into" or do business with. The place where I sell my cards as no need to know my story. We have a business not friendship relationship. The people I have just met haven't been around long enough to put "marbles in the marble jar," as Brene' Brown says in an analogy regarding trust in her "Anatomy of Trust" speech. People EARN the right to hear my story. I don't hand it out to them. There are a few reasons for that.
If I handed my story over to someone I just met, how do I know they are ready for that kind of story? What if they have their own story they are trying to deal with and mine was too much? What if they are careless with my story by handing it out to anyone who will listen like it was gossip and not my life? What if they simply do not want it? I have met these people. They don't want to others stories. They aren't interested. And, you know what, they don't have to be.
So how do you know who is ready to share your story? Ask yourself these questions:
Will they respect my privacy? Will they hold the story in confidence?
Will they still respect me? Honor my needs and boundaries regarding my story?
Are they reliable? Especially true for anyone who is in the inner circle to help with my emergency crisis plan.
Can they sit with me while I am in distress and not try to cover it up and dismiss it? This is a big one for me as when I was growing up, it was always cover it up so the neighbors won't know. I need someone who can sit with me in the dark and not judge me.
Finally, can they empathize, not sympathize with me? Do they understand? I don't want to be felt sorry for or pitied. I want understanding and patience.
What are your requirements for letting someone in on your story? Write a list if you need to so you know what you want from someone who you are willing to share your story with.

Breaking the Silence

One of the hardest things to do when it comes to domestic violence is breaking the silence that has been maintained regarding the abuse. There is a lot of shame, guilt, and fear associated with letting someone in on the secret. The issue with these feelings, especially shame and fear, is that they keep one stuck in the same bad situation and often strip away hope. Here is what I discovered, as a person who has experienced domestic violence, when I became brave enough to step forward.

1) Find a safe person to tell. This could be a close friend or family member or a therapist or a domestic violence counselor. They will say to you one thing that needs to be said but may be hard to believe, "It's not your fault. None of it is your fault. What they do/did to you is not okay." This is difficult to hear since most times the abuser has stripped away all self- esteem and faith in the self. It may need to said a hundred more times before it is believed. It may take a couple of years to even really believe and work through the blaming. Remember the abuser has ingrained into one that everything is always the fault of the victim, not the abuser.

2) Once in a while, one will discover, especially if it is a close friend or family member that they may have suspected for a while. The truth is they didn't know how or were afraid to approach the topic. It may be easy to be upset with them over this and to want to place some blame on them. They were doing the best they could just as you were doing the best you could. Remember this is not an easy topic to discuss and we are still learning to bring it the open. Every person's comfort level will be different. The important fact to remember is you have their support now.

3) Then, sometimes the complete opposite happens, because of being such a sneaky person, the abuser  abuser played the part so well, that no one will have guessed, especially if the victim has been taught to never reveal the inner secrets of the relationship. Some abusers are what I call, "sales people" and what they sell is the "perfect relationship" to the outside world. With therapists and counselors, it will be there job to slowly peel away at the layers of abuse. They will be patient and kind and most at the persons pace. With family and friends, there may be a period of shock and surprise. Most will believe you.

4) There may be a time when someone suspects that something is off and they may come and ask  directly what's going on. Fear and shame are going to put up a defensive block because even though no one likes it and nor deserves it, the abuser has built these protocols in just for this purpose. My advice...if the person is trustworthy then please break the silence. Be willing to face the fear and shame. The dark truth is that it is scary to admit that there is violence going on, however, compared to the fear of going home each day in fear of someone who is supposed to be a partner, I have learned is almost worse. It does not feel that way at first. But once the word is out, and their acceptance is real  and they want to help and support, there will be a wash of relief. The relief of finally being heard.

5) If the person reading this is the one that suspects or even knows that something is going on but isn't sure how to approach the loved one, you can call the National resource or a local resource to get some professional advice on how to do so. From a perspective of a person that has been through it, I found when it was just one person who approached me and talked to me, it was easier to take. I could let their kindness sink in. Keeping in mind that the abused person may not respond right away out of fear. That is okay. They now know that someone cares. For more information on making safety plans and or escape plans, please seek professional consult. Though there are a lot of reliable guides on the internet.

There are some National resources for Domestic Violence. The National Domestic Violence Hotline is 1-800-799-7233 . If you feel safe looking information up on the computer or have a computer safe from your abuser, you can go to their website, http://www.thehotline.org

Eight Lessons I have Learned from Domestic Violence and Mental Illness

Eight Lessons I have Learned from Domestic Violence and Mental Illness

1) I have light and dark within me. It is inevitable but it isn't a bad thing. Some of surviving the worst times comes from my darker side. Some of surviving the darkness of depression is from the light.

2) I can only control my own self. As much as one would like to tell someone what to do, each person in only responsible for what they can control and you can only control yourself. I had never had power over his behavior even though for the longest time he had me convinced that I was responsible for how he acted.

3)  I am allowed, entitled even, to have a bad day. I don't mean a Mean, take-it- out-on-someone- else day, but a day where I can't get up or get going. A day that feels blah and empty. They happen. They are a part of recovering from both being a victim of DV as well as depression and other mental illnesses.

4) I am NOT alone. I always thought that I was even when I was being told I wasn't. It wasn't until I really fell into a dark space in my depression, did I really see that I wasn't alone. It was when I finally left him, that I realized I had support all along.

5) Life moves in cycles. Mental illness has a cycle. Domestic Violence has its cycle. Since I have both in my life, I have a cycle of my own. I am learning when my depression is creeping in on me. I have learned the cycle the PTSD does on my self worth and self- esteem. I haven't recovered fully from it but I am learning.

6) Healing takes time. I have been working at it for a couple of years. I am still recovering. I am still learning. I know people who have take six or more years to recover from a mental illness incident because it throws your life so upside down down. I still fight suicidal thoughts on bad days. I don't want to. I am working on it. PTSD is time consuming to heal as well. You have to rebuild a whole world of trust again. That is not an easy task. If you think it is hard trying to trust others, try relearning to trust yourself.

7) No one is Perfect. No ONE! Even if they don't have mental health issues or DV in their past; not a single person is perfect. Nor does everyone have a perfect life. AND I have to stop comparing how I feel inside to what I perceive of their outsides. They may have a good life but they make their own mistakes...have their own vulnerabilities. It is all okay. We were never made to be perfect anyways.

8) The more vulnerable and open I allow myself to be the stronger I am.
     (What?)

  The more I allow my soft gushy side open to the right people (those who have EARNED the right to know my story), the stronger I become. Once the gushy stuff is exposed to the right people, then it can't consume me. It can't eat me alive in shame and guilt. It can't bury me in self-loathing. So in setting it free, I make myself stronger.

On Our Own...

When we finally had a place of our own across town, it seemed ideal. Bill was working, I was working, and we had some money in savings. All appeared well. Bill lived his life with untreated, but diagnosed Bipolar disorder. He also smoked a lot of marijuana and was drinking energy drinks like water. It wasn't long before he confronted his bosses and lost his job just a month after us moving. But other things were also happening. His mood swings were erratic and when he was manic, he would keep me up all night, sometimes days at a time. I was living in exhaustion. I had a cell phone now so he was always keeping tabs on me. I couldn't go to the store, or see a friend or even be home late from work without numerous phone calls.
It was as if having our own space pushed him over the edge and I had no idea what to do. When I tried to talk to a friend about leaving, I learned he was reading my IM messages and e-mails, and then I wasn't able to talk to them when he was around. I learned he was reading my journals and was told I couldn't even write the truth in there because they were all lies. According to Bill, he wasn't that bad. In the meantime, on one income, we burned through savings and I couldn't pay the rent every month and juggled to bring food in and pay the bills. I played bill roulette and used check cashing places so I could make ends meet, all driving me further in debt. He refused to move, even when I told him we couldn't afford it anymore, he refused to believe me. If I dared to say I was leaving, he threatened to take our two daughters from me.
There was still the physical violence behind closed bedroom doors and loud arguments in the middle of the night when children were sleeping. I felt trapped, and even though I had co-workers willing to help me, Bill had made me so afraid of what he was capable of doing with lies and manipulation that I couldn't trust that my girls and I would be safe, even away from him. At one point, he was hospitalized and I tried to make my escape then but the hospital let him out three days earlier than they said they would, and I felt trapped once again.
In the meantime, I was borrowing money to make rent. Using up friends and resources, and feeling worse about myself in the process. My friends at work stopped trying to help and though they tried to understand, I just am not sure they did know how afraid I was. This up and down cycle in our own place went on for almost three years until I broke down, asked my family if we could move in with them, and told the landlord a big lie about why we were moving at the last minute. I hated myself. My self-esteem was shot. Oh...and just before six months prior to losing our house, I had given birth to our third child, a son. I felt so broken. I thought I would never be able to say no to him. He would always win.
So, even though he still was not working, we moved back into my family's house and I did the best that I could. He would refuse to leave causing HUGE arguments with other family members. He broke down and was hospitalized two more times for still untreated mental health issues complicated by pot use. I just kept going. I kept looking for a way out but what do you do when someone refuses to leave and threatens to call CPS on your children? I was scared. I felt alone. My c- workers never really gave up. They tried to help but I felt stuck and trapped. It wasn't until a family vacation when our son was four that finally I was able to do it. He almost ruined the vacation by going off his meds and becoming manic. He was doing the same old behaviors that got him hospitalized. Finally we had an argument where he told me that no matter what happened his brother would take him in. So I did it. I finally told him, "Call him now and move in with him." When we got home, he moved out. This brief summary is taken from a length of eighteen years that I lived with him.
It has only been three and half years since he finally agreed to leave. I am still recovering. Putting your self-worth and esteem back together doesn't happen overnight. I work at it. Shortly after he left, I sought therapy because I was having really bad anxiety attacks. I had anxiety when I was a teenager, depression as well. In seeking therapy, I have learned I still have anxiety and major depression, but now I also have PTSD, some have called it unofficially, Complex-PTSD from long time abuse. This is why the topic of domestic violence is so important to me as well as mental health. I am doing this with the encouragement of a good friend because it is vitally important to share our stories.
I have purposefully changed names and left out specific dates for the protection of my younger children. As they become older, and I become more comfortable with telling my story, more details may be revealed but for now, the protection of my children's identity is important to me. I look forward to continuing the conversation.

In the beginning....

My story starts on my 21st birthday. A friend had taken me to a bar to see John*, someone I had a crush on, run karaoke night. Other than hello, the guy didn't acknowledge me all night. However, his friend, Bill*, wouldn't leave us alone. And My friend, shooed him away more than once. The next day, Bill showed up with John where we worked in the theater. John bluntly told me he would never go out with me because I was a "good girl" that same night. So without my permission, he gave my Bill my phone number.
Bill called me the next day and the next day, until I finally agreed to go out with him.
In the beginning, the calling, extra attention, wondering where I was at, seemed enduring and lovable. However, in the back of my mind there was a tugging that something wasn't quite right. But Bill was the first real guy who had paid attention to me, and wanted to date me for me, so I believed.
After dating a few months, I moved to Los Angeles to follow a dream. It was after I was there for two months that Bill quit his job without telling me, and when he drove down for, what I believed, to be a visit, he informed me that he was moving in with me. At the time, I was not living in my own space and didn't really have room for him. But I didn't know what to do. So, I let him stay.
Bill went everywhere with me. I went to work and most of the time, he drove me there, stayed around the mall, and then drove me back. Again, the attention was odd, but I didn't know any better.
There were couple of other moves. Los Angeles didn't work out, we both had to go home. His home, originally, was all the across the country. After a year apart, I moved there. It was a disaster. I ended up pregnant, and though I was 24, kids were not on my agenda. I tried to make it a couple more months but couldn't.
I felt alone and scared so I went to my sisters where I had been invited to nanny while I was pregnant. Bill was supposed to follow me but didn't. In fact, it wasn't until I made it back to California, that he arrived just before our daughter was born ( five weeks early).
This is when the relationship began to get rough. He didn't have a place to stay so he stayed with a relative, then went to a shelter and finally a crappy studio until he landed at another relatives place. All the while, the blaming, the threatening to call CPS because the baby fell asleep on her stomach...all of it was my fault. By the time she was a year old, I was working two jobs and got my own 1 bedroom apartment. Before long, Bill moved himself in there. Originally staying there on weekends since I worked overnights. Eventually, though he moved in. He bought a car in my name but I wasn't allowed to use it. There were arguments and physical altercations because he wanted to go to his pot dealer after he had been drinking. I wasn't allowed to go out with friends very often anymore.
Everything was behind closed doors. My daughter never saw it. My neighbors never knew.
We moved again to get a "fresh start" out of state. Things only got worse. Bill drank more. Smoked more pot. Tried other drugs. Finally paranoia and isolation got the better of him and he left.
I was grateful. I went back to California. I had my own apartment again, my daughter was almost four. I found work at my old job. We were peaceful for quite a while. He would call and I would tell him we were broken up all. the. time.
This wasn't good enough for him. He came back to California so he could see his daughter, and stayed with a relative again. My babysitter for my weekend job quit so he began coming over for weekends after he got off work. I worked 15 hour days. I seldom saw him except at night.  I had just started feeling better about myself, starting school and working and paying my own way. Eventually, he stopped taking no for an answer and ended up in my bed.
I was pregnant again.
I had to take an extension at the university for a semester.
I became injured at work.
I had to go on disability.
All this time, inside I was prisoner again. I couldn't see my friends whenever I wanted. If I was gone for more than an hour, then there was an argument. I couldn't write what I wanted. My creative writing was looked at, criticized and always about Bill in some negative way. I felt I would never get rid of him. I stopped saying no. There was no argument I could win.
Skip ahead after our second daughter was born: we had lost the apartment and were living with my family. Shortly after she was born, I had blood clots. I was barely able to walk. He ended up losing his job right after Christmas because he was helping take care of the kids.
He blamed me for not getting better soon enough.
Blamed me for doing everything wrong.
During this time, often behind the closed doors of our bedroom, Bill would complain that I didn't do enough. Even though I made his lunch, cooked dinner, did laundry and other household chores while trying to complete school, while still out on disability. But I was lazy, incompetent and never did enough. There were physical altercations. Being shoved, pushed, even choked. All behind the doors, quietly. To my relatives he was mostly nice so long as you agreed with him. He could not hold down a job, when Bill finally did, we moved out to our own house. That is when the real trouble began.
*names changed for protection.
Stay tuned for Part two...On Our Own.