Regular Tuesday

It was a regular Tuesday morning. Still, she sat in the living room as time passed her by. The birds were singing, the sun’s rays were filtering through the curtains. The only sounds that could be heard were the sounds of car’s roaring to life and driver’s of those cars shutting the doors and driving off to wherever they intended to go.
It was a regular Tuesday morning. The pages of her journal were opened and she stared at the empty page waiting for her to fill it with thoughts and the remnants of last night’s dreams. She, too, was staring at the blank page. Today wasn’t the day she was ready to be vulnerable with herself. She turned to her mug of coffee and sipped, little sips, of hot black coffee. The birds were still singing. It was a normal morning. A regular morning. A regular Tuesday morning. 

This regular Tuesday morning, she had planned to do the same thing she did every morning of the week. Open her other blank paged notebook and perform the meditative task of drawing lines, circles, triangles and shading in the spaces between them. It came like clockwork to her. It was simple and required very little artistic talent. It was something she could do that would allow her to see beauty on the page once she was done. She allowed herself this task, every day, that she may expand her mind creatively and steady her trembling hand and her screaming mind. It did not calm her and neither did it excite her. For mornings were a time of stillness. It simply expanded the stillness and deepened it, if she were not distrubed. 

It had been seven years since her diagnosis at the age of 22. Now, she was on medication, daily and every quarter of the year too. This medication quietened the voices in her head. It allowed her to return to her normal life. Still, it wasn’t enough. She needed a meditative practise of some sort to further the silence she once had in her mind. The anxiety was also a part of her diagnosis. So was the depression. So was the PTSD. It was a slew of illnesses that were managed with medication.
It had been seven years since her diagnosis at the age of 22. She lived in a home that had four rooms that she would use. The bathroom, her bedroom, the living room – her studio, and the kitchen. This was all she needed. This was where she stayed day in, day out, only briefly leaving the house to go into the sun. It was necessary for her not to feel as down as she felt on the regular. Her studio was where she spent the most of her time. Her bedroom was only for her to sleep, change clothes and nothing more. The kitchen was filled with take out bags. Cooking on most days seemed like an insurmountable mountain. So she ordered in, took the trash bags out every Thursday and Sunday. Her bathroom was her favourite place, yet even there, she rarely stayed. Only for the morning oblutions of taking care of her face and teeth did she walk into that bathroom. Showering used to be a delight but now. . . it traumatised her to be in a space while being that vulnerable. 

It had been seven years since her diagnosis at the age of 22. The living room was her studio. All over the table were art supplies and music production tools. The instruments were in their protective bags, placed carefully in their corners. She came into the living room every morning, right after she washed her face and brushed her teeth and made her coffee. She sat at the table, opened her journal and wrote down the previous night’s dream. Following that, she opened her blank paged notebook and began the meditative task of doodling. Around her, on the floor, on the sofa and on the table, were other books intended for other things. A watercolour book for her new endeavour to paint flowers using water colour paints. Her flute and guitar, in the corner of the room, gathering dust after months of not being played. Her MIDI keyboard, untouched from the day it was bought. Her colour pencils and drawing book, unused, waiting to be picked up and fill white pages with colour. Her youtube playlists of art and music tutorials, over 100 videos long with only two watched. Her sheet music, crumpled up and in paper balls on the floor.
It had been seven years since her diagnosis at the age of 22. She was given medication to help her get through school. It worked. She had been given medication to make her functional in society. It worked. She had been given medication to help her achieve her dreams. It worked. She had been given medication to help her in the process of resocilaisation. It worked. She had been given medication to curb and reduce the symptoms of the illnesses. It worked. She had been given medication to ease the pain her mind was in. It worked. However, during one fateful refil visit, she asked a question that drove her into a frenzied search for an alternative to the ending that was already writing itself out. “I hear that the medication makes one less creative. Will this happen to me?” She asked. The doctor went on to explain that different artists react differently to the medications that they are given. Some flourish and create magnificent art pieces and go on to live fulfilling lives. For others, they would have to find an alternative to how they would begin to express themselves. She cocked her head to the side, further questions lingering in her mind, about to burst through her lips in rage, despair and defeat. However, she kept silent. The doctor proceeded to write her a prescription for the same medication. She said thank you after he handed it to her and wished her well. She left and went to find another doctor.
It had been seven years since her diagnosis at the age of 22. She had been drinking beer, wine and anything she could get her hands on to feel like the artist she was at 22 – full of hope and ideas and an eye for the beautiful and intruiging. She had travelled and interacted with different people over the years. She had written and written and written pieces that people enjoyed. She had gone through music pieces and played them and sang and the sounded beautiful. She was inebriated through this whole process. For six years, she lived on the high that two to eight beers could get her and created the first thing that came to her mind. It had worked – sort of.
It had been seven years since her diagnosis at the age of 22. She had been three months sober and living in solutide. She was creating something from the couple of years when the pieces of her world had started to fall apart. She could barely get through each piece without feeling defeated and simplistic,  naïve, unprofessional as she attempted something new. She had had to find another way to create. The ‘juice’ had been running out. Whilst sober, she barely reached for her instruments, her camera, her latptop to write. Whilst sober, she felt the vibrant artist she was, fading away and her mind replaying the memories of how she acted whist drunk; loud, unfiltered, romantic, spontaneous. She hadn’t had anything to drink. This was how it was supposed to be back then. The sobriety was to be the foundation of the next decades of her life. But her mind could no longer build up, paint, draw worlds. It could no longer allow her to create a beat, crash a symbol or hold a chord. The process was unenjoyable.
It had been seven years since her diagnosis at 22. She drew lines. She shaded in the spaces between the lines. She bordered the lines and shaded in spaces on the page of her notebook. 

She then ordered a beer, to celebrate that there was something artistic left in her.