When they talk about the tortured genius,
somebody always brings up Van Gogh—
how he swallowed yellow paint because
he wanted to put the sunshine inside himself.
How his psychosis was probably
the result of lead poisoning.
They call him a miracle, but what I see is a man
who was so sad, he found a beautiful way
to kill himself.
 
They say, “it’s awful isn’t it?” They say,
“It’s always the talented ones who go before their time.”
And me, a nine year old kid
who’s always been told they were so
talented
wonders when I am going to die.
 
We study them in school, the tortured artists.
Look at all the poets who killed themselves
what would their work have been without their depression?
It’s it beautiful, isn’t it sad?
As if depression is a parlor trick—
pull it out at parties, impress all your friends.
As if depression isn’t seeing how long
you can go between showers
before somebody notices or
pizza rolls for dinner three nights in a row
and then nothing the night after,
because going to the store is an impossibility
that you have not yet gathered the courage to conquer.
 
It is the least beautiful thing I’ve ever seen
and we call it the mark of an artist
to stand in the center of an ocean
and see nothing but desert.
To be seated at a feast, but still
swallowing sand.
 
Depression is the yellow paint, the yellow paint,
THE YELLOW PAINT, THE YELLOW PAINT, THE
YELLOW PAINT, THE YELLOW PAINT, THE YELLOW
PAINT, THE YELLOW PAINT, THE YELLOW PAINT—
 
Art is a coping mechanism.
Van Gogh is good because when he had nothing,
he had paint. When he was empty, he had paint.
When the world was awful, he had paint.
When he hated himself, he didn’t hate the paint.
He whitewashed over his own masterpieces,
because it was never about being famous,
it was about doing the one thing
that made sense when everything else didn’t.
 
And they say, “without his illness, we
never would have gotten all—this.”
because they value his art more than his sanity
because god forbid you lead a happy life
and leave nothing to remember you by.

VINCENT, by Ashe Vernon (via latenightcornerstore)

Hi. Remember that time I had a huge major depressive episode in June and by the end of the month had cut off all my friends, stopped eating and sleeping, and stopped wanting to work ?
Same.
Anyway, the outpatient treatment at the hospital was too expensive, so I didn’t go to that, but I set up a hardcore recovery plan for myself that’s helped a lot. I obviously still have PTSD, and am working to handle the after-effects of everything I’ve unrepressed, but I feel like a different person. But in a good way.
I’ve been on tumblr for about six years now, and I have a lot of mutual. So I’m posting an update before continuing to be off the site for… ever? Months? A year?
I don’t know.
Anyway, here’s updates:
- I’m not trying to be sober, but I don’t get past buzzed. I can go to bars and, for the first time in my life, stop drinking once I start. I rarely surpass a beer and a half, or 2.5 glasses of wine. I never drink liquor.
- I’ve started hanging out with friends at least five times a week. I’m not cutting people off anymore. I’ve made several new friends in the last few months and got closer to the old ones. I’m done burning bridges.
- I said “rape” out loud, talked about my rape and accepted its happened.
- I got a new job at my favorite coffee shop while doing video for my school paper. I have an interview for a newspaper in Portland for this upcoming summer. I also adopted a cat. His name is Pepper.
- Accepted I am not my trauma, and traumatized isn’t an adjective to describe me. I am Brianne, and I have trauma. And that’s just my past and that’s it.
- I went home for the first time in six months and when the flashbacks hit, I pulled myself out of it. I pulled myself out of my dissociation. I hung out with my best friend from home (who has a tumor that might be cancer and has a failing liver so I came home to visit her) and talked to her for hours. Then I visited the Detroit Instatute of Arts, then a coffee shop in Detroit, then my grandma, and came home. But like my real home — the apartment I share with my best friend. I had a wine and craft night with a few friends.
- I have a notebook full of 73 pages of unrepressing memories of being abused, my triggers, coping mechanisms and when I’ve been the unhealthy person and why. And how to forgive myself for it (because it’s fucking hard).
- I’ve recognized I can’t be in a healthy relationship because healthy relationships feel too foreign to feel deserving, so it scares me to the point I become unhealthy.
- Ive been pushing myself to paint and create more. I’ve read 20+ books since the first week of July.
- I’ve communicated more, both with expressing what I’m proud of and what bothers me. It’s healthy and cool. I’m a fan. For example, (this is also connected to the rape thing) I was making out with my friend, and right when we were about to fuck, I changed my mind and told her I didn’t want to have sex instead of touching her anyway like I have in the past. And it was okay, and good, and I felt strong. I’ve come to realize I don’t need to be sexual to be valuable to people. We cuddled a lot, and she told me she was proud of me for telling her (she knows my sex issues),which meant a lot.
- Focusing on myself instead of orbiting my life around someone else.
- I feel pretty and kind and smart. I know now that I’m really great of a person that just has a lot of shit to figure out. And that’s okay.

Anyway, I’m going to go cuddle my cat for a while. I hosted a craft and wine night tonight. Three were old friends, and four were new ones I’ve made since July.

I’m a workaholic but I’ve never worked as hard as I did in my recovery in the last two months. It’s been fucking hell, and i never expected to get this far

I can drink without getting drunk. I don’t binge drink, or drink to forget. I was sober when I went home for the night — which I’ve literally haven’t done in almost three years. I fucking DD at parties now. I hang out with friends and I text them back. I eat and I exercise. I have a cat and an apartment with my best friend. I have an interview with a big newspaper in Portland. I feel good about myself, and am learning to accept my past.

I’ve been the one hurt, and the one who has hurt someone I care about. And the latter hurt worse than being the one hurt, but it happened and I can’t do anything about it. I accept it, and regret it, and moved on. I’m still a good person despite my mistakes. I’m still loved.

I’m just trying to learn to stop burning bridges. I’m learning to leave more than just ash behind.

I still have so much to look forward to.

So I’m going to blog a bit tonight and then log off for a few months.

I came back to a ton of messages from the mutual I’ve talked to over the past six years, and it was sweet. I appreciate you all. Thank you for everything.

I hope you’re doing well. You deserve good things.