Abstract Madness

I love abstract art. Always have, and most likely always will. I conquered it in college during my art theory class and believe it or not, it's not as easy as it looks. I remember struggling with my project and at first glance, you'd think abstract art, or cubism for that matter, would be easy; almost infantile and child-like. 


Not even close.


My attempts ended unsuccessful, but I received a good grade nonetheless. I was so happy and so relieved, the first thing I remember out of my professor's mouth was "it's clear you're inspired by Pablo Picasso." Hearing that made me proud. I was happy. I even named my pug after this brilliant artist as a homage to him.


Now as I look back this past year or so, abstract art for me is nothing shy of relevant. I've always loved it and now I have executed it in my art. Even more so these days than my early college years. Maybe it's an appropriate representation of how I've been feeling for so long; something that embraces my mood and my frequent doldrums. Will I continue to create these abstract tendancies as my medication will continue to work? Absolutely. It's not something that I've done in the moment only, but in the future as well. I feel that it's an accurate depiction of what has defined me for so long—for me, it felt like it lasted forever. I realize that a year taken from my life is minimal compared to the big picture, but at that time in my life, it felt like eternity.

Pablo Picasso - 1925 The Bottle of Wine 

Pablo Picasso - 1932 Girl Before a Mirror

I've always wanted to conquer abstract painting but never could. Or was it I just didn't have the courage to do so? Regardless, I've done it and I will embark on it some more. Now that I feel confident, why not?

While I was in school studying art, I always tried to analyze abstract art. I always wondered and asked myself, can it be analyzed? Or just something you feel from within? I've always said—and promoted—that art is subjective. Not everyone is going to love or appreciate your art or other artists' work. It's something we have to accept as artists. It took me a long time to realize this and not take it personally, but I admit, it's difficult to follow this rule of thumb, but for the most part, I don't let it get to me. As a graphic designer, we're not there to design for ourselves, but for the client. If they can't appreciate your expertise and professional background, then we have to accept it and move on. I always wonder why they hire us to begin with anyway.

Back to the drawing board.

Pablo Picasso - 1937 Lee Miller as L' Arlesienne

Pablo Picasso - 1934 Head of a Woman Portrait of Marie-Thérés Walter

As you could imagine, abstract paintings are quite a bit different than graphic/advertising design. Not many clients would request something abstract to their logo, business card, et al, as they would prefer something a little more straight forward. Which is why I love painting more abstract than anything else. It epitomizes who I am and exploits my left brain. 

Aside from the paintings, I don't want my mind to be 'abstract' anymore. I want clarity in my life and my brain. Like they say, Rome wasn't built in a day, but for me, I've been struggling with bipolar disorder since 2004, so I think it's time I get better.

What do you think?

As I continue to paint for myself, I will continue to hope that one day soon, I can even paint for a much larger audience than myself and my family. Maybe have one of my paintings hanging in somebody else's home instead of mine? Only time will tell to see if that question will be answered, but for now, I'm doing it for me. It pleases me and I enjoy it. It keeps my mind off everything around me and my constant racing of thoughts. At this point, they haven't subsided, they're just more tolerable now.

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NOTE: At the time that I wrote this post, I received an email requesting that I hang my paintings in a restaurant in town where they showcase local artists' work. They would like me to showcase my work as well. It's a step in the right direction as I try to sell my work and my painting services. An unusual exhibit, yes, but it's a start. Wish me luck!

Bipolar Menopause

You got it—I found out last year that my blood levels were consistent with menopause.


Oh crap.


In the midst of my bipolar madness, I am also experiencing the "joys" of menopause. At first, I thought wow, maybe it's the menopause causing all of my depresson, sadness, crying and hitting? Nope. Although it does contribute to menopause, it's not the sole reason why I am suffering from my bipolar disorder. It definitely accentuates it, but not the cause of it.


Ugh. Damn.


As I continued to enjoy my period-free bliss, I quickly realized that menopause wouldn't be as easy as I had hoped. Aside from the occasional night sweats (at that point) I figured it would be a positive step for me as I embarked on 'womanhood.' 


Yeah, right.


I hated it—hated every minute of it. I knew what going through menopause meant. It meant I was getting old; to the point that I had already reached middle-age. So to add to my lovely mid-life crisis, I was going through menopause as a constant reminder of my "old age." In my mind, I felt deprived and basically screwed.


It's tough, with the flowing of emotions circulating through my veins, it was a harsh reality for me. I wanted to embrace it, but I just couldn't. I wanted to wake up and know that I was 30 years old again, not late 40's. Why do I feel like my life has passed me by at a rapid pace? Why do I feel like it was wasted? I should be wallowing in this peaceful tranquillity of no longer suffering from menstrual cramps every month since the age of 15. I should be finally moving forward with my life instead of dreading it. But I just couldn't. I didn't want to. I wanted to drown in self pity and the dream and hopes of going back in time. Time machine anyone?


What was wrong with me?


As if my bipolar disorder wasn't bad enough, I had to deal with my flooding of hormones on a daily basis as well? I hate my life and I hate this disease. I hate how women are constantly reminded of growing 'old.' Tell me, what do men have to deal with? Baldness? A rounded gut to remind them of eating a bit healthier and working out until they're sweating profusely? Gray hair? Umm, we have to deal with that as well. No pass there. At least we don't look ridiculous when dyeing our hair to cover the gray—but I only attribute that to wearing makeup to mask our pale skin. Unlike men who think the comb over will only enhance their hair, instead of looking hysterical and foolhardy? Still, that's a personal choice, not something they can't avoid. 


Is life contemptible? It only reminds us how cruel life can be to a woman. Aside from the joys of pregnancy (ha, not me) and creating a new life, it basically sucks. Oh, and let's not forget the sagging and heading 'south' of our breasts. Gotta love gravity!


Lovely.


All I know is this, I can't go back, regardless of how often I pray and wish, but I can move forward with my life. Or at least try to. Can I change my life? For the most part, yes. We are in control of our destiny and our dreams—well, to a certain extent of course. I'm hoping that someday soon I will climb out of this mid-life funk and move forward and embrace my aging instead of crying over it—ugh, that word again—instead of being depressed from it. It's a part of life that I can't wriggle out of, and I can't escape it.


I love my wrinkles. 


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The Tide Will Turn

I feel great, I really do.


Ever since I started taking my medication, I feel wonderful. Yes, there are those occasional blips that encompass me on a daily basis, but overall, they're working! I never want to stop. There are still days as I regularly pop those pills in my mouth, that I often ask myself, "why do I need to take so many pills?" It's a tough 'pill' to swallow—no pun here—but I know if I don't take them, I will go down that rocky road where I was heading before. 


And it wasn't good.


I try to remind myself that we're blessed to have such spectacular health benefits; we're lucky, very lucky. If it weren't for my husband's benefits, we wouldn't have the means to buy my meds and I know what a downward cycle that would bring me back into. That would not only be devastating, but shattering as well. I tell my husband everyday that we need to somehow prepare for the possibility—albeit a low possibility—that if he were to get laid off or fired, what would we do? Yes, he'd collect unemployment benefits, but what about health insurance? No such thing as health unemployment benefits. Oh ya, it's called COBRA. 


More like NO-BRA. No bra because there's no support. Your premiums are double if not more than what you were paying while working with that company, so where's the coverage there? 


Just like wearing 'No Bra.' Ultimately, we'd be screwed.


The last few weeks consisted of crying and fright. Those tears were all for my father. Nothing else. I didn't want to stop the ache because I wanted to continue to cry for the man that raised me. The man that I looked up to. I only felt it was justified and the right thing to do. 


My husband had recommended that I take an anti-anxiety pill, but I refused. I told him this was legitimate, this is what I needed to feel, not numbness, but true sadness for someone I will miss and love for the rest of my life. And you know what, I'm OK with that.


Some tears are just worth shedding.


I believe that the next few months will be nothing shy of a challenge. As I received my very last unemployment check today, I now know that I can start working again and this time, I'm ready to face it head on. I'm ready to go to work and be surrounded by people in a socially thriving environment. I know I need this,but at this point, I have no other option. I must work.


The question is, am I emotionally ready? Can I do it?


As they say, only time will tell. I know once I get back into the groove of things, I will be ready and willing to move forward. I have to, because if I don't, what will happen? Will I go into a bipolar remission? Or just accept it as being a part of life and continue to plug away? 


Again, only time will tell.


I'm ready to face rejection and I'm ready to face success. I need to. I have to. But I admit, it will be tough. My life is like a tidal wive. As I continue to surf, different waves will come and go. The same goes as I grieve my father's death—they will come and go, and some days it'll be OK, other days there'll come a huge wave aiming towards me that I know I'll have to ride, that I can't avoid, but other waves will be small and minimal. Those waves I know I'll be able to anticipate without consequence. Basically, I know that everyday will be a different experience for me. 


Like life in general.


For me, it's a little more challenging than that, but I know as the "waves" come and go, so will my attitude. I will get better and then my tide will turn.


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Woes of Anniversary

My anniversary this past year was a tough one. We got married on November 5, so since it is around the holidays, this past anniversary turned into an unhappy one. Leading up to these months were tough for all of us, myself included. I had been through a lot, and knowing that our anniversary and the holidays were rapidly approaching, it was devastatingly scary for me. I knew I'd have to face it, and I knew I couldn't run away from it. It was right there in front of me like a shark at the depth of the ocean. I had nowhere to run and I couldn't escape.


For many years, I loved celebrating our anniversary. With the exception of my daughter's birthday, it was the one day of the year that was most special to us. Although we couldn't afford to travel or buy lavish gifts for each other, we still celebrated it with excitement and angst. Once we chose the restaurant we were both happy with and felt would be enjoyable for our celebratory evening, my husband was eager to call and make the reservation. 


Throughout the years for our anniversary, we would get a babysitter and enjoy it on our own, but the last 2 or 3 years, we decided to bring our daughter with us. We realized that she was a big part of our lives and felt she was why we were here and why we were together. She always enjoyed it as much as we did and took pride in participating with us. It brought us happiness.


We decided to eat at a local oyster & seafood bar that had recently opened several months prior, and it was only a few blocks from our loft. So aside from convenience, we figured we'd enjoy the new surroundings and experience. Since I had been wanting to eat there when it opened, it was the perfect choice. But something always came up, whether it be money or just time, we could never go. It seemed like there was always something; always a deterrent to keep us from going.


We didn't know how expensive it would be, so we ended up being conservative and would ultimately choose a more modest restaurant instead. This time, for our special day, my husband knew it'd be the perfect locale to honor our anniversary. He wanted to make me happy and make it unforgettable.

But this last anniversary was different. So very different.

I didn't want to be there and I didn't want to celebrate. I just wanted to curl up in a fetal position and cry. I wanted to be alone. But how? How could I be alone on a day that involved another person? It wasn't my birthday and it wasn't another frivolous holiday, it was OUR anniversary; it was our day.


Maybe on most occasions I could pull off the self-pitying fetal position, but this year was different. I really wanted to go, I really did. But with how I had been feeling the prior months, I knew it was a risk being there and bringing our daughter to go with us. But how could I say no? They were both trying so hard to make me happy and they wanted so badly to bring a smile to my face. So I did what any mother and wife would do during these circumstances—I sucked it up, and I went. 


This time, willingly.


What I would give to have it end there, but it didn't end happily. Not this time. At that point, I hadn't started hitting myself, so going home was not a scare nor was it a concern. However, my unhappiness was. Nothing could please me by this time, and nothing was "good enough."


All I did was complain about everything—the service, the food, the prices, the drinks—all of it. I couldn't find anything good about anything. As we were waiting anxiously for the check, I was sitting there tapping my leg as if I had to make an emergency run to the bathroom. I look back on that evening today, and realize how much I crave for a nice quiet evening such as that fateful night on our anniversary, and it saddens me. It only makes me realize how much pain I was in at that time. It was out of my control; it wasn't me back there. 


But is it too late to make amends with myself? Give myself some peace?


I don't know. I honestly don't. I realize that having bipolar disorder is out of my control; it's something I can't change. All I can do is continue my medication and realize that everyday will be a challenge, a challenge that I am ready and willing to embark on. A new day.


I now think to myself how lucky I was for having the luxury of spending a lovely evening at a delicious restaurant with my family, and how evenings like that are too few. After recently coming home from my father's funeral, I realize how he can no longer enjoy a delightful evening with his wife, or take advantage of a delicious meal at a sensational restaurant—these are things that he loved to do on many occasions, and can no longer do so.


That breaks my heart.


Is it a cliché to continually remind yourself of a common sentiment that "life is short?" Or should we actually take this advice and try and see the good in everything and everyone? Is it unrealistic to have such a positive attitude, or just absurd?


For me, the answer isn't that clear yet, but I hope it will be someday—soon! I am very anxious for that answer. I need clarity in my life. Especially now.


I desire nothing more than sitting in a restaurant with my family so we can enjoy the time we are spending there together, not look at what's going wrong, or what's right, just enjoy it; embrace it.  Whether or not the food is crap, service is slow or if the drinks are overpriced, will be irrelevant. I will only enjoy the time that I'm there with my family and take advantage of the precious time we have now and will continue to enjoy for the future.


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My Rock

Who is my rock? If you've been following my posts, I think you would know the answer to that. 

One word...Husband.

Yup, during this past year has been a tumultuous one—for everyone in my family. Everything in my life this past year, not just my bipolar disorder, but my father's illness, our finances and of course, my brother's nutty behavior. If I were single, I honestly don't know how I would have handled it. Seriously. I'm a weak soul when it comes to situations like the above. I truly am. So having my husband there meant the world to me. Even friends here and there, but as I've also mentioned in prior posts, I am very selective with who I discuss these private issues with. I try to keep it as minimal as possible; I keep it simple.

There are many issues that I do trust with my friends, but one of them is definitely not my bipolar disorder or finances. I've learned that people tend to judge you for these "problems" and hold it against you—especially financial hardship—so I keep it on the down-low. 

When people asked me how my father was doing, or what happened with my brother, I don't go in depth other than the basic information. Even though I know they're only inquiring because they care, I still share with them as little as possible.

My husband is different. I realize that these situations involve us as a family, however, but he has stood by me through everything. He has taken over everything within our household so I would have limited, if not any, problems clouding my mind or issues that could affect my getting better from my bipolar disorder. He knows under these extenuating circumstances that my reaction was typically accentuated beyond the normal boundaries that most people react.


He has seen me through everything, including my tantrums that were clearly out of my control, but also my brother, my father's illness and our financial hardships that have collided with my bipolar disorder; even though he works two jobs, everyday he would walk through the door, and even though he would be physically exhausted, he still held his head up high and he was proud, proud of everything he had accomplished in life. That takes courage. Throughout all of this, like you could imagine, he was mentally exhausted as well.

My husband means the world to me, that much is certain, and I truly hope that while others are suffering and struggling with bipolar disorder and depression, they too would be lucky enough to have the same support system that I have been so blessed with. Nothing is more important than having someone that loves you and never judges you and help you.

So as I sit here drinking my cappuccino and writing this post, I am eager to head home tomorrow and be with my "rock" once again.


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Burial of Emotions

Today is the day. The day of my father's burial service. I know it'll be tough to say goodbye. Perhaps this will give me the closure that I need, even though we were by his side when he passed. The entire time we were there, I never let go of his hand. I just sat there as I gazed in his eyes, even after his death, to ensure he was gone. I still can't believe it, even as it approaches a week after his death. I am in shock and I am in denial.

I look around my mother's house and I am filled with reminders and memories of him. His smell, his clothes, his glasses, his golf clubs, pictures scattered throughout. All of it. 

Sunday I will head home and mourn by myself. It's time. I need the time away from these reminders so I can be alone and handle this the way I need to. The only way I know how to. I know I will cry, and I know I will be forever saddened by this loss, but it's time I handle it on my own.

It's time for my mother to do the same. We both are mourning in our own way. Neither way is right or wrong, it's just how we need to do it. My mother has had to live with this for several months, whereas I just embarked on it. Watching him wither away into a weak and scared human being was not the father I have known my whole life. So for her, it was time that he be removed from his pain and peacefully die. 

It's what he wanted.

My father served in the Navy from the age of 18 to 22 during the Korean War. It was important for him to serve the full four years because for him, it was a matter of pride. Having a traditional veteran salute and folding of the flag and burial in the veteran's cemetery was what he wanted; what he longed for.

How can someone prepare for this? How can a daughter prepare for this? It will be just my mother and myself mourning the loss of my father. Aside from friends, we will be the only family members there. Since my brother ostracized himself from our family 2 years ago, he will most likely not attend. 

I find that sad; truly sad. Nothing breaks my heart more. He is now walking around unaware that his father has passed. I have tried to contact him with what little contact information I have. Because he continues to move around regularly, I have no idea what his phone # or his email address is. I wanted to try, at least give him the option and the opportunity for him to say goodbye. It saddens me that he won't be there, but I know my father had accepted their demise as father and son years ago. He had accepted their fate.

He was out of our lives completely.

I won't even bother applying makeup today because I know as I read the eulogy and the poem I wrote for him, it will be too emotional to keep the makeup from dripping down my face. It's easier this way. I want to cry without holding back because I want that forever ache to fulfill me.

I will not be there to look good, or even look fashionable, I am there only to mourn my father's passing. But one thing is certain, I will ensure that my nail polish is clean and unchipped. It's something my father taught me from a very young age—something that was important to him. He always said it looked "trashy" in addition to another Italian expletive that I will not share here, as I do not want to offend anyone.

As a result and as a tribute, my nail polish is applied perfectly, just for my daddy.

The house is quiet. There is nothing to be said. We're walking around as if nothing has changed, aside from the quiet pin-dropping sound permeating throughout the house. My mother and I are both very sad and neither of us don't know how to act. Again, we will both mourn in our own way.

As I sit here drinking my cappuccino, I honestly don't know what to do. I am at a loss. What is protocol, if any? Do I go about my daily chores and habits, or do I walk around the house and gaze at his pictures and personal artifacts and embrace them as I attempt to say goodbye? 

I honestly don't know. I am new at this. It's all so surreal for me.

As I sit here in the empty chair of my father's disembodied spirit, it's tough for me. I am still unable to accept his absence; his death. He's not gone. He will walk through the door at any moment now. I just know it. I have faith.

The emotions that will fill the warmth of my heart will only confirm that he will always remain in my soul and my thoughts. I will never let go of his memory. 

My burial of emotions

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Painting Makes the Heart Grow Fonder

I love painting, I do. I think I've made that apparent in most—if not all—of my prior posts. Although I haven't been trained professionally as a painter (even though I studied art), it's something I've always done to calm my nerves and makes me happy—even to keep me occupied and "out of trouble." It's just what I've always done. I think I take after my mother in that regard, because she did the same thing.

After many years of painting bright colors on many canvases, I've come to the realization that painting has helped me through my bipolar disorder on many levels, not just as an artist, but for a therapeutic point of view as well—even if I wasn't made aware of it at the time. However, it's something I have always enjoyed and realize that many painting instructors teach their students to mix their colors and never paint straight ouf of the tube. For me, I'm the opposite. I prefer to paint with acrylic when most instructors teach their students to use oils instead.

Any way you look at it, it's still a personal preference.

I do know that as a fine artist, we will all eventually use what works for us the most. It allows us to inhabit our own methods and excel as artists. At this point after many years, I don't care what the art community thinks about my paintings, and I don't care if they're being critiqued to the point of negativity and displeasure, I enjoy painting and I take pleasure from it.

As a graphic designer, we are taught to design for our clients, not the designer. That rule of thumb has always been tough for me, but I've come to learn after many years of working as a graphic designer that it's how we have to work in order to make a living.

We are there to make the client happy.

It can be very frustrating because as professionals, we know that many times the design we choose instead of the client, are always better. But that's not always the case. The client sees and desires what they want, regardless of our professional opinion. I've just learned to not take it personally, because ultimately it's not a reflection of who I am, but of the client during that point in time.

Isn't that what they're paying us for?

When I'm painting, I can take comfort that I'm doing it for me and for myself only. Nobody else. I've never put my paintings up for sale and I don't intend to. Over the years, I've been lucky enough to have painted many commissions of pets, couples, children, etc. but I've never really sold my paintings that are hanging on my walls.

These were painted for me. 

I truly believe that these individual paintings mean something special to me and they have a purpose in my home. I don't think I could ever say goodbye. They're important to me and I've grown to accept them as part of my 'family,' part of my decor.

But as my heart grows for each painting I create, I know that deep in my heart I do it for enjoyment and a release. A release of everything I've endured this past year and what I will move to this coming year.

Maybe one of these days I'll actually sell one of my paintings, but in the meantime, I'll just enjoy them as they continue to hang on my own four walls.

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Goodbye, Daddy.

February 16, 1936 - June 17, 2012

You Were There

Poem by Me

You were always there for me

Through thick and through thin

We always fought

We always cried

We always smiled

We always tried

Sometimes I hated you

But I always loved you

Sometimes you were disappointed in me

But you were always proud

You had a short temper

But I knew it was your way

What I would give to hear your temper today

I miss your voice

I miss your smile

I miss your laugh

I miss your charm

I miss your kindness

I miss your love

I will always look upon you from the wing of a dove

I'll never forget

I'll always remember

How close we became

When we were together

You easily got upset

But told me you loved me

You may have yelled

But said you were sorry

The time we spent together

Was precious and meaningful

  

Even when you were serious
You continued to smile

You were protective of me

But happy when you walked me down the aisle

I'll never forget when I saw you cry

You met your granddaughter for the first time

As she grew, so did your smile

Spending time with her was worth the while

These last days have been sad

But spending time with you made me glad

You were always there for me

And that I will never forget

Goodbye my daddy

You will always be in my heart

Forever

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It's time to say goodbye...forever!

Yesterday morning after I walked in the door from my morning run, took a shower and made my morning cappuccino, I received a phone call from my mother. The phone call I've been dreading after all these months; many months since my dad was diagnosed with prostate cancer.

Since I just came home from taking my dog out, I saw her message blinking on my cell phone. Scared, I immediately listened to it with anticipation; as I always do when she calls. But they typically had only been just to say hi and give me an update about my father.

Until now.

Listening to her message and listening to the tone of her voice, I knew that something was wrong, or worse, something had happened. She succinctly said, "please call me, it's important."

My heart dropped. It dropped to the floor. I heard it in her voice. Calling her back was the scariest thing I had ever encountered in my life. I didn't know what to expect, but clearly it was the worst scenario I had thought about after all these months since his diagnosis.

Once she picked up the phone, it confirmed my worst fear. My father was deterioating, his organs were failing, and at this point, he had only days to live. She simply said "I think it's time you come out and prepare to say goodbye."

Hearing those words I can't describe because I never ever thought I'd be confronted with those words, those harsh saddening words. How can I prepare for something like that? How can I prepare to say goodbye? Saying goodbye to the one man I had always looked up to and always respected. He was a good father; an excellent father. He had his moments, like we all do in life, but overall, he always made sure we had food on the table and a roof over our heads. We were always provided for.

Please forgive me if you find this post insensitive, but it's something I need to express, my feeling and my soul here. Although for the most part, my blog has become therapeutic for me, I honestly don't know how to react to this, something like this. Something I had never expected to happen in a million years in my life. Since I had discussed my father's illness in prior posts, I wanted to share this with you as well. So please accept my apologies in advance if it insults you.

As I immediately started researching flights, I was able to get on the next flight 2 hours later. Once I arrived, I was scared to see my mother's reaction, but she gave me a tight loving hug instead. No tears, just strength. She was so strong throughout this whole ordeal that I can only learn from this trait of hers, as opposed to being insulted by it. As I look back, I honestly cannot remember seeing her cry. Throughout my entire life, she had always been stoic towards many situations, even the death of her mother and father. Regardless, she was a loving and giving mother. Always there for me and always made sure I had anything and everything I needed in life. Even while I was away at school.

As we were driving to the hospital she warned me that I must brace myself as he is not the same man that I had always known and had always grown accustomed to. He was very weak and very thin. I could feel my heart pounding inside of my chest wanting to pump its way out, but I wanted to remain strong. She then told me that she didn't tell him I was coming so it could be a surprise for him. Even though I loved this idea, I was concerned that seeing me unannounced would only scare him, instead of pleasing him.

But we lied. We told him that we had been planning this trip for over a week now. Planning it making sure that my meds were now working.

Thankfully he never showed any indication that he caught onto our scheme, only surprise and happiness as I turned the corner of his hospital room in the ICU. At first, I didn't know how to react. Seeing him lying there in the hospital bed was not the man I knew; not the man I grew up with and not the man who provided for us. I had even hoped we accidentally walked into the wrong room. He was someone else entirely. It was difficult, I admit, but after talking with him for a while, I felt confident. Not necessarily confident of his recovery, just confident of his alertness and lack of pain. He looked comfortable and at peace. Just relaxed and completely alert. At least I could take comfort in knowing that he wasn't in pain or appeared to not be frightened; a pillar of strength like I had always known him. Especially considering the current situation, this made me feel good. Albeit only temporary.

As we were sitting there gazing at the television screen, in comes his Gastroenterologist with grave news. "I think it's time you need to plan for end of life."

Hearing those words were beyond devastating, but shocking nevertheless. Even though my whole trip consisted of this possibility, how can one still be prepared for such shocking words?

Nobody can.

I couldn't control myself, I couldn't handle it. I ran out of the room and into the hallway of the ICU and just started crying. Holding my face with my palms and started crying. I couldn't stop. And I didn't want to. I wanted to cry and feel this ache that was starting to overcome me. He was my daddy, of course.

It's gonna be so difficult for me to let go and say goodbye. I don't know how to. I don't know how to make peace with something like this. I've never been in this situation before with the excepton of my grandparents' death when I was 11 years old, and then the death of my in-laws. But this is different. Don't get me wrong, I loved my in-laws and grandparents very much, but it's not the same when it's your father. Your blood relative. Nothing can compare.

On the eve of Father's Day, it'll be the most difficult reality I'll have to face. I love my father very much and looking at him lying there in the hospital bed all wired up and tubes coming out of everywhere, is a harsh reality for me. I know I will breakdown and cry. Hopefully not in front of him but I'll breakdown either way. I am already mourning the loss of him.

Even today, as my mother and I spent visiting him, it's as though he's finally giving up; finally accepting his fate. Maybe it was seeing me is what he needed to say goodbye himself, I don't know. But he seemed calm, but not his usual jovial self. Thank God he's not in any pain, but either way it still doesn't make this any easier. It only makes you realize that it's real. All of this is real. Not a nightmare like I had hoped.

We're expecting to say goodbye to him within the next few days. Am I ready? No, I'm not. I don't want to say goodbye, but aside from a short miracle, it'll have to happen, most likely on his own; a natural exit. Something like this is never easy, and looking into his eyes (the same eyes I inherited) only makes it worse. He's alert and he knows. Knows it's time to say goodbye forever.

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Eternal Sunshine of the Vintage Display

I love color, I do. If you saw my loft, you would know that I love color.

I've never been one to decorate my home with the usual taupe and beige that seem to be the norm in most homes. Oh no, I have to have colorful surroundings. It'll make me happy, you see.

Hmm maybe not always.

I'm mature enough to know that a colorful home will not solve all problems—especially those suffering from bipolar disorder. But it feels and looks good, nevertheless. You can tell, the minute you walk into my home that an artist lives here.

That pleases me.

I typically don't watch the quintessential home decorating shows all over the networks these days, or anything close. I just like to come up with my own ideas—with the occasional inspirations wherever I go. I'm always looking around and observing for a "lightbulb" effect. However, I was watching a show and absolutely loved it! The decorators/artists/designers (whose vocation was more along the lines of professional flippers), were a married couple who were like me—they loved mixing vintage elements with new. I loved it. OMG where did they come from?

New York City of course.

They demonstrated a modern taste—such as myself—with a lot of bright colors. They weren't afraid to go beyond the usual common boundaries.

I was addicted, so I continued to watch every episode with anticipation. Heck, I even downloaded the series from iTunes so I can watch over and over. It was invigorating and more than inspiring.

Many ideas were presented as an eclectic juxtaposition of vintage essentials displayed throughout their clients' homes. I loved it. Unfortunately, they have the advantage of living in New York City where there is a plethora of vintage/pre-owned shops. I didn't have that luxury here where I live. 

Regardless, I'll make due. I've always loved and taken advantage of eBay and it's right there at your fingertips. 

With empty vases and chachkes cluttering up my coffee table, I knew I had to make a change. Something more simple; maybe even adding more color. But what? 

Once again taking advantage of the convenience of eBay, I scrolled page after page looking for ideas for the perfect find. Perusing Craigslist didn't seem like an appropriate option, so I continued to search for the perfect bargain. Or even idea. Regardless, I still tried Craigslist just in case. You never know.

I have been on the hunt for an old vintage pinball machine for months now—don't ask me where I'd put it however—and know that clearly eBay wouldn't be a practical option. I even found the perfect set of old gym lockers on Craigslist for a small space that was being misused in the foyer of our front door—for a mere $60.

Even though I still had no idea what I wanted to fill those empty vases with, I figured I'd come up with an idea eventually. An epiphany. Because that's just how I roll. 

One day it literally came to me, and I realized it'd be the perfect solution. Nobody would have these items displayed in their homes. Only on their pool tables for practical use—playing pool.

A view from the side showcasing how the pool balls & bowl 

of legos look underneath my coffee table

Closeup view of the bowl of legos & vase of pool balls

View from above as you can see the large bowl filled 

with vintage & new pool balls

I knew coming up with the idea of displaying old vintage billiard balls mixed with new ones would be a perfect solution, albeit an odd one. But I could always appreciate its colorful and retro-style and loved how the color bordering each ball's circumference added life, which is what gave them a unique perspective. 

Let the hunt begin.

For me, using something as simple as old styled mixed with new styled billiard balls was an inexpensive infusion and I knew it would be something I could afford and proudly display without "breaking the bank." 

At first my husband thought I was weird, but I didn't care. As with everything in our home, he eventually comes around and loves how I've decorated our loft and proudly displayed my art. 

I didn't want to stop there, I wanted to continue to add more "life" to my loft. 

As I was attempting to work on my Lego art project—from my prior post, Blocked?....No Pun Intended—looking at the tub of colorful legos inspired me even more. Too bad it wasn't for that particular project, however, but the colors and different sizes always made me want to do something else; maybe something extraordinary outside of my 'blocked' Lego art project.

Buying an old bowl for $1.99 and filling it with Legos was also an unconventional inspiration, but a colorful one, nonetheless. 

Even something as simple as an old unused gumball machine which I purchased on eBay for $20, even adding the candy gave it a colorful eclectic—and delicious—alternative.

Sometimes I'll add peanut or plain M&M's for even 

more bright colors—and when we're bored of chewing gum

My gaming headset has always been quite bothersome on my desk, so finding something as simple as a styrofoam head bust was an even better solution. For only $10, I took it home and spray painted it yellow and gave it more life than the sold as-is white styrofoam. I received an unexpected veneer as a result of the spray paint mixed with the styrofoam. Overall, it looked really cool.

I needed somewhere to display my gaming headset & saw 

this styrofoam head & thought it was the perfect solution!

I like to frequently shop the local vintage stores, Goodwill, pawn shops, our local Eco-Thrift store and the like for old, pre-owned items. It's like the saying, "one man's junk is another man's treasure." I have always found this to be true. I've always been an advocate of reusing items not just to "save the earth" but just as a way of expressing a form of unrivaled taste and individuality. This way, you're not seeing the same thing in everybody's home, or their clothing (i.e. Gap, Old Navy, Pottery Barn, etc.).

It's also why I love old estate jewelry. There's a history there, and although I may not know it, I can appreciate that there was a story regardless. Something about its untold diary gives an impression of excitement and wonderment as we try to imagine what that story is/was, maybe it was out of sadness or grief, or even desperation for money—God knows we've been there a number of times. Either way, it's a story I can create in my head; something that gives me inner peace.

Finding exceptional one-of-a-kind objects is something I've always treasured and enjoyed. Even altering its appearance with something as simple as spray paint can give it exclusivity.

These are one of the many things that have always helped me through my disease, bipolar disorder. I realize it can't cure it, but at least try and keep my mind occupied from my racing thoughts or decrease them a great deal. That is something I am satisfied with—even if it's only temporary at that time.

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A Dream.

We all have a dream. Something we all yearn to be, to do, in our lives. Sometimes we don't all get the opportunity to live out our aspirations, but it's fun to get away, if only in our minds, as we gaze into our fantasy.

For me, a dream that I've fantasized about for the past 3 years is opening up an art school—an art school for kids. I never thought in a milion years that I would ever want to teach art, especially to children, but after having my daughter, and exposing her to art, colors, painting, et al, since she was 18 months old, I realized that it's something I loved; something I truly enjoyed. And you know what, I was damn good at it, too.

It was at this age that I taught my daughter colors. At this time, she knew her colors and by the time she entered daycare at the age of 2, the instructors were highly impressed by this. I have paintings that she created at 19 months old that are framed and hanging in her room. I love these paintings because nothing gives the impression of brightness through art more than a child's painting. The vibrance and stimulating assemblage of colors pleases me. Seeing all the bright colors gives the viewer such joy, that we don't even realize we're experiencing it.

But I do. I always appreciate and love all the different colors. Bright beautiful rich colors.

I always knew that this would be my goal, but how do I attempt it? How do I start? I have no money and no bank in their right mind would ever grant me a business loan. So how? As my unemployment is nearing its end, I am scared. So scared that as I look at the jobs listed, I get even more depressed. There is nothing in my field, and nothing that even looks like I could qualify for. It's scary out there, and I won't know what to do. The time is soon approaching.

Do I even attempt to research how to obtain this and follow through with my dream, or do I just leave it at that—nothing but a fantasy in my mind and my heart? This is what I need to ask myself, because as I sit here and ponder how I would come up with the money to fulfill this objective, it will just have to remain nothing but a daydream for now. Who knows what will happen, life is funny that way. I may have the means to follow through with this goal, but for now, I don't.

What do I do in the meantime? My heart is yearning to fulfill something meaningful in my life. I want to be able to walk away from all of this, create a therapeutic retreat, if only in my head, and grow; move forward and excel in my life. Haven't I been through enough?

We all work very hard, and in this horrible economy, sometimes people struggle to the point of losing everything. Although that is not happening to us, I look at my husband everyday as he comes home from one of his two jobs exhausted, literally exhausted. My husband works 80 hours/week, and for what? Little to no money only so we can have our bills paid, our rent paid, and food on the table—which doesn't always happen, unfortunately. Barely enough to survive as we live paycheck to paycheck every week. We are not poor, but we are not rich either. Is there such a thing as middle class these days? I don't know.

But I do know this, I will try my hardest to live out my dream, even if it takes me years to attain. 

I have to.

Abstract Finger Painting – Artist, my daughter – 2001

Copy of Keith Haring – Artist, my daughter – 2006

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The Rat Race

I mean this legitimately—the rat race in my head and my thoughts. They're always racing, so much so that I cannot sleep. It feels like my mind and my thoughts are going 100 miles a minute. Sometimes I can control it, especially when I go for my morning run, but most of the time, I cannot. Unfortunately, it prevents me from sleeping, and this isn't good for my disease, my bipolar disorder. My therapist and my "drug dealer" (as I like to call my psychiatric nurse who prescribes my medication), always tell me that I need my sleep; it's imperative I get a good night's sleep. But how can I control it? How can I control my racing thoughts?

Most of the time, I'm always thinking of ways to improve my solitude and give me projects to work on, especially for my art. But there are so many ideas that I honestly don't know where to start, or worse, how to execute them. I know I have discussed this through one of my prior posts, Therapy Through Art, but it's something that continues to affect me even today, several weeks later.

I sometimes feel like my mind is in the middle of New York City running through rush hour as though I was part of the "rat race." It gets beyond frustrating because I just can't seem to concentrate on anything—not even my art, which means the world to me right now. Again.

Yesterday I had my daughter's friend come over for a sleepover, and since I had never met her mother, she eagerly came upstairs to introduce herself. Nice enough lady, just couldn't seem to stop talking. Well, for most people that may be OK, but for me, someone who suffers from bipolar disorder, my mind wanders if you've lost me; lost my interest—which unfortunately happens a little too often these days, and with her, it was just too much; too in depth.

As I'm standing there trying my hardest to listen, my mind continued to wander—round and round about everything and anything to zone her out. I couldn't help it, but I lost interest not far into the conversation.

How do I overcome this? The past several days, I have been shaky in the mornings, and now exhausted. I credit the exhaustion to my lack of sleep these days, but the shakiness, I just don't know what to do. Thankfully I have my appointment tomorrow with my "drug dealer" so hopefully he can recommend something. It's tough, kind of like this dichomoty in my brain telling me that although my depression and mood swings have diminished exponentially, I'm shaky and exhausted regardless.

The polarity is frustrating for me. No pun intended.

This tells me one thing—I'm still not 100% like I had hoped. The last few weeks have been such a huge transformation, as we had immediately thought, finally she's back.

Not yet.

After starting this painting a few weeks ago, I finally completed it this morning. Although I haven't done the finishing touches to date—a shiny gloss coat—but I can still display it proudly to share with you for this post.

I hope you like it. If not, that's OK too, I realize my art is not for everyone. That's what makes it art. More abstract in nature which demonstrates my current state of mind; my racing thoughts.

Skyscraper of a Scattered Mind – Artist, me – 2012

Thank you for reading, and thank you for allowing me to share my recent painting with you.

P.S. Please understand that my paintings are amateur as I have had no professional training in fine art painting with acrylic. But it's something I do for myself. I typically don't sell my paintings, would consider it.

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Back in the Saddle Again

For over two years, two long years, I had no desire whatsoever to work on my graphic design and/or art. I just wanted to sit and play my video game. That's it. That was my goal; that is what consisted of my day.

I don't blame the video game or my addiction to my lack of interest in my art, I blame my frustration and I blame Bipolar Disorder. But life can't be filled with blame, if all we do is blame then we never hold ourselves accountable for the mistakes that we make. I am choosing to get help for my Bipolar and choosing to get well again. I have so much to live in my life and so much to see, that getting well will only enrich it, not ruin it.

It was difficult these past two years without my art, without my work. I truly thought I'd never have the desire to go back. I always looked at it as a creative block, nothing more, nothing less. I was afraid that I'd never have that desire to create and design like I used to. I had such passion for it and to then wake up one day and have it disappear was discouraging, as well as depressing. I had worked so hard to obtain my bachelors degree in graphic design, that it was almost a disincline from everything that had been so meaningful in my life.

Until now.

After two and a half years, I can now look ahead and move forward with my work and my art. Even though I am still currently unemployed, I still have hope that I can create on my own and design for me. Right now, I need that more than anything. It'll not only keep me sane, but keep me occupied. Keep my thoughts from racing every night as I lie in bed attempting to go to sleep. My psychiatric nurse—whom I refer to as my 'drug dealer'—had recommended that I keep a journal or note pad next to my bed so I can write down my racing thoughts. But I don't need a note pad, thankfully I still remember all of my thoughts and ideas the following day.

If only it were this easy. I admit, there are days where my mind and thoughts are constantly coming up with ideas on what project to work on next, only to find myself unable to execute it when I approach the plate. It has been frustrating. I've never had this problem before and I've never been this "blocked." It has become quite the eye opener for me. Reality. 

Sometimes I ask myself "why?" Why am I atttempting to do this again? Why not just walk away and find something else to occupy my time? I had even thought about focusing my energy on learning to cook, but for me for the most part, art/design is still where I belong. When you're an artist, the answer isn't as simple as it may seem. It's something deep inside of you that needs to come out; that needs to be expressed. STAT! 

But where do I start?

I'm confused by this question, simply because I am still confused to why I was 'blocked' to begin with. Since I was 13 years old, after seeing the movie Xanadu, I knew that becoming a commercial artist—which is what graphic design was called back then—was my calling in life. Although I initially dreamed of becoming an architect, I immediately came to the realization that math was not my forté; my weakest subject. 

Next dream—graphic designer. 

Art history and architecture is still to this day, something I have such passion for, so I just realized that I can still enjoy it without having it as my career. 

Even if I don't get a job in my field right now, I'm actually OK with that. At this point, working at a coffee shop would be sufficient. As long as I'm around people and can socialize with the real world, in lieu of the virtual world which I have become so accustomed to after 2+ years. I need and crave for that more than anything right now.

That will help me heal.

Pop Art illustration Raisins – Artist, me – 2006

Pop Art illustration S.O.S. Pads – Artist, me – 2006

Pop Art illustration Spaghetti Sauce & Tomato Soup – Artist, me – 2006

 

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