Page 126 - July ONLINE VERSION

Happiness wasn’t even an option on the wheel and
"New Day Tres"
"2 departed excitedly,
1 returned crestfallen"
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"A Really Smart Man that I Offered a Comb..."
VISUAL ART'S POWER
OF KINDNESS By Joshua Blankinship
“We don’t know what else to do. PLEASE go somewhere and
get some help.” These were the words that reverberated in
my head following a family gathering that morphed into
an intervention-ish conversation in my parent’s living
room around the summer of 2005. My mother, father,
and wife were utterly exhausted dealing with my mood
swings, depression, suicidal ideations, mania, and gen-
eral ‘Russian Roulette’ of emotions. And, frankly, I was
exhausted too. I was a mess. My daily life was akin to the
Price is Right’s spin of the “Big Wheel.” Except the vari-
ous cent amounts that contestants hoped would equal one
dollar were replaced with entirely random moods, ma-
nia, and varying levels of irritability and depression. The
grand prize, if the Big Wheel landed with fortune’s favor,
was a day that could be best labeled as “pretty decent.”
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suicide spun round on the wheel, lurking, but cam-
ouflaged within the many other various combina-
tions. Needless to say, this wasn’t a life worth living
for myself. But, mostly, I couldn’t allow myself to
contribute to the misery of those I loved. I agreed to
inpatient mental health treatment.
My first inpatient stay was at the famous (or infa-
mous, depending on your outlook of their history)
Western State Mental Hospital in Bolivar, Tennessee.
I didn’t have insurance at the time, which meant that
you could choose a state hospital or eventually end
up in prison, the largest custodial housing of the
mentally ill in our country and the absolute worst
place for a mentally ill individual to receive proper
treatment. I was naturally terrified entering Western
State, with its prison-like accommodations.
But, for all of the general unease and anxiety that’s
manufactured by its setting, Western State was the
starting-pin on my personal map of life that began
the long expedition towards the end-pin’s final des-
tination of personal contentment and the relaxation
of those around me. It was the first time that I had
ever experienced any sort of therapy and medica-
tion. And, after a week or so, I was released with
a diagnosis of Bi-Polar II, state-supplied medical
insurance, appointments for a psychiatrist to oversee
the effectiveness of my medications and an outpa-
tient therapist that would help me understand my
disorder while introducing me to coping skills.
Western State didn’t ‘fix me’, as it was only the first of
6 total inpatient stays at various other mental health
facilities in the region. But, it gave me the hand-up
that I needed to educate myself on Bi-Polar disorder
and pursue various treatment options. It was during
this period of treatment that a therapist introduced
me to a life-altering epiphany. “Bi-polar disorder,
and nearly all mental illnesses are a chronic illness
for which there is no cure available. The goal for
those affected should be to find a mix of therapy,
medications, and actions that best manage the
symptoms.” This idea sledgehammer broke through
a wall of previous understanding. On the other side
of that demolished wall was the realization that I
should stop looking for a “fix” and that searching for
a cure was a completely fruitless endeavor.
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At the next therapy appointment, I asked for some
“actions” that could benefit my mental illness. He
rattled through a few of which I had no interest, but
he eventually maneuvered towards creative activi-
ties. I’ve been a creative person my entire life. But, I
had never chosen a specific creative interest to dive
into. And, when he mentioned art, something inside
me clicked. It felt like being a broken neon sign on
the Las Vegas strip that was fixed and switched on
for the first time. I was so excited by the thought that
it felt like I had the answer to a question that didn’t
even exist. Immediately after that appointment, I
went out and bought the cheapest acrylic art set I
could find. It came with about 5 colors that fit into
their individual plastic thimble-sized holders with
caps. It also included two 5” x 7” canvas boards.
That night I created my first two original pieces. The
entire painting session flew by. My overactive mind
had been occupied for hours with very few thoughts,
but was actually tired----something that wasn’t a
usual experience, for sure. The whole process felt as
if I were in a natural element of freedom and com-
fort. My life was never the same. Art saved me.
I painted daily for years. I taught myself everything
that I know as a painter. Each day, I practiced for
hours with no inkling that it was practice----it was
my personal fun time during which I could release
pent-up, ugly emotion onto an open canvas with
beautiful colors. The world could see and experience
the visceral feelings that I had. I can only look back
now and realize that simply doing something you
enjoy is actually practicing. It wasn’t structured in
any way, but each day I got a little better. At a certain
point, the quality of my art began generating interest
from others. It was then I realized that I could use
my emotional outlet to advocate and spread kind-
ness to others.
Mental illness carries an incredible stigma within
our society. This stigma exists because many peo-
ple have a fear of mental illness and those who are
mentally ill. Many wrongly assume that the mentally
ill are dangerous or aggressive people and that their
biological differences shouldn’t be openly discussed
in public. This is a hurtful misnomer that prevents
inclusion and creates more suffering for those that
already suffer. It also forces those that receive a men-
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