Page 127 - July ONLINE VERSION

Happiness wasn’t even an option on the wheel and
"A Really Smart Man that I Offered a Comb..." suicide spun round on the wheel, lurking, but cam- At the next therapy appointment, I asked for some
ouflaged within the many other various combina- “actions” that could benefit my mental illness. He
tions. Needless to say, this wasn’t a life worth living rattled through a few of which I had no interest, but
for myself. But, mostly, I couldn’t allow myself to he eventually maneuvered towards creative activi-
contribute to the misery of those I loved. I agreed to ties. I’ve been a creative person my entire life. But, I
inpatient mental health treatment. had never chosen a specific creative interest to dive
into. And, when he mentioned art, something inside
My first inpatient stay was at the famous (or infa- me clicked. It felt like being a broken neon sign on
mous, depending on your outlook of their history) the Las Vegas strip that was fixed and switched on
"New Day Tres" Western State Mental Hospital in Bolivar, Tennessee. for the first time. I was so excited by the thought that
I didn’t have insurance at the time, which meant that it felt like I had the answer to a question that didn’t
you could choose a state hospital or eventually end even exist. Immediately after that appointment, I
up in prison, the largest custodial housing of the went out and bought the cheapest acrylic art set I
mentally ill in our country and the absolute worst could find. It came with about 5 colors that fit into
place for a mentally ill individual to receive proper their individual plastic thimble-sized holders with
treatment. I was naturally terrified entering Western caps. It also included two 5” x 7” canvas boards.
State, with its prison-like accommodations. That night I created my first two original pieces. The
entire painting session flew by. My overactive mind
But, for all of the general unease and anxiety that’s had been occupied for hours with very few thoughts,
VISUAL ART'S POWER manufactured by its setting, Western State was the but was actually tired----something that wasn’t a

starting-pin on my personal map of life that began
OF KINDNESS By Joshua Blankinship the long expedition towards the end-pin’s final des- usual experience, for sure. The whole process felt as
if I were in a natural element of freedom and com-
tination of personal contentment and the relaxation
of those around me. It was the first time that I had fort. My life was never the same. Art saved me.
ever experienced any sort of therapy and medica- I painted daily for years. I taught myself everything
tion. And, after a week or so, I was released with that I know as a painter. Each day, I practiced for
“We don’t know what else to do. PLEASE go somewhere and a diagnosis of Bi-Polar II, state-supplied medical
get some help.” These were the words that reverberated in insurance, appointments for a psychiatrist to oversee hours with no inkling that it was practice----it was
"2 departed excitedly, my head following a family gathering that morphed into the effectiveness of my medications and an outpa- my personal fun time during which I could release
pent-up, ugly emotion onto an open canvas with
1 returned crestfallen" an intervention-ish conversation in my parent’s living tient therapist that would help me understand my beautiful colors. The world could see and experience

room around the summer of 2005. My mother, father, disorder while introducing me to coping skills. the visceral feelings that I had. I can only look back
and wife were utterly exhausted dealing with my mood Western State didn’t ‘fix me’, as it was only the first of now and realize that simply doing something you
swings, depression, suicidal ideations, mania, and gen- 6 total inpatient stays at various other mental health enjoy is actually practicing. It wasn’t structured in
eral ‘Russian Roulette’ of emotions. And, frankly, I was facilities in the region. But, it gave me the hand-up any way, but each day I got a little better. At a certain
point, the quality of my art began generating interest
exhausted too. I was a mess. My daily life was akin to the that I needed to educate myself on Bi-Polar disorder from others. It was then I realized that I could use
Price is Right’s spin of the “Big Wheel.” Except the vari- and pursue various treatment options. It was during my emotional outlet to advocate and spread kind-
ous cent amounts that contestants hoped would equal one this period of treatment that a therapist introduced ness to others.

dollar were replaced with entirely random moods, ma- me to a life-altering epiphany. “Bi-polar disorder,
and nearly all mental illnesses are a chronic illness
nia, and varying levels of irritability and depression. The for which there is no cure available. The goal for Mental illness carries an incredible stigma within
grand prize, if the Big Wheel landed with fortune’s favor, those affected should be to find a mix of therapy, our society. This stigma exists because many peo-
ple have a fear of mental illness and those who are
was a day that could be best labeled as “pretty decent.” medications, and actions that best manage the mentally ill. Many wrongly assume that the mentally
symptoms.” This idea sledgehammer broke through ill are dangerous or aggressive people and that their
a wall of previous understanding. On the other side biological differences shouldn’t be openly discussed
of that demolished wall was the realization that I in public. This is a hurtful misnomer that prevents
should stop looking for a “fix” and that searching for inclusion and creates more suffering for those that
a cure was a completely fruitless endeavor. already suffer. It also forces those that receive a men-

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