Art speaks

Warning: don't read if your depression is bad, it might add to it.

As most people say: art speaks a thousand words with merely just one image. It's a way of expressing oneself at any age and will continue to do so for everyone who desperately needs it.

Such as in my case. I wonder how many times I've told people that art and writing has been my therapy. It has been for a long time and probably will continue to do so until I no longer need it. Though I doubt I'd give it up. It's been almost 12 whole years since I've been reliant on it, after all.

As to why I started art? Well...

2009

My grandfather passed away just a few short days before All souls day. My comfort and safe place was gone in an instant. I was neglected more. But even before that though, I was basically a ghost to my paternal side of the family. And also, I'm the eldest of us 4 siblings. It shouldn't have been that bad but then by this year, I've had so many cousins that added to my baby sitting and "maid duties" as I've always called it. So when I had time, or when the kids needed to do school work, I would draw while I taught. The people on my father's side could care less about their own kids and since I was also the eldest granddaughter, all the kids were dumped to me. I barely had a childhood.

2011-2012

My 2011 never really had anything memorable about it. Still had to care for the kids, still had to tend to the house, grocery shopping added to that list but I was fortunate that the house was still peaceful during these times. By 2012, one of the things I realized late happened. One of my paternal uncles started molesting and sexually harassing me. I had no escape then since he was the one to drive all the kids to and from school. It started with just touches, on the thighs, shoulders, those creepy touches on my arms then they did eventually escalate.

This year was also when my father's friend saw how I could draw. He taught me all the basics because he was a painter. He invited me to some galleries when I was free and gave me that spartan art training I now appreciate so much.

2013-2014

The touches did escalate to my bottom and breasts. I tried everything to escape him, even as far as to just walk home from school since it wasn't that far, maybe 30 minutes from my house. But in these years, the fights between my parents worsened. At times, I heard things from my dad that I wish I never did like "I would be much happier by now if I didn't have kids" and in on some nights that he would drink alone, he would sometimes tell me that I was such a huge mistake. It took a while to convince myself that I wasn't. But at times, I would still look at the knives my grandfather left me, still as sharp as when he used them. I sliced my skin sometimes to keep me grounded but never to kill myself.

My art by these years often had double meanings. The more colorful my art was, the deeper the pain it held. Those were the ones I sold off in the art exhibits and auctions I was asked to join. The people seemed to enjoy watching my depression. What's amusing was that even when artists could see the emotions in the art, they always had something to say. And being the youngest in their community was no help either. But I did continue with art. I needed it. Writing eventually added to this list and I started to keep a journal for my thoughts. I read those at times to remind myself how far I've come.

In 2014, my dad kicked my mom out of the house. What was already a pile of chores to be done doubled and extended to budgeting and doing everything alone. I couldn't manage any form of savings back then. My dad knew I earned from art so he would always cut the house budget short so that I would be forced to use whatever I had to add to it. My sisters and cousins I raised never came to help when I asked. I started to cut deeper and hoped I would eventually bleed to death while I slept but I didn't so I had to conceal my arms. I became known as the hoody girl for the rest of my highschool years.

2015-2016

After much overdose attempts, mostly from paracetamol, ibuprofen and a few sleeping aids I could get my hands on, I became resistant to those drugs. It was unfortunate and I kept questioning why it's so hard to die. The harassments from my uncles escalated to the point that he would press his crotch on any part of my body and he would move to relieve himself. There was a rape attempt at one point too and a death threat that went along with it, thus why I hid in my room since then. I also lost my scholarship because my dad seemed to think that threatening to kick me out of the house a day before a major exam was a good idea.

I also had my first check up with a psychologist in these years. I had General Anxiety Disorder that caused most of my depressive symptoms. I was given medication that I tried to use for overdose too. Nothing worked. I wanted a clean death and it was only my body that was fighting but my mind honestly gave up on everything. I couldn't handle the harassments and the fact that I was like a servant to everyone in that house. It was miserable. I barely had friends because I was always needed to be at home asap because no one would tend to the house. I stopped asking my sisters for help, they needed to study. They seem to have a better future than I did. I was a mess. Constantly tried to get myself run over, was still constantly looking for clean ways to die. I eventually took refuge online and met someone. He was a college student and we eventually did date. He was the basis for my Primrose story but we didn't have a happy ending like they did. He succeeded in his death because by the time we met, he was already terminally ill. My body never allowed me to follow him.

2017

Things started to turn to the bright side by this year. The harassments stopped. My mom came back and my dad left instead. He went to that office mate of his that he was flirting with in the absence of my mom. By those times, my mom allowed us to adopt puppies which is sebastian and Victoria, the ones I have. They were also therapy to me. I was still suicidal but my attempts got lesser and lesser. I shifted from geology to chemistry and I gained a friend. A really good friend in all those years of silence.

What I learned from my attempts?

Nothing much, really. It's just that these things will just pass. It's up to you if you'll find your own form of therapy or not. And it's also up to you if you'll keep living in your trauma. The best you can do for yourseld is to keep yourself busy, honestly. Else you'll end up spiraling back to the dark hole you've been trying to escape for so long. Can't say I've stopped my attempts though. I still cut when I get really bad anxiety attacks but what people don't understand is how much I hate what's inside my head and how bad it keeps dragging me back. Pain grounds me to reality. I don't do so without a reason.