Art & Logic

I am an artist. I’m not just a “crafter” because it’s not something I do, it’s something I am. I want to spend my days elbow deep in paint and clay. I want to get messy, get lost in a daydream. I want to be impulsive. To pick up a brush, a lump of clay, a ball of yarn, and just create on a whim. I want to ignore everything else and enjoy the moment. I want to let the dishes pile up, forget the laundry, and follow my heart. I want my home to be a place where we express ourselves. Where we make messes and mistakes and get carried away, knowing we have each other’s backs. I want my walls covered in things that inspire me. There aren’t enough walls to hold it all. I want to run off on an adventure. Jump in the car and see where we end up. Drive for hours just to find a spot for lunch. Dance in the rain and play in the mud. Explore. Explore! Everywhere! Everything! Outside and within our souls. Our. Yours and mine. I wanna connect.

I am also logic. I am reason. I am the reminder that the budget is too tight for an adventure. I am the panic attack over last minute changes. I am a list maker and notebook-keeper. I am a reminder-in-my-phone setter. I’m a color chart and graph seeker. I’m a color-coded mood tracker app user. I’m 17,000 pins neatly organized on Pinterest. I’m a I-have-to-write-it-down-right-now-er. I’m one track minded and don’t interrupt me. I’m get-shit-done focused to the point that I literally cannot hear you calling my name.

I am a worrier. I’m forgot-half-the-shopping-list because the store was crowded. I’m a music lover who gets overwhelmed by noise. I’m looking at my hands riding shotgun up a mountain road because I can visualize the car falling. I’m I-can’t-do-this-if-you’re-watching. I’m up at night with nightmares. I get stuck in loops of intrusive memories. I drown in sadness for no discernible reason. I’m constantly second-guessing. I’m so in-my-head that I can’t focus on the world outside. I’m still sick over news stories from years ago. I’m push-away-that-thought. Farther. Farther. I’m unable to concentrate. I’m a hatred of tears and a crier. I’m so strong that I’m broken.

I am an artist. I am passionate.

I am logical. I am rational to the point of boring.

I am anxiety. I am didn’t-use-to-be-this-bad. I am PTSD.

I am a Domestic Violence Survivor.

I used to just be an artist.

I am a survivor of eight years of domestic violence, trying to find my voice through writing in the hopes that my story may help someone else. For now, I’m publishing my memoirs as stand-alone stories. If this post resonated with you, please give it a 💚 so that others may have the chance to see it.