The Art of Telling My Brain To F*ck Off
The case against otherness, burnout, and artistic side hustles
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What comes to mind when you think of an artist? Do you conjure up messy studios, hands covered in paint or glue, late nights frantically making bizarre creations?
Professional artists are often depicted as living cryptids who are notoriously weird, keep odd hours, don’t shower enough, and yet are able to come up with ideas that a person outside the mental health spectrum, i.e. neurotypical, generally wouldn’t have. The reason for this oddball artist archetype is because there is a large intersection of artists and creative professionals who also exist within the chronic mental illness spectrum, i.e. ”neurodivergent” — myself included (Bipolar 1 and C-PTSD).
These stereotypes have come up because traditional workspaces and social settings don’t often foster the kind of environment needed for neurodivergent creative professionals to thrive. Cubicle culture, inflexible work hours, and forced attendance in meetings aren’t helpful for anyone, let alone someone who suffers from anxiety or has the best ideas when they’re walking their dog in the morning rather than when they’re sitting at a desk. It’s also true that because neurodivergent people act outside the norms of productivity it’s hard for us to find our place in society.
As a result, we are driven to the fringes, where you’ll either find us Sasquatch-esque in the woods at night searching for materials for our next art installations or inspiration for our next design project or forced to adapt to spaces which were not made with us in mind. Some, like myself, aren’t able to adapt to these spaces at all, and so we don’t have access to them.
The Road Less Photographed
It hasn’t helped that I have struggled with traditional communication for as long as I can remember, which is interesting mainly because I’m now a professional writer who makes words happen as a matter of daily practice. But because of social developmental issues, a neurodivergent brain, and a non-traditional upbringing, communicating effectively wasn’t something I could do naturally, especially verbally, until I was well into my 20s. Although, I still struggle with spoken communication even now.
But from an early age, I could sing. I could paint. I could write poetry. I could express myself through creativity and that felt right. And yet, that came with a different set of challenges. I quickly realized that being part of a creative class of people who communicated artistically meant that I would be judged according to the standards of that world as well, and the reality of that was daunting.
The release of being able to express myself in a new dynamic way led to the existence of imposter syndrome — the feeling that I wasn’t talented or savvy enough to truly belong in creative spaces, the need for developing side hustles — the burden of making every form of artistic impression a commodity others could pay for rather than a useful way to self-soothe, and often debilitating anxiety that induced quality control to the point of where I couldn’t make anything at times.
For me, it has often felt that because I wasn’t granted access to non-artistic professional workspaces, either because I didn’t have the right connections or because I lacked some unstated essential qualification, that I had no choice but to force my way into professional creative spaces which didn’t have enough room for me either. Although I’ve come to realize that this “not enough room” part was just a byproduct of crippling self-doubt and a brain that likes to tell lies about my abilities.
But I still sense this internal tension; because I can’t figure out how to adapt to professional workspaces, I have to use the thing that heals me — my artistic expression and inherent creativity — as a means for supporting myself and coming up with creative solutions for how to go about that. And this reality is nothing if not exhausting because there’s no official roadmap for how to do this well and I only have so much creative energy to go around.
Many Hats
I’ve been a writer, an art model, a photographer, a visual artist, a social media manager, a barista, a research assistant, a grad student, and many other things because being a jack-of-all-things means that I would have food and money for rent. As fun as having this much novelty may seem, I would’ve preferred a different path. I don’t advocate for side hustles generally, but it would’ve been nice to have had the option to take one up if my primary source of income didn’t challenge me enough creatively. So, technically, I’ve never had a side hustle because I’ve never had a main hustle.
I often wonder that if I had been born into a society that celebrated my alternative abilities rather than limit access to resources because of them, would I have the chance to be more traditionally “successful?” Would I have had to be proficient in so many different things if more doors had been opened to me? Would I have been able to keep my art sacred, a tool to express myself in a healthy way rather than using it as a way to make ends meet as a productive member of society?
I’m not sure.
Creative Fatigue
Even writing this piece was indicative of my experience as a creative person. Two weeks ago I was excited to write about a topic I’ve struggled with: the challenges of being a neurodivergent creative professional, and then immediately hit the challenges of being a neurodivergent creative professional. I would sit down to write and feel crushing anxiety over the quality of the piece I would be putting out into the world. What if no one read it? What if everyone read it and no one liked it? On other days, I wasn’t even able to climb out of the miasma of my own depression long enough to synthesize my thoughts into something coherent.
This is a normal part of my creative process that I’ve come to accept over the years because even with these struggles I’ve written and created prolifically in my professional life. I don’t miss deadlines, most people wouldn’t even know the depth of my struggles if I didn’t talk about them, and I’ve been proud of most of what I’ve put out into the world.
And those who I’ve had the privilege to work with and those who I’ve written for in that time have understood and respected my unique perspective and way of living because they see it as an asset, whereas traditional companies that don’t apparently value neurodiversity haven’t hired me. It doesn’t help that the structures that exist for hiring new talent in those industries don’t allow room for me to demonstrate my particular abilities.
I’ve come to see it as their loss.
The Proof Is In the Paint
The Harvard Business Review has conducted research into neurodiversity and creativity especially in how it shows up in professional spaces, claiming that neurodivergent individuals (e.g. those with dyspraxia, dyslexia, ADHD, social anxiety disorders, and other conditions) “have higher-than-average abilities,” while also acknowledging that those affected “often struggle to fit the profiles sought by prospective employers.”
But why is it that those with supposed “higher-than-average-abilities” don’t check the boxes listed by prospective employers? Well, it seems that the difficulty lies first in how we talk about neurodiversity, and second in how we use that information to help neurodivergent individuals have what they need to do what they do best either professionally or socially.
Also in “Neurodiversity as a Competitive Advantage” (Harvard Business Review, 2017): “The behaviors of many neurodiverse people run counter to common notions of what makes a good employee — solid communication skills, being a team player, emotional intelligence, persuasiveness, salesperson-type personalities, the ability to network, the ability to conform to standard practices without special accommodations, and so on. These criteria systematically screen out neurodiverse people.”
So what is there to be done? Well, we need to be talking more about neurodiversity as a phenomenon and figuring out ways to support and uplift neurodivergent experiences.
Fortunately for me, I’ve found a community of neurodivergent working artists and creative professionals who’ve also had limited access to traditional workforce opportunities. These networks have saved me because they’ve pointed out, and sometimes even created, resources and connections which allow me to do the things I do well without having to use up as much of my creative energy to find those resources. Because of this community I’ve been able to find work that I can be proud of with people who value what I have to offer.
One of the biggest things they’ve taught me as well is that as creative professionals we need to give ourselves space to not burn out trying to adapt to a world that doesn’t make room for us. But learning healthy coping mechanisms and setting reasonable boundaries isn’t something that comes naturally, and self-care as an integral practice doesn’t have much reliability when we’re only accountable to ourselves to do it well.
For me, the important step is to find people to talk to about these challenges and seek the support of our peers. The more we talk to each other, the better chance we have of having access to the resources we need to thrive. Nobody understands what it’s like to be neurodivergent and creative than someone who is neurodivergent and creative, and while we may not have yet figured out a way to infiltrate the traditional workforce, having these connections will help us figure out how to do what we do best in the meantime.
This is a guest article graciously submitted by Joey Phoenix (they/them). Joey is the Managing Editor of Creative Collective/Creative North Shore, the Digital Content Manager for North Shore Pride, and the host of The Chaos Within podcast. You can follow them on Twitter @jphoenixmedia or on Instagram @faephoenix
