Years ago, a journalist friend in Seattle came over to my apartment. She’d just returned from Afghanistan, where she was responsible for setting up a newsroom and training local journalists. When she arrived, she was so exhausted and drained to her very core, she could barely walk or talk.
I knew the feeling. I’d given up journalism a few years earlier because it had sucked me dry, too. And by going to Afghanistan, she’d experienced an intensity I could only imagine.
She went immediately to the sofa and lay prone, barely able to lift her arms or sit up.
I’m an empath. It is my natural tendency to want to help. I’m psychic, and it’s my natural tendency to go for the core solution. I knew somewhere deep down, like me, that Lisa was an artist.
I grabbed a long narrow canvas from the corner — my apartment was also my art studio — and placed it on the floor next to the sofa. I found a squirt bottle full of paint, and put it in her hand.
“What are you doing?” she said, barely opening her mouth to speak.
“Just squirt on the canvas,” I said.
“What?”
“It’ll make you feel better. Just squirt some paint.”
Without sitting up or changing position, she tipped the bottle and drew lazy lines on the canvas. Without moving, she painted.
Years later, she would become the visual artist she was meant to be.
My friend’s trauma reminded me of the kind of incapacitating grief, anxiety and depression that I went through years earlier. And it reminds me of the anxiety and grief many people are going through today because of the global pandemic, forest fires, race and gender inequities, death of loved ones…
I write about the dark night of the soul and the creative recovery I experienced in the 1990s in my recently released novel, WATER.
When I awaken midmorning, the “fever” has broken. My bones are jelly; I’m cleaned out. I lie there in nothingness—no money, no family, no friends, no job. It is just me. I cross my hands over my naked heart. All I have is myself. All I have is my integrity.
Integrityis the word that remains with me. I struggle aboard it like a life raft. I promise myself I’ll hold onto integrity for the rest of my life, the only thing that floats in a sea of chaos.
I get up. In the junk drawer in the kitchen, I find the Post-it notes and a pen. Back on the edge of the futon, I write “Get out of bed every day” on a pink Post-it and place it on the window where I can see it.
“Make the bed every day,” I write on a lemon note. This too goes on the window.
“Brush your hair every day.” I take the few steps to the bathroom and place the lime note on the doorframe. My thick black hair is difficult at the best of times but now is hard, matted, and tangled.
I sit back down, tired. “Brush your teeth every day.” I put this sapphire square also on the bathroom doorframe.
“Did you shower today?” Orange, bathroom doorframe.
“Change your clothes.” Violet and on the closet door in the living room, which is also my bedroom.
A long, narrow hallway leads back to a small kitchen. I place at intervals along the hallway:
“Eat every day.”
“Did you have breakfast?”
“Did you eat enough today?”
“What food have you put into your mouth today?”
I pepper other multihued Post-its throughout the tiny apartment. “Clean the kitchen.” “Sweep the floor.” “Do laundry.”
I lie back on the futon. I cannot move for an hour. Finally, I reach over and grab a stack of Post-its, write “Get out of bed” again. On ten more Post-its I write “Get out of bed.” Still lying down, I reach to place them on nearby surfaces: bed frame, wall, side table, hardwood. I understand that this decision to live will take more than just an idea. I know that living will require concerted participation.
Later I wake up from a dream where I’m told to add one more note: “Drink water. Lots of water.” I write it on a powder-blue Post-it and put it on the fridge.
I look around. My home has become a rainbow of messages willing me to survive.
Even when you don’t feel like it, even when everything is falling apart around you, even if you take just the smallest steps, you can move from depression to creative recovery. Here are five super simple tips:
- Start small. Not just small, but tiny. Do one tiny thing. Write one sentence in a journal. One word. Start on the sofa. Start in bed. You don’t even need to get up. Or take a notebook and ballpoint and doodle. Draw spirals. Don’t even write a word or draw a picture, just move the pen. Any movement is progress and will lead to more movement.
- Look through an art book. Read short stories. You can do this from your bed or the sofa if you need to. In your mind, explore what you like in certain paintings and stories and ask yourself why. This will engage the creative part of your brain. Try it. It works. I promise.
- If you’re feeling a bit more energetic, still staying right where you are: Look up the drawing of a simple object, like a tea cup. Don’t look up a tea cup, look up a “drawing” of a tea cup…it’ll be easier that way. Redraw the drawing in a notebook. Don’t worry about having fancy papers or pens, just use a notebook. This is the simplest way to get back into drawing. Draw a pencil. A book. A car. A face.
- Rework something you’ve already done. Without the energy to create something new, I take what I’ve already done and rework them. An old short story you put aside — just read it. At this stage, you don’t even have to write anything, unless you feel the urge. Just read it. I take old paintings and repaint them. I also take old paintings, take their photos, print them out and create collages from them. Don’t create something new if you don’t have the energy. Rework something old.
- Finger paint. Move your fingers around in paint. This re-engages the child artist within us all. This is a powerful, visceral exercise.
Take small steps. Any movement is movement. Once you engage that creative side of your brain, watch for the parting of the clouds. Let it be. Don’t have expectations, just observe. See if you don’t have a bit more energy with each tiny step you take.
Many of us have gone through similar phases and come out the other side. You will get through this and come out the other side the powerful creative person you really are.
I’m a metaphysical coach. Check out more at carolineallen.com.