by Nikki Russell, Recovery Coach
January 30, 2024
Looking back, I can see how I made everyday objects extraordinary. I was eight years of age and getting ready for school; my mom had already left for work, trusting I could handle the task. With Scooby Doo in the background, I began my ascent to my mother's closet, choosing a black and white striped suit most appropriate for a night on the town, but today I would illustrate how casual chic it was, and wow, a third-grade class. Next, I went to the bathroom mirror with all my barrettes in tow and clipped them one at a time until both sides of my hair had an eclectic blend of yellow butterflies, purple ribbons, and pink hearts. The hairdo was stunning and practical, as it flattened my curls and added an element of wonder. I walked the block to school, and to my amazement, all the kids laughed at me. This event began my creative block; how could I have been so misunderstood by my peers? My mother would spend the next ten years investigating her wardrobe for little hands that craved sophistication, acceptance, and a creative license. Over the years, I learned to tame my eccentric style, balancing neutral colors with a wild personality. I was a closet creative, dreaming of how I would express myself if the world understood my art.
The artistic energy needs to flow somewhere; I would spend the next several decades bending and twisting with its current. My marriage was falling apart, and as I sat in a counselor's office attempting to figure out what went wrong, he said to me, you're very expressive; you present yourself artistically. I had never considered life like that, being a canvas of artistic expression. A new concept that tried to break through a wall of doubt and unworthiness, I looked down at my counselor's feet: Bugs Bunny socks? His business suit and textbook knowledge did not match his playful sock selection. My heart acknowledged something my mind could not comprehend; he witnessed the authentic me. At that moment, I connected to a part of myself that reflected acceptance, empowerment, and innocence. I was showing the world something I wanted it to see rather than the disgraceful unseen dark alleyway in my head. The counselor looked deeper and saw an artist, something I downgraded to an imposter.
Being immersed in the river of thoughts that absorbed every aspect of me felt like a fish in water, never knowing that the tainted water I was breathing was my atmosphere. I was a spiritual force full of light and love, but I would not allow myself the opportunity to shine. Stepping outside the water, beyond the river of thoughts, I sat on the bank of that river, watching thoughts flow by, feeling like a fish out of water. I am describing what I would later discover as a mental health condition that, when undiagnosed, creates a fractured life. All my life experiences were sifted through this veil of disillusionment that I thought was real. My thoughts told me, "You are not a writer, a poet, or an artist." The lens through which I viewed life had a gray filter; the bright light of my spirit pours through and dulls life experiences, blocking the sunlight of my spirit. My counselor threw me a lifebuoy that day, representing recovery, a process I would begin 20 years later, but without it, I may have never started.
Art was a beautiful painting on a wall, a graceful ballet dancer, or a best-selling book. It always felt unattainable, my life and mind too messy to create beauty. Early in recovery, I began painting with my daughter, and I observed her frustration as she attempted to paint like me. It would end in frustration and tears because she felt like she was not good enough. One day, she said, "Mom, I wish I was an artist like you." I began to tell her all the things I wish I would have believed about myself, "You are an artist," "I love your art," and "Do not let anybody steal your dreams." We painted and crafted our way through the next several years; I have filled color books, paintings on canvas, clay models, and collages of memories that create the most beautiful portrait of a mother and daughter bonding together through the messiness of life. Without realizing it, I was creating the most beautiful art of all, carving away the excessive beliefs, opinions, and assumptions that had convinced me my life was not beautiful.
I have learned to trust the artist who created me, giving me a blank canvas to paint a life. Every brush stroke adds depth and meaning, and each word breathes a reality into life. Life can be tremendously painful at moments, yet beauty can be found there. The artist takes all elements of life and molds them into a figure for those to admire and capture meaning from. Art is an honest reflection of a life lived and the potential it can become. Like life, art is only sometimes appreciated after the artist is gone. My mental health is undiagnosed, yet I have collected all those fractured pieces, collaged them into my life, and made my kind of artwork. The art I do today reflects healing my spirit and shining my wild colors for the whole world to see.
Some may not understand your art, but do not be discouraged, be true to yourself and know the artist’s work is never complete. Find your style and trust that it will captivate the world.
"That's one fish story no one will believe."
Scooby Dooby Doo