An Unquiet Mind

My head felt like it was splitting in two. I could feel the tears prickling behind my eyes again, threatening yet another downpour.

Around me, the rest of the cast rushed by, gathering their clothes and bags in preparation for the night ahead. We'd just finished rehearsal and were slated to grab a drink altogether at the bar down the street. It was a ritual I loved and normally made a priority, but tonight I'd have to bail. The pain had become all-consuming — my head pulsed like a sledgehammer, my eyes now wet, on the brink of overflow. Unsure of what was going on, I gathered the shred of residual strength I possessed and used it to get home.

In stepping through my front door, I eyed my pen, sitting atop my desk, and walked over to it. I need to write, I thought. I sat down, pulled out a sheet of paper from my top drawer and put pen to paper. To my surprise, what flowed from my ballpoint in that moment wasn't writing, but rather circles and a slew of other indecipherable images.

This is weird, I thought. Why am I drawing?

Unable to make sense of these doodles, I went to bed.

The next morning I awoke with a feeling of lightness. I sat up in bed and gently turned my head, first to the left, then to the right. When I didn't feel anything I breathed a sigh of relief. Maybe I'd actually get through this day without feeling crippled by the weight of my pounding skull.

Thirty minutes later, just as I was heading out of my flat to get to the theatre, I noticed I wasn't alone any longer. That familiar throb had returned, bringing with it my frustration.

"Go buy paint," a voice said.

My eyes flew open the next morning as these words reverberated in my mind. I should've been exhausted; I'd spent all night tossing and turning, as evidenced by the twisted bedsheets that lay crumpled beside me. Instead though, I felt inexplicably alert and calm. I had no idea where this voice came from, why it was telling me to buy paint, or what that purchase would accomplish, but all the same I felt compelled to heed to its advice.

"I'm going to buy paint," I told my fiancé as I pulled on my jacket to head out. "Oh, cute," she replied, not entirely dismissively.

In returning home, I felt this sense of urgency kick in. Tossing my coat on the chair, I rushed to get started. Without pause for deliberation, I opened the tubes of paint as fast as possible, unable to contain my excitement at transferring their pigments onto canvas.

I was shaking.

Just like that other night where my hand seemed to have a mind of its own, so it did right then. In picking up my new paintbrush, I knew exactly what to do.

It all came out.

Everything I'd been holding onto — every unaddressed thought, fear, desire — that was causing me this inner turmoil and physical pain was right there, released on that canvas.

I got in the shower, closed the door, and sank down to the ground. Immediately, the floodgates opened and I started bawling. Before I knew it, I was laughing too.

I'd found what I hadn't realized I'd been searching for with every acting gig I took: that piece of the puzzle that, without it, led me to spiral down into a pit of frustration and despair. Somehow, this medium I was wholly unfamiliar with presented me with the opportunity to process my thoughts in a way I hadn't been able to before. In picking up that paintbrush, the incessant internal chatter of my mind faded away until it had been completely silenced.

I haven't gone one day since without painting. I can't imagine I ever will. I've found a way to deal with myself, to express purely, wholly, and unapologetically. It's become as vital as eating.

Taking a "break" would prove as unfavourable as fasting.

And the best thing is, all this requires is a little paint and a surface on which to apply it. All I have to do is show up to the canvas each day, and allow the idea to surface from within me. That's the thing, the idea already knows what it wants, I'm just there in the middle, playing.