The Madness of Art

Preface - Late Summer 2015

I know what it's like to want to die, the feeling is all too familiar and just as real as the joy or pain that I experience. I am in an unforgiving war, an internal battle that assaults my worth, emotions, and intellect. So, it might not surprise those who battle beside me that I have formed a line of defense. I have come to a resolution that lets me live in peace and that is: I am okay with who I am, I know that I will always be fighting my mental illnesses, but in the end, it's a fight worth winning.

I feel the midday heat on my brow, the sweat collecting into little droplets. It's not surprising for an afternoon in August. The Tennessee humidity has been getting worse over the last couple of years. I move my head away from the drawing pad as the sweat begins to drip off my nose. The pen slips in the moisture of my grip as I fail at replacing the cap. The bustle of a Monday afternoon as school lets out strikes through an otherwise quiet day. I hear the neighborhood dogs gossip to one another about the returning of their families. The brakes on the school bus needing WD40 squeal as it slows to a stop. Then I hear the chatter of children wafting through a scarce breeze as they near the sanctuary that is home. In nearly twenty years that same walk toward refuge, the distance from bus to doorstep has changed very little. It's almost a pilgrimage hiking the roads for a familiar place. It's a rite of passage because one year you are old enough to walk that path. The pavement is merciless beneath their tired feet and their bags weigh them down, but they pay no mind because they're in eye-sight of home. They talk and laugh among themselves, parting ways as each house nears. I follow their lead standing up from the rigid and splintered wood of the deck. I throw open the double-plated glass door to be touched by the miracle that is air conditioning. I place the drawing pad down and run to the window. Bending a blind ever so gently so that my eyes can spy on the world outside.

Many doctors might call it an illness, but I simply call it a lifestyle choice. I wouldn't say that I am a complete hermit, but I do prefer the familiar setting of my house to an overpopulated city-scape. I can only imagine what runs through the kids' heads when they spot a pair of eyes gazing through the blinds. It's quite a sad sight really. Are they afraid? Do they pity me? Or am I hated? Perhaps they just don't know I exist. A young boy and girl, similar in age, round the corner to our slab of paradise. There are six houses on the street. I watch the children disappear down their driveway and into the garage. The restless yelp of a dog pulls me from the window as two dogs come sliding into the family room. They hit the carpet with a tumble but just as soon shake it off. I turn toward them and pat their heads.

"Okay now," I say. The image of a trip to Walmart plays in my head. An event I always recall when realizing my fear of leaving the house. The slight anxiety that rose from the depths of my stomach when I stood dead-center of a Walmart tax-free weekend still haunts me. The faces whizzing by in a blur, the yells and cries, the jabs and brushes, it was almost too much. I had to gather what nerves remained whole and trudge through the muck and grime of Lady's Clothing. My legs, as dependable as a bowl of jello, wobbled through my attempted-escape. My brow drowned in the cool depths of perspiration, my breathing increased, and I fought the constant threat of tears. I wanted to hide among the racks of clothes in the 'Ms.' section. It was only when I felt a slight tug from behind that I noticed how close to the floor I was. James stood behind me, his arm wrapping around my waist:

"Are you okay?" he asked.

Through a fit of sweat, I turned and replied:

"I...I'm fine."

I couldn't hide my utter fright, it played across my face like a Greek Muse mask. He guided me toward the exit, the people bleeding into one another until only a large blob surrounded me. At last, fresh air, the faces became scarce, and the voices weakened. I took a deep breath with James coaching me in the background. I was embarrassed and ashamed, not just for myself but for the fact that I dragged someone else into my mess.