Unlock the Art – from “The Barrier Series” on Art and Healing

July 22, 2014 by 1 Comment
Bisbee Arizona

Art Lives © 2012 Bo Mackison

“Art teaches nothing, except the significance of life.” ~ Henry Miller

(This post is the sixth in a series of my story, an intimate exploration of art and healing.)

After I’d stabilized, I no longer needed the quiet and non-stimulation of the Quiet Room.

I was transferred to a hospital room on a locked unit. This specialized unit, designed for protection of the patients, did so with a minimalist approach. Anything deemed dangerous was contraband. A good rule of thumb – if an item might pose a danger to a curious, unsupervised two-year old, it was off-limits on 6-West.

A locked psychiatric unit, especially in a high-rise facility with no outside access, provides a stark existence.

Boredom was rampant. Angry outbursts from patients, or the television set on a high volume, or perhaps angry patients fighting over the television set were standard fare. It was the way of the system.

The locked unit was a transition phase prior to transfer to the treatment unit which offered occupational therapy, art therapy, music therapy, and a variety of classes that helped patients transfer to out-patient programs.

Enter my guardian angel, Linda, an occupational therapist.

She looked beyond my outward appearance, angry and confused, and saw potential. Linda took me under her wing, quickly assessing a way to connect with me.  In my fragile state of anger and despondency, she spoon fed me massive amounts of art and writing activities.

Her creative immersion theory worked.

“Art is not a part of life, it is not an addition to life, it is the essence of those pieces of us that make us fulfilled. That give us hope. That give us dreams…” ~ Hasan Davis

We began with the simplest of media – paper and glue.

Until I earned off-unit privileges, I did projects in the common room. Linda brought me stacks of magazines,  paper, and glue sticks. I began with torn paper collages – an activity that was a great match for my state of mind.

At first, the mere act of tearing the magazine pages into hundreds of strips provided an energy outlet. Gradually I worked to combine pictures and words which provided an outlet for my feelings, my emotions.

Linda gave me a list of requirements that would allow me to accompany her to the off unit therapy room – a room filled with an endless variety of art supplies.

So meaningful was the art I was creating, I was eager to earn privileges to be off unit.

This would prove to be a pivotal experience, one that opened my eyes to the miracle of creating and set me on the road towards healing.

–  based on journal entries, 1990-91

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This is a re-post the 11-part series I first ran in January, 2013 on art and healing. I believe this story is too important to keep buried in my blog. It is my hope that my experiences will inspire others on their journeys.

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Rapunzel, Rapunzel – from “The Barrier Series” on Art and Healing

July 21, 2014 by Leave a Comment

Rapunzel, Rapunzel © 2012 Bo Mackison

Above all be the heroine in your life, not the victim. ~ Nora Ephron

(This is the fifth post in a series of my story, an intimate exploration of art and healing.)

I was in my mid-thirties, a wife and mother of three children under the age of nine, when I had a spirit breakdown.

Most people including medical professionals diagnosed this as a mental breakdown. But truly, though it was my mind that could no longer carry my burden, I most keenly felt a disconnect from my spirit, from my center, from my being.

For years, I had successfully woven together a life, one that looked similar to the other women in my neighborhood. Married, mother of three, I worked part-time in the physical therapy department at a local nursing home. I led Girl Scout troops, worked in the concession stands at Little league games, organized a co-op playgroup for my two-year old and her friends. I was active in church and school functions.

One day in an early October, I received a jury duty summons in the mail.

Two weeks later, I was in a courtroom, one of thirteen jurors chosen to hear an assault case. The case was a first degree sexual assault case; the victim was a woman my age, married with three children, active in her church and hometown.

The woman testified repeatedly how she was could not recall clear details of her assault, how instead she’d had an out-of-body experience. She said she had floated above her body as two assailants raped her. She had observed the attack in a detached haze. In her dissociative state, she felt no pain, no fear. Even after she returned to her body, after the assailants had run away, she questioned what had truly happened. It was several hours before she went to a hospital and received counseling by a law enforcement/rape crisis team plus the necessary medical examinations.

The testimony about the victim’s dissociation caused a stir amongst the jury members.

Jurors were skeptical. Many of the jury members, especially the men, did not believe her story. They accused her of telling lies to cover her own part in a possible illicit affair. However the women on the jury found her testimony very believable. One woman juror, a recently retired nurse, stated dissociation was a well documented medical phenomenon.

I took part in the jury deliberations, but as I listened, I felt an overwhelming sense of deep unease – a perceived threat from unidentified fear, unexplainable.

After several days of deliberations, the jury found the men guilty. I left the courtroom shaken.

Only one thing is more frightening than speaking your truth, and that is not speaking it. ~ Naomi Wolf

During the next six weeks I replayed the woman’s story repeatedly in my head.

Visions of her rape and the testimony about her dissociative experience haunted me. I began to feel less connected to my life. Time became distorted. I struggled to keep up with my typical activities and my children’s schedules. I also began having flashbacks and nightmares.

I wanted to run away, escape. I felt unworthy to be a part of my family.

I imagined myself in a place where no one would know me or have any expectations of me. I imagined hiding in a tall tower, alone with my shame. I wished for a life like the fairy tale character, Rapunzel, alone in her tower – with no contact with people until I could get a grip on my out of control emotions. Then I could be rescued and my life would return to normal.

I desperately wanted to hide in a fairy tale, one with a champion and a happily ever after ending.

During this time, I had glimpses of my truths, yet denial was strong. I wanted to return to the life I knew, yet I had a vague understanding I would never be the woman I’d been only a few months before.

Unsure and frightened, I lived in limbo.

– compiled from journal entries and letters, 1990-91

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I am re-posting an 11-part series I first ran in January, 2013 on PTSD, art and healing.  It is my hope that my journey will also inspire others.

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Four Walls and a Bright Light – from “The Barrier Series” on Art and Healing

July 20, 2014 by Leave a Comment
Bathed in Bright Lights

Bright Lights © 2012 Bo Mackison

Fear is a natural reaction to moving closer to the truth. ~ Pema Chödrön

(This is the fourth in the series of my journey, an intimate exploration of art and healing.)

I spent several months in the hospital.

After my initial admission, my condition worsened from extremely ill to critical, and doctors transferred me to the equivalent of the critical care unit of a medical unit. But unlike a medical ICU with its high-tech equipment and constant activity, a person who needs a psychiatric ICU requires a different sort of healing space. She needs as little stimulus as possible. It is a time to quiet a system gone haywire from too much input.

By law, a patient must be placed in the least restrictive environment to treat their symptoms – I signed an admission form with a list of my rights – but my condition required drastic measures.

The “Quiet Room” was my world for several weeks.

This room was an 8 x 8 foot cell-like space. The walls were padded, the floor was indestructible rubber tile, and the window was completely curtained in black, then covered with steel mesh and an over-sized piece of plexiglass.

There was a mattress on the floor, a single sheet, a plastic-encased pillow. And a closed circuit camera high on the wall monitored my actions at all times by a nurse in the nursing station.

There was a door, but no door knob. Staff came in to deliver my meals, monitor my meds, and help me with basic needs. Otherwise, I was left alone — to rest. I craved someone to talk with me, console me, soothe my terrors, even simply to sit in the silent room with me, but rules required the nursing staff to monitor me by watching a television monitor, not to interact with me.

Most disturbing to me was the inset light in the small room’s ceiling.

It was an obvious necessity. I understand that now — twenty-five years later. If I had been in a darkened room, there could be no surveillance on camera, and that was necessary for my care. The caregivers would not be able to see me pacing. Or crying. Or rocking myself, trying to calm myself, comfort myself. Or worse. But I hated the constant light. Bright, with a yellow cast, I felt as if the fiery light was burrowing through my eyes into my brain.

I worked to record my dreams  in my journal, though my wandering scribbles were barely legible, my htought processes distorted. I’d pleaded for paper and pen, so instinctive the need to work through my experiences with words, and an occupational therapist supervised my safe use of writing materials. My nightmares were constant chase scenes in unfamiliar rooms, up and down stairwells, through basements and attics, jumps from roof tops which ended in me running through traffic up, six lanes zigzagging towards me. Attacks. Violence. I never identified who was chasing me. The dreams were on repeat, and so I lived them and re-lived them.

I couldn’t tell night from day. I didn’t understand what had happened to me, why I was here, nor how long I would need such extreme care. I was angry, and disoriented, and terrified. I had flashbacks and existed in a state of panic much of the time.

I describe this time in my life because this was me hitting the bottom.

I could no longer function in the state I was in. I couldn’t go back to the life I’d enjoyed only a few weeks earlier. My only choice was to acknowledge my fears, just as Pema Chödrön recommended in the earlier quotation, and move closer to my truths.

— based on journal entries, 1990-91

~~~~~~~~~~~~~

I am re-posting an 11-part series I first ran in January, 2013 on art and healing. Although this is a difficult subject to write about and explore, the message is too important to keep hidden deep within my blog. It is my hope that my journey will also inspire others.

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No Escape – from “The Barrier Series” on Art and Healing

July 19, 2014 by Leave a Comment
Barrio Brewery

No Escape © 2012 Bo Mackison

We can spend our whole lives escaping from the monsters of our minds. ~ Pema Chödrön

It has come – time when I need a safer environment.
I need protection from myself.
High away – no escape, no contact.
High away.
Plexiglass windows and wire screening,
protecting those of us on the inside from ourselves.

Administrators make attempts to brighten the environment –
primary colored lounge furniture,
paintings on the walls.

But nothing offers protection from the hurried words,
the rigidity and restrictions,
the mind-numbing drugs,
the incessant blare of competing televisions and radios.

Or the voices that only I hear.

~ based on journal entries, 1990

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The photographs that make up the Barrier Series are a set of photos that symbolically follow the story of my breakdown and healing process. The photos are not related to any specific places where I had treatment. The series metaphorically corresponds to the phases I moved through during recovery, first focusing on staying safe; second on regaining basic functioning, and then the most difficult, regaining my wholeness.

This photograph represents a difficult time in that process. Unrelated events led to an awakening, necessary but brutally painful, which led me to assess the reality of my past. I was devastated and suicidal; I required in-patient psychiatric care. And although it was a difficult time for me, it was excruciatingly painful for my family, including my husband and small children.

The place I stayed is a place no one would want to remain for any length of time. And yet I was fortunate to be in a hospital that provided me with the greatest likelihood for my survival. At the time, I was not appreciative of the efforts and time my caregivers expended on my behalf. But as I look back on those years, decades later, I am overcome with deep gratitude for these people. They worked with dedication to keep me safe until I was ready to take that responsibility myself.

It wasn’t an easy job for any of us.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Over the next two weeks, I am re-posting an 11-part series I first ran in January, 2013 on art and healing. Feeling somewhat vulnerable doing this once again, but this message is too important to keep buried in my blog. It is my hope that my journey will also inspire others. We are all on a journey of one kind or another. We are all pilgrims following our path.

Filed Under: Art of Healing Tagged With: , , , , , , ,

Boarded Window – from “The Barrier Series” on Art and Healing

July 18, 2014 by Leave a Comment
Warehouse in Winter

Boarded Window © 2011 Bo Mackison

Everything can be taken from a man but one thing: the last of the human freedoms—to choose one’s attitude in any given set of circumstances, to choose one’s own way. ~ Viktor E Frankl, in Man’s Search for Himself

Cold.

Winter.

This barrier, solid.
No light, no sunshine, no blue skies,
nothing natural except the brittle vines.

Impenetrable barrier.
Frozen exterior, my world.
The bushes are skeletal in their winter bareness.

Dead vines cling to the bricks,
hang from the window’s edge,
collect in piles on the ledge.

The decorative bricks offer some respite,
though the window is boarded. Invisibility.

And yet, it’s been patched neatly, blue paint.
Sealed from view but with care,
What inside is worth protection?

And the vines?
Dead and withered, but the hidden roots,
alive, are under the snowy depths,
warm enough in the earth.
Roots which will sprout tenderly alive green shoots
in the spring.

This phase, the deep winter of my spirit-break –
a period of dormancy.

Winter’s wait for the thaw, for the return of spring.

— based on journal entries, 1990

 

The second photograph in the barrier series correlates to the time when I became unable to keep up with life’s day-to-day expectations and demands. I constructed a barrier, much like this, deep in my psyche, to provide myself with space and time, waiting for the passage of winter.

It was a time of silent waiting.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Over the next two weeks, I’m re-posting an 11-part series I first ran in January, 2013 on art and healing. Feeling vulnerable doing this once again, but this message is too important to keep buried in the bowels of my blog. It is my hope that my journey will also inspire others. We are all on a journey of one kind or another. We are all pilgrims following our path.

Filed Under: Art of Healing, Photography Tagged With: , , , , , , , , ,
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