Unlock the Art – Barrier Series # 6

January 18, 2013 by 15 Comments
Bisbee Arizona

Art Lives © 2012 Bo Mackison

 This post is the sixth in a series of my story, an intimate exploration of art and healing. See the introduction and complete series at My Healing Journey. 

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

After I’d stabilized and no longer needed the quiet and non-stimulation of the Quiet Room environment, my doctor transferred me to a regular room on a locked unit. This 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 could have posed a danger to a curious, unsupervised two-year old, it was off-limits.

A locked unit in a psychiatric unit, especially one on the sixth floor of a multi-story facility with no access to the outside was a stark existence. Boredom was rampant. Angry outbursts from patients, or the television set 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 in the person of an Occupational Therapist, a woman named El. She looked beyond the angry, confused person that was me, and saw the glimmer of potential. El took me under her wing, and quickly assessed that the best to connect with me in my fragile state of anger and despondency was with massive doses of all kinds of art and writing.

She was right.

“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 patients’ lounge or in my room. El brought in a stack of magazines, a large piece of paper, and a glue stick. I began with collages – torn pictures and words were 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 emotions.

El explained what I needed to do so that I could accompany her to the off unit therapy room – a room offering art of all sorts. I was eager to expand my art opportunities and my privileges to be off unit.

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

– these experiences are based on journal entries, 1990-91

Next: A Riot of Art

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Rapunzel, Rapunzel — Barrier Series # 5

January 17, 2013 by 10 Comments

Rapunzel, Rapunzel © 2012 Bo Mackison

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

This post is the fifth in the series of my story, an intimate exploration of art and healing. See the introduction and complete series at My Healing Journey. 

I was in my mid-thirties, a wife and mother of three children under the age of nine, when I had what I refer to as a spirit breakdown. Most people, including medical professionals, call this a mental breakdown. But truly, it was not my mind that could no longer carry my burden. There was a disconnect from my spirit, from my center, from my wholeness.

For years I had successfully woven together a life that looked much like any other woman’s in my neighborhood. I was married. 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.

And then 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 neighborhood.

The woman testified repeatedly how she was unable to recall many details of her assault, how instead she’d had an out-of-body experience. She had floated above her body as the two assailants raped her and had observed the attack in a haze. In her dissociative state, she felt no pain, no fear. Even when she returned to her body, after the assailants had run away, she questioned what had actually happened. It was several hours before she went to a hospital, was counseled by a law enforcement/rape crisis team, and the necessary examinations were completed and documented.

This testimony caused quite a stir during jury deliberations. People were skeptical, doubtful. Many of the jurors, including most of the men, did not believe her. They accused her of telling lies to cover her own part in what they thought was 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 some of the time, as I listened, I felt an overwhelming sense of fear and anger. I felt threatened. I requested a break as I was feeling ill, but convinced myself  I’d contacted a flu bug in the close quarters of the courtroom.

After several days of deliberations, the jury found the men guilty.

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

During the following six weeks, I could not stop replaying the woman’s story. Visions of her rape and dissociative testimony haunted me. I began to feel less connected to my life. Time became distorted. I struggled with my regular activities and my children’s schedules. I began having flashbacks from my childhood.

I felt the need to get away from my family. I felt unworthy to be a part of their lives.

I wanted to hide. I imagined myself in a place far away where no one would know me or expect anything of me. I dreamed of hiding in a tall tower, alone with my shame. I wished for a life like the fairy tale character, Rapunzel. I could live alone. I’d have no contact with anyone and no one would have contact with me.

During this time, I had glimpses of my truths; I refused to believe them. I wanted my life to return to normal, yet I vaguely understood I could never be the woman I’d been only a few months before.

Unsure and frightened, I was in limbo.

      – compiled from journal entries and letters, 1990-91

Next: Unlock the Art

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Four Walls and a Bright Light – Barrier Series # 4

January 16, 2013 by 18 Comments
Bathed in Bright Lights

Bright Lights © 2012 Bo Mackison

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

This post is the fourth in a series of my story, an intimate exploration of art and healing. See the introduction and complete series at My Healing Journey.

I spent several months in the hospital. But after my initial admission, my condition went from extremely ill to critical, 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 needs 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.

My world for several weeks was in a “Quiet Room” — a 8 x 8 foot cell-like room. The walls were softly padded, the floor was indestructible tile, the only window was covered with steel mesh and fully curtained in black. When covered with an over-sized piece of plexiglass, the space bore little resemblance to a window.

There was a mattress on the floor, a single sheet, a plastic pillow, and a camera high on the wall so I could be constantly monitored on a closed circuit system by a nurse who sat 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 to me, or even 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.

Also disturbing to me was the inset light in the small room’s ceiling. It was an obvious necessity. I understand that now — twenty years later. If I slept in a darkened room, no amount of surveillance on camera would inform them of my activity. If I paced in a darkened room, they could not see me pacing. Or crying. Or rocking myself, trying to calm myself, comfort myself. 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.

My dreams, which I recorded in my journal while an occupational therapist supervised my safe use of writing materials, were constant chase scenes in confusing mazes, up and down stairwells, through basements and attics, jumps from roof tops only to end up zigzagging through six lanes of night-time traffic. I never knew who was chasing me. They hid from my view. The dreams were on repeat, and so I lived them and re-lived them.

I couldn’t tell night from day with the window covered. I didn’t understand what had happened to me, why I was here, nor how long I would need such extreme care. And I was angry and disoriented and terrified.

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, as stated in the quote by Pema Chödrön, and move closer to my truths.

— based on journal entries, 1990-91

Next: Rapunzel, Rapunzel

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Barbed Wire – Barrier Series, The Beginning

January 13, 2013 by 12 Comments

This post is the first in my photo/story series on my journey of healing and recovery. See the introduction and complete series at My Healing Journey.

Barbed Wire

Barbed Wire Barrier  © 2012 Bo Mackison

“Your life with its immensity and fear . . . is alternately stone in you and star.” ~ Rainer Maria Rilke, from the poem Evening

Before there was a beginning, before the crisis and a diagnosis, there was a dream.

I see the world. It is there. When I reach up, I reach into the cool air. When I look up, I see a bright blue, cloud scattered skies. Yet the world is beyond my reach. In this dream I have repeatedly, I’m trapped in a tiny enclosure, an enclosure tall on four sides, but open to the sky. I struggle to  unlock the gate. When I try to move forward, I’m blocked by a cold steel fence and chain-link wire. Barbed wire adds an extra degree of isolation.

Barbed wire – a common fence, a stereo-typical barrier.

And then I am no longer dreaming. I am living my life in slow-motion, denying there is a problem.

I know I am in a separate place. I cannot reach out to my family and friends, I cannot communicate with them. They are on the other side of the barrier, and even if I managed a whisper, no one can hear me.

I am cast in fear, held down by a weighted stone. My only relief is a connection, however slight, to the natural world. When I look out the window, it is snowy and cold, but I do look up at the sky. I can always see the sky.

The human spirit focuses on that which is beyond vision.

         — based on journal entries, October 1990.

Part 2: Boarded Window.

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Heading in a New Direction

January 12, 2013 by 19 Comments
23 Lizard in Bisbee Arizona

Threatened © 2011 Bo Mackison

Let go of the need for perfection – perfection bought at a high cost. Embrace imperfection, acknowledge mistakes, claim the lessons they provide. Embrace change.   ~ Bo Mackison

I’ve had an on and off affair with the label “mental illness” — a label that defined me for many years.

I hated it; I needed it.
I pushed it away; I pulled it close.

That label deprived me of the basic experiences of choosing life and living it fully; it also allowed me to abdicate taking full responsibility for my life and the choices I made.

Behaviors, lived over years, became habits. They settled deep within me:

  • as a child when I developed highly creative but pathological methods for body, mind, and soul survival
  • as an adult while I was in the throes of deep depressions and slow recoveries,
  • while I was fighting demons from my childhood,  searching musty rooms in my mind with a dimly flickering match light.

Defenses and behaviors I erected as walls of protection were no longer functional, viable, needed, wanted. Yet, it was what I understood.

I had to let go so I could grab onto a better way. Caught in the pause between the two trapeze bars, I was  dangling in a mighty discomfiting place.

Eventually I understood that letting go of the behaviors that mark even a functional mental illness would grace me with freedoms I wanted, but hadn’t fully experienced:

  • not as a child in a puzzling environment
  • not as an adolescent who carried demons in her hand luggage wherever she wandered
  • not as an adult trying to function in the challenging world of careers and marriage-with-children, while burying the past and eventually losing the ability to even acknowledge it
  • not as a woman in the prime-time of her life who suddenly crashed head-long into reality, suffered a total collapse, and a crushing breakdown.

I worked for years to repair my body and mind; I worked even harder to repair my spirit.

Living under the shadow of the statement “I had a mental breakdown” provides a certain cover. Even after the initial stages, after in depth therapy spanning two decades, and after reclaiming a life of wholeness, doubt lingers and unwelcome questions pop up.

There is the voice that harbors deep in my sub-conscience, occasionally breaking through to my awareness. It questions my actions, my motives, my plans, my challenges, my courage, my decisions, my art, my life. It questions my EVERYTHING.

I must then re-affirm my strength, stand on firm ground, and repeat:

  • I am responsible for my thoughts, my words, my actions.
  • There is no one else to blame for my failures, short-comings, errors in judgement.
  • I take full ownership of my mistakes and claim them,  but I also claim the lessons these mistakes teach.
  • This is no excuse living.

It is hard, excruciatingly so as times. It is necessary. It is the only way.

Because as long as I blamed the past for mistakes I made in the present, as long as I didn’t acknowledge the mistakes and accept them for what they were, I did not learn the lessons. I had an excuse to push away change and healing.

——-

Why am I writing about this? Because during the years I focused on creating photography for public display, photographs for art shows and festivals, photographs for art centers and museum shows. I also created photography and other art as a process for healing.

Creative activities are healing. I use art and nature as components of my healing practice. I want to share my art and my story with you, my dear readers.

————–

Bo Mackison is a photographer and owner of Seeded Earth Studio LLC.  This is the first photograph in a series of twelve.

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