Thursday, February 17, 2011
"Art saved me; it got me through my depression and self-loathing, back to a place of innocence." – Jeanette WintersonI hadn't realised just how corrosive grief could be until this week. Like some dark, insidious poison, it had dripped into my heart so gently that I hadn't noticed – until I was brought to my knees by a sharp sliver of anguish piercing my chest. I cried hard and long, then I became inconsolably angry. I haven't fully recovered. I still work every day in order to maintain the hard-won routine that keeps me sane. But while my mind and body are in it – it's times like these I'm thankful for the almost mechanical tedium of my technique in enamel – my heart is not. My heart is broken. I am wracked with confusion and ill-formed regrets.A year ago, I wouldn't have been able to cope. I am stronger now – and much more determined. I bear the pain with as much stoicism as I can muster: no drugs, no drink, no refuge in a lover's arms. I focus on the one thing that has enabled me to survive a decade and a half of an adulthood assailed by psychological and emotional tumult: my art.