I learned to adjust to a new life when I was first diagnosed. I could deal with the drowsiness and weight gain, but the stifling of creativity due to medications was unbearable.
Many worry that medications to treat mental illness will drain their creative juices, leaving them unable to create or perform as they once did. I struggled with that for a long time. Before my diagnosis and the ensuing changes, I never left the house without a pen, a notebook, and a camera. But the lack of focus, time, and inspiration, the things I once considered integral to who I was, became little more than a passing thought on most days. However, after finding a medication that works for me, a regular therapy regimen, and personal development, my love of art and creation began to come back. Without the debilitating exhaustion caused by depressive episodes and the whiplash-inducing speed with which I veer from topic to topic while hypomanic, I can create much more consistently. Why do we occasionally wish for a little bit of heartbreak or extra sadness? There are plenty of modern and historical cultural references to feed the “tortured artist” trope. So many accomplished artists led lives shrouded in despair: Jim Morrison, Janis Joplin, Kurt Cobain, and Amy Winehouse, to name just a few. It is not, however, a modern invention. The phrase “poète maudit” means accursed poet and is associated with writers living “outside society,” often resulting in early death. It was popularized in the 1800s. Vincent Van Gogh was known for his attempts to poison himself by eating paint and drinking turpentine. Virginia Woolf filled her overcoat pockets with stones and walked into the River Ouse. Popular science has elaborated on this correlation: there are countless articles, and even books, about the relationship between mental illness and creativity. Some coined it the “eccentricity effect.” The pressure to appear interesting to be taken seriously as an artist or even a person can overwhelm anyone attempting to form a sense of identity. In my experience, this is worse when recovering from mental illness. While my peers were developing a constructive sense of self in my teen years, I struggled to stay alive. There is a phenomenon known as “identity moratorium,” where an adolescent in crisis cannot commit to roles or values that form an identity, which was true for me. When entering treatment, I found that I wrapped so much of my sense of self in self-destruction and mental illness that I did not know who I was or could become. It took multiple years of therapy to overcome, and it is a thought that still plagues me during challenging times. In therapy, I now discuss how to do both “good” and “right.” We often do good things that make us feel better and comfort us, yet they can be and feel wrong. Things at this intersection can include anything that goes against one’s morals. For me, this has included emotionally damaging relationships and substance abuse. Art can be good and right, good and wrong, or immoral and harmful. Art therapy exists for a reason, and the simple act of creation can be transformative. Unfortunately, countless artists, myself included, take this to an unhealthy extent, torturing themselves for art because the best art makes you feel something. It is often easier to put pain on paper than joy. It is unnecessary to feel this pain to create something meaningful, and the world (and art) would be better off if more people believed that happy people can still make eloquent, even sad, art. A positive mood can enhance creativity. In my experience, happiness (or even contentedness) and creation can and do overlap. When I think of the years I lost to mental illness, I mourn the person I could have been. A person who was more able to write endlessly and creatively rather than lay in bed for days. A person unafraid to try new art (I’ve always wanted to try cello and violin). A person with more harnessable energy, rather than the energy that seems only to channel itself into destruction. In periods of stability, I am infinitely more able to create. Yet, I wonder how my art could have grown if I had had the consistency that untreated bipolar disorder has stolen from me. I could've avoided so much pain and suffering if I had been more confident that recovery was the right direction. My greatest fear about this discussion is that the trope of the tortured artist leads to the creation of real tortured artists, as it has become so deeply ingrained in popular discourse that artists just aren’t happy. If they are happy, they’re not just happy. They’re eccentric; there’s no room to be a regular, well-adjusted person and an artist. I’m not saying that artists should attempt to be forced into happiness. They should be able to do so and still be taken seriously as artists. How about you? How do you balance madness and creativity? Join the discussion in the community.
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AuthorI was born in 1986 in Lebanon. I'm still trying to find my passion in life and in the meantime I'm learning to navigate my bipolarity and redefining stability. Archives
February 2024
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