How Lovely is the Silence of Growing Things
Dreams of a Community.
I miss it.
My plan is to foster a place for us to meet, to connect, to share.
The past six years have pushed us further from each other than I thought possible. I miss having a genuine group of friends who believe in the same things as me—who want to love for the sake of loving and see the importance and specialness in the everyday monotony. Not every moment in life needs to be big, nor should it. Drinking a cup of coffee in the morning next to my sleeping dog can be just as life affirming as visiting the Trevi Fountain.
American capitalism, when working correctly, uses our bodies and brains as machines. Produce, produce, produce. We rebel through finding meaning in our lives despite the doomful reality we are living in in America.
I sometimes forget that I have bipolar disorder. More specifically, Bipolar II. Bipolar II is characterized by deeper depressions and fewer, shorter episodes of hypomania, a less intense manic state. It is to my own detriment that I forget I am neurodivergent. It’s been with me for so long that I see debilitating depression as normal. Even on good days I still struggle during the hours of 3-5pm. This is something I want to explore further.
Trauma is a hell of a bitch, and I sorta suspect that the depression I feel around those hours directly connect to the dread I felt as a child when returning to my home after school.
The worst manic episode I ever went through resulted in my diagnosis eleven years ago at age 19. I was too afraid to wear clothing, live in my dorm room, or have the lights on because I was convinced that I had been bugged by the FBI and two boys down the hall from my room.
And I still forget to be gentle with myself. I forget that I live in a world that is made for, and primarily benefits, neurotypical individuals who can devote their energy to capitalism. I cannot do it. And trust me, I have tried. I can push through days, but towards the end of the week I struggle to get out of bed.
My self-esteem was so low at one point in my early 20s that I believed I had to want what I saw others want.
Must I need to want a esteemed job, a husband, a family, a nice home? I am constantly at war between my true desires, and what has been shown to me. I compare myself to a close friend who has the “American Dream.”
But I am no victim. A huge reason why these ideals were ingrained in me is due to my upbringing in an affluent, white family.
I have the privilege to take time off when I am in the throes of a depressive episode. I have the privilege to see experienced therapists and psychiatrists. I have the privilege of health care.
Do you long for meaning? Inspiration? Much of my time has been robbed by TikTok. And my god, my attention span is at an all-time low. Attention is a muscle, and I am weak.
From my youngest years I disappeared into art: film, music, photography, fashion. I felt connected to other humans in ways I never had before. Community is not prioritized in white society; I learned how to make my own community by surrounding myself with art.
Some of this comfort comes from drawings by Kiki Smith, performance art from Ana Miendieta, Francesca Woodman’s photography, pre 1980s American folk music, David Lynch movies, etc etc.
I am one month away from earning my masters in clinical mental health counseling. I am interested in expressive therapy; using alternative mediums to narrate our stories.
And to be honest, graduate school has been absolute hell. Not due to the subject matter, I love it, but for the fact that I began the program in January 2020. It is now November 2023.
It’s like I went through some painful portal that sucked away so much of my passion and replaced it with dread.
Ok, that’s pretty dramatic. I love so much about the world and my little life inside of it. But its hard not to go full out doomer when I look back and see how much everything has changed.
I have changed physically, mentally, emotionally. I am not sure if for better or worse? I gained 30 pounds. That’s been tough on me. It feels like a layer of depression is omnipresent in myself and in those close to me.
So, this blog is my little way of reaching out to the world, of trying to make a difference, even if its just one person. If you ever have any ideas or suggestions for art that brings you comfort, please feel free to reach out to me at emmaarceneaux0@gmail.com
me in all of my glory
found image
Doris Salcedo, “Atrabiliarios”, 1996
Drywall, shoes, cow bladder, and surgical thread
Part of a performance by Louise Bourgeois
