I finished a painting today. Two years ago on July 4th I was encountering severe anxiety due to my trial period of the antipsychotic Latuda. I was sick to my stomach during the transition. I ended up spending two hours leaning over the bathroom sink dry heaving and trying to breathe through a panic attack. I begged my husband to take me to the hospital, but he refused because he was afraid of what medicine they'd dope me up with again. Anyway, I survived the allergic reaction or mere panic attack, take your pick, and here I am two years later stable and okay on the first medicine.
I've gained a lot of weight but I guess being heavy set is a fair trade off for stability.
I'm trying my best to just think of myself as 'strong.'
Anyway, I picked up the painting I began two years ago and added some painted words to embellish it. My thoughts really, looking back on my life thus far and what I've learned.
My paintings are not worthy of being shown anywhere except maybe in a classroom for psychologists or something sad like that, but I'm going to keep doing them anyway.
It's my therapy.
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