Shame is Boring

Recently I started making my own little youtube videos and though I’m still feeling awkward as I learn to navigate a new medium, I am finding it to be a very exciting, raw and direct means of communication and self expression. I feel tremendously excited but also incredibly vulnerable, as I allow my imperfections and awkwardness to be seen.

But I am proud of this video particularly.

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in and out

The rules state that pain must be internal. Like blood, milk, shit, piss, cum, tears, farts, ugly laughs, dirty sex, pubic hair… We are horrified by anything that highlights the truth of us as vulnerable, organic, meaty, stinking flesh. We love fruit when it is ripe and are revolted when it rots. We are tormented by taps that leak.

Those who expose the truth of us too freely are labelled impolite or scary or dangerous or insane. They are shunned, they are punished. If we don’t stone them to death, we laugh, we gossip or slowly, cautiously back away.

There are so many things we have all silently agreed not to talk about. Don’t talk about the things you want the most. Don’t talk about the things that really hurt. Don’t tell us how you really like to fuck. Don’t tell us how scared you really are. Don’t be too angry. Don’t be too much. Don’t.

The veneer of civilisation is thin and tenuous. We guard it out of necessity, it’s a useful structure, it’s a good thing that we’re not always raping and murdering each other. But within our constructed comfort, we become so fearful and feeble. We forget the flexible pragmatism of social structures and mistake them for inviolable law. We make Gods and use too much antibacterial hand wash and have too many four-wheel-drives in the city.

It’s claustrophobic. It’s suffocating. It makes deviants of us all and when we don’t fit in for our sex, our skin colour, our poor health, our pain… the feeling of isolation is devastating because we are social creatures who long to be loved. We fear that if we show the things we truly are, we will be shunned. But then we are alone and our loneliness accelerates our rot.

I hate it. I hate the artificial walls we thoughtlessly and religiously maintain. I grow all the more determined to smash them and this involves a process of directly observing myself and then attempting to communicate those observations. I try to catch myself when I engage in the act of self-censorship, I ask myself to be less fearful.

So tonight I’m going to attack a personal taboo that I never talk about publicly. Today I received a blow I’m struggling to cope with. The specificities of it don’t matter in this particular piece of writing, what matters is that tonight I was screaming at somebody who probably loves me more than anybody in the world because I was furious at the world and furious at him because sometimes he has been my only reason for living and today I hated him for that. For keeping me alive. For not letting me give up. For being my fucking hero.

I am not proud. I am whatever is the opposite. Ah, ashamed. I am ashamed. As I should be. My pain is not his fault. He tried to help me and I bit him.

He went to bed and I didn’t know what to do with myself. I wanted to paint but could not. I wanted to leave the house but my arms were throbbing in too much pain to drive. And though I was feeling self-destructive, I wasn’t up for going walking in the night-time and inviting other people to do the job for me.

So… I have no idea why, but I filled the bathtub with my UHT, lactose free milk that for some reason I always feel a mild and undefined embarrassment for drinking. Then I sat in the bath, singlet and underpants still on and gently pressed my surgical knife into my thighs to make the most slender red lines. It wasn’t a violent act, it required barely any pressure whatsoever.

It calmed me. Just like it calmed me when I used to engage in the same activity (minus the milk) as a chronically ill teenager. It gave me that same sense of control and quiet and I was in awe of the beauty of red blood on white milk. The bathroom was perfumed by the odor of milk. I have never experienced a room full of the smell of milk before. That comforted me. I swirled the creamy liquid around and watched the water turn pink. My mind became empty, the way it used to do when I would paint. The way it did when I smashed those glasses. 

Even as I write this I am so aware of how it could scare and anger people. I am not keen to be perceived of as crazy because I do not truly believe I am. What I think I am is someone who, like many people, is experiencing a lot of pain and sadness and is trying to find a way to effectively express, communicate and manage it. I’m not advocating for self-harm but… Fuck, maybe I am. Maybe tonight I can’t think of anything wrong with the pretty and harmless marks I made on myself.

I took photos on my phone. I think that they are beautiful and I love the raw immediacy of cell phone photography. I want to post them here and am going to. Even as I know that this thing which I think of as beautiful and vulnerable will be seen as… ugly, stupid, childish, scary. Even as I fear being feared and thought of as crazy and no longer taken seriously.

That’s ok. I have to be ok with that. I want to be brave. I want to be a person who isn’t afraid of the things that most people are.

The marks on my leg sting a little but a lot less than my arms hurt every day. I guess I am a mess. I guess maybe I need help but I also feel like… this isn’t a cry for help. This is… I don’t know what this is. I’m just tired of feeling trapped. My body is a cage I cannot escape because it is a tangible, physical thing but those invisible walls we construct, I just want to burn them to the ground and then stand in the ash and embers, screaming like Xena Warrior Princess. This is how I obtain a sense of power and that’s no small thing.

Taste

The taste of arousal in my mouth is the same as inspiration. Will that even make sense to anyone? I get a taste in my mouth when I have an exciting idea for a painting and I get the same taste when I want to be fucked. Well, taste is the closest way I can describe it. It’s like a feeling of warm air inside my mouth that gets registered by my taste buds.

Another commonality in my experiences of art and sex is that they are both best when uninhibited. The best fucking happens when you are so immersed in the sensations and emotions of the experience that you don’t care about the ugly sounds of squelching and screaming, the comical faces, the abject imperfection of the body and the immense vulnerability of exposure. The best sex happens when you don’t try to tame it or make it presentable. Don’t pretend that the porn you like best is pretty.

It’s the same with art. My favourite sort of art is… the beautiful grotesque. The ugly honest. The awkward vulnerable. The spectacular perverse. I love when art tells me things I don’t want to hear but does so in magical ways. I love art that excites and confronts and challenges.

I love being slapped in the face. Literally and metaphorically. I love one hand around my throat and the other violating my cunt. That one I mean literally but I’m open to creative interpretation.

Right now, I’m way better at fucking. My art is still far too mannered. I’ll work on that.

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Old selfie taken in 2013 for a fetish website.

Suicide

There have been a couple of times in my life where I have felt suicidal and though I’ve briefly mentioned it before, I don’t want to talk about it in detail so I am going to. When I was a teenager, I observed that my favourite artists were so often brutal, awkward and unattractive in their honesty which had the effect of making me feel more comfortable in my own skin and less alone, so I challenged myself to be the same. I still try to. Enough stalling, here goes.

I don’t know what it takes to be part of the Totes Legit Suicidal Club because I never swallowed any pills or jumped off any bridges. Though, at about the age of 12, I became very fascinated by the warning message on my aerosol deodorants “Intentional misuse by deliberate concentration and inhalation can be harmful or fatal.” I only tried to misuse my Vanilla Kisses body spray a handful of times and don’t remember much more than dizziness and once, a slightly uncomfortable headache. I remember the emotions though, I remember the shame.

The shame wasn’t about my flirtation with mortality, the shame was about my inability to commit to my demise. At that point, I had been chronically ill for some time and felt myself to be a burden on my family and to have no purpose or future. I felt that I was nothing but a shadow of a person, heavy and stagnant and the gesture of self-destruction felt like it would at least be… something.

And of course it would be an escape. Perhaps the worst thing about chronic illness, worse than the humiliation, the pain, the isolation… the worst thing I remember is the boredom. The days that melted into each other, stretching endless and tedious behind and in front. Sometimes I fish about in my head for memories of those years and only get feelings that make me uncomfortable and vague memories of bedsheets and shitty TV shows. I know that this wasn’t the entire truth of those times because as an adult, I see the privileges from my childhood but I believe that being ill for so long made me perceive everything through a very deep depression.

Bored and caged animals will pluck their feathers out or chew at their flesh. I have an intimate familiarity with that impulse and for some years I was the cliché of teenage angst, late at night when the frustration, self-loathing or tedium became unbearable, I would take to my arms and legs with a kitchen knife, slowly slicing shallow red lines into my flesh. It is not in accord with popular opinion for me to say this, but it truly felt as if that behaviour curbed my violent impulses and I recall the ringing in my ears and the nauseous calm I felt as I watched bloody lines appear. It was like white noise, it blocked things out and focused my attention. Cutting is seen as an unhealthy behaviour and certainly mine was a symptom of a great unhappiness, however I think that channelling the violent emotions I was feeling into something that had no long term negative effects on my physicality was actually… helpful. I am not necessarily defending the behaviour, though I do believe it kept me from something more drastic.

I haven’t cut myself in years, having learnt more “constructive” and “adult” ways of dealing with my emotions. However, in 2014, when I turned 30, I was thinking a lot about how I wanted to be dead. My (then undiagnosed) Thoracic Outlet Syndrome was at its worst, I was in constant pain, unable to sleep, dependent on my partner financially and unable to do any of the things that made me feel valuable, excited, alive. It had been over four years since I first had problems with my arms and it seemed to only be getting worse. My future and prospects felt bleak, once again I felt like a burden, once again I was the thing I had been working so hard not to be, once again I was nothing.

It felt like a Chinese finger trap, the harder I struggled, the tighter the grip it had around me. I was bored, frustrated and just so sick of trying. And now I had access to the Internet, I thought about how easy it might be to just research the most painless, simple methods of self-annihilation. I was an adult now, maybe this time I had the willpower to follow through and…

And I thought of Wes. And I knew how I might ruin his life if I did this. And so, though it was incredibly hard to do so, I told him how I was feeling and he implored me to keep trying, he promised he would help. In honesty, I half hated him for it at the time, half hated him for the way his love meant I had to keep trying when it felt so hard and I was so tired. So completely spent.

But I kept trying. In honesty it was for Wes at first and not for me, but slowly things started to improve during 2015. I found mindfulness meditation which has helped me be gentler with myself and better tolerate the things I hadn’t control over, I found my cat, I did some volunteer work, I started working on a web series, I started learning to sing. I got a diagnosis. I fell even more deeply in love with Wes and back in love with someone else who I never thought I’d see again.

So this year, 2016, has been kind of incredible so far. The diagnosis of TOS has transformed my self-perceptions and given me a sense that my future is no longer hopeless. I have an abundance of love. And for the first two weeks of this month, we were filming the web series that I first conceived of in 2014 when I was thinking about how I would like to be dead. Filming was the most scary, exhausting, stressful thing I have possibly ever done and I was so ecstatically happy. I rediscovered a self that in 2014, I thought I had permanently lost and I felt like the poster child for an “It Gets Better” type project. I am struggling to express what those two weeks meant to me but there were so many times when I was thinking to myself “Remember this. Remember that if you had given up, you would not have gotten to do this.” While feeling, truly feeling, that it was all going to be better from here.

Two days after we finished filming, my body seized up with pain from computer work and I was blindsided by the sudden onset of old, morbid thoughts. I was devastated, my body felt like a trap again and the joy I’d been feeling felt like a sick lie. For just a little while, I resented how amazing I had been feeling for how hard I was now crashing. But the people I love helped pull my head out of that ugly place and though I am now feeling a little shook up, vulnerable and prone to moments of sorrow, I do believe things are improving.

It’s just… it’s not a straight line pointing upwards for the rest of my life. My body will always cause issues, horrible things will inevitably happen and there will probably always be many things I am unable to do. I may always be taunted, in my vulnerable moments, by the self I could have been if only my body hasn’t failed me so many times and I’ve now had to face the unpleasant reality that suicidal thoughts may not be something a person can permanently escape. This might be something I have to battle again because that is what life has to do, life has to fight.

But if/when these morbid thoughts reawaken in my head, here is what I will tell myself: Despite how seductive it can be, suicide is not the opposite of stagnation. Fight and be proud of yourself for doing so because life fights. And remember, when you wanted to die, you could never have known how amazing you’d feel when you moved to Melbourne, produced and starred in a stupid musical theatre comedy that would receive rave reviews, married your best friend in a pantomime unicorn outfit, roamed the streets of Berlin with a wonderful lover, lay on the side of the planet and stared into the stars with a man who makes you feel alive, spent two weeks in a studio filming the most ambitious project you’ve worked on up to this point, danced all night, played with your cat, painted for an hour without pain, baked a cake, learned to rap, laughed with your idiot friends… the list of good things far outweighs the negative. These things, these moments of joy and triumph are always worth it.

Always.

On an almost daily basis, I struggle with the feeling that I am nothing and it’s true. I am. We all are. Ultimately, we will all be helpless in the face of our own mortality, it’s just that people who have their body fail when they are young have to face that reality earlier than some. In the smallest fraction of time, everything we know will cease to exist. In the interim, I am taking the resources I have and making some fucking spectacular moments with them, like fireworks exploding in the cold and dark night sky.

Discovery

“Slow the fuck down you raging dickhead!” a red-faced, bald man screeches angrily at his bull terrier as it drags him towards the water. The water in question is Edwardes Lake, a brown, soupy, polluted puddle in a pretty little park in Reservoir. I’m here by accident.

Today has been one of the days that are so common in my life right now, when my arms are too sore to do much of anything and I find myself at a loose end. I drift through these days feeling listless and without direction. I’m bored and feel boring. There was a time, pre-injury, when I felt inspiration to be endless and I channelled all that through my arms but the last five years, this has led to physical pain. So I’ve learnt to suppress inspiration when I feel it and mostly I’ve avoided going to galleries because the first wave of excitement I feel is always quickly followed by anguish and a desire to just… not exist.

It used to be that I channelled all my existential angst, dread and joy into making. It used to be that my arms served as a conduit for the intensity of how I seemed to feel pretty much everything. Now this quiet depression, this gentle fog, this numbing of emotion has been a survival strategy.

But it’s so tedious. So I try to find something to pass my time and often end up exploring the surrounding suburbia on foot. I think it takes a slight edge off my desire to travel and I get a thrill from making discoveries such as the house that has a cat tree in every window, old crumbling chimneys, or the time I found an abandoned Bunnings Warehouse full of incredible street art that was demolished by the time I came back to photograph it a few weeks later.

Today, as I walk around the lake, my first discovery is the inflamed man with the enthusiastic dog. My second discovery is a turtle. It is sunbathing on a log with its long neck stretched out as if it is attempting to get a tan and there is something about this image that causes the fog to vanish in burst of happiness. Mood dramatically altered, I continue my walk, often stopping to watch the varied bird life and to think.

I think about how I have spent the last five years mostly just passing my time, waiting for my arms to get better so I can go back to being the self I once was. I realise that I have let a lot of time slip past as I’ve waited to get better. I think about my hopes that I will someday be able to paint prolifically again but how I can’t let the present go to waste while I wait for a utopian future. I think about how in this protective fog the colours are less spectacular and I feel like a dusty old book that nobody wants to read. I think about the people around me who laugh and cry and glow with their passions and I want to glow again. I am becoming increasingly determined to find a way glow again, not sporadically as I currently do but with a more sustainable regularity.

I reach a point of the park where very tall trees stand and sway in the hot, dry wind that is suddenly central in my awareness because of the enormous roaring sound the trees are making. I stop to listen and watch the water ripple while dramatic, dark grey clouds swirl slowly in the sky above. After a while, I sit down and start to collect tiny little pinecone things which I have decided I will form into a word. It’s hardly an original idea but I decide it will be a fun creative exercise and that I am going to start challenging myself to find more constructive ways to channel inspiration without hurting my arms. Little things, humble things, things that might help me to find myself again.

While I am collecting the little pinecones, Wes calls me on the phone and we have a discussion about what word I’ll write. Wes suggests “graffiti”, I ponder over “mistake” but eventually I decide I will write a small sentence documenting a moment that meant something to me today.

I try to assemble the pinecones into letters but the wind is so fierce that they keep blowing away. An old man wanders over, eyeing me suspiciously and asking if I need help, I thank him, no, and decide I need to find a more sheltered spot. Eventually, I find a place that is safe from the wind and I write my message, albeit awkwardly, due to the curved and slippery surface I am working on. I wonder who might see my message and what it might mean to them. I think about the ephemeral nature of site-specific works and how it relates to art and the search for meaning in defiance of mortality. I think about how important context is and how the necessary choice of installation space will surely effect a viewer’s reading of my message.

Then I take a photo with my phone and go home to share it.

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Rock Art

We’ve been slowly driving down a gravel road on the outside of the Gariwerd. We have come this way to see what will be the first indigenous Australian rock art I’ll have seen. As we pull into the car park for Bunjil’s Shelter I battle my habitual instinct to be comically irreverent and suppress the urge to make a joke about how this would be a good place for us to dump the leftover food scraps and rubbish from the camping trip we have just been on. It gets on my nerves when people make jokes during tragic parts of movies or take jokey selfies in front of stunning landscapes they have only just arrived at, so I feel my stupid joke would be disrespectful and make me the kind of jerk I hate. I know my sense of decorum is somewhat arbitrary but that doesn’t make me feel any less self-righteous about it.

The walk is short; after a two-minute tramp up a small hill covered in boulders and scraggly, dry Australian flora, we are surrounded by a landscape that is rural with patches of forest and sandstone mountain ranges in the distance. We quickly come across the rock art, painted in a shallow little cave within a huge boulder. The art is separated from us by a protective metal cage but nevertheless I am struck by it. I didn’t know what to expect. I didn’t want to force myself to feel anything, like when you hold a hundred million year old fossil in your hand and try to make yourself understand, truly understand how ancient it is but all you can think about is how you’re hungry, horny and insecure about why so and so hasn’t called. But in this case, I needn’t force myself to feel something because I am struck instantly.

I’m reminded of a time at art school where we were made to do a meditative drawing exercise in the beautiful Tangatarua Marae. We were each blindfolded and then handed an object which we had to draw in our sketchbook for several hours without being able to see anything we drew. The instructor handed me a soft object, a roll of toilet paper, I laughed and cursed him but as the hours passed I found myself hurtling through swirling vortexes while simultaneously drawing them into existence. When we finally took off our blindfolds, I was disappointed and amused by how tiny and unremarkable my drawings were because they had felt immense. We discussed our individual experiences and one woman spoke of how she had spent the last half-hour sobbing because she had reconnected with mark making and was so deeply touched by it.

I remember that lady as I look at an artwork that I reflect could perhaps be 3000 years old. I think about mark making, how old and deep that impulse is within us. I think about how it is a means of communication through generations, an attempt at defying mortality, a method of creating and expressing meaning. I think about my own ever-present urge to make marks and how my body and my injury no longer allows me to do it compulsively. I think about how lucky I am during those times when I can pick up a paintbrush and how, to me as an atheist, art is the closest I come to religion, art is how I express angst and awe.  I think about how some of the marks are from more recent European white overpainting, an attempt perhaps at preservation. I think about white paint, white people, colonialism. I think about how I can never know what was going through the artist’s mind when they painted this, I can never know if they were inspired, leaving a message or simply a bored kid killing time through the hottest hours of the afternoon.

After a while I leave that spot and start to explore the small hill and boulders surrounding it. I want to hang onto this feeling I’m having, this calm, so I walk slowly, running my hand along the boulders and feeling as if I truly comprehend the weight of them. I climb up onto one of the rocks and look out across the landscape. I begin to imagine the people who had been here before me, thousands of years before me and I feel sorrow while beholding a landscape that I now perceiv to be blighted by agriculture and scarred by roads. I find myself imagining someone a thousand years ago standing on this same boulder and surveying a land unblemished and I am uncomfortably aware of myself romanticising a past, a place and a people I will never know.

I run my hand across the lichen and observe that this particular organism looks as if it is covered in thousands of tiny, gaping baby bird maws. I observe the whiteness of my own hand and the tacky cat print dress I brought in Thailand. I think about my own whiteness and about how when I was a kid growing up in New Zealand, I thought I was Māori because most of the kids at my school were. We sung songs in Māori, we ate hangis, drew koru patterns and my grandfather was Fijian which, to a six year old, is the same thing. When I realised I was not Māori, I remember feeling strange and uncomfortable about the realisation that I was… Pākehā. I think about how I never quite felt at home in New Zealand, America or, now, Australia. Perhaps I will always slightly feel as if I am trespassing on the space of others, but how this is not a feeling that especially causes me angst anymore because it simply is. Humans are an invasive species.

I think about my tendencies to daydream and how I love places with a sense of history connected to nature. I also think about how one can navigate an appreciation of other cultures and foreign lands without colonising those places, without romanticising the other. At the same time, I think about how romanticisation is a way in which we connect to the past, the way we feel a lovely and painful nostalgia for that which once existed but which we never knew.

I think about the more recent graffiti that people have left on the boulders and which has been removed by do-gooders with scrubbing brushes. I think about the value we place on the past while considering the scrawlings people have left from our own time to be without value. I think about how I am glad that the graffiti has been removed, how I am glad that we treasure the disappearing remnants of the past and try, desperately, to preserve places of natural beauty… but how we also forget that this current time we are in is just as transient, someday there will only be fragments of this left and someday there will be nothing. We think we are separate from nature but all of this is the exact same stuff and the only thing that separates it is the meanings we assign.

I reach my hands out and feel a warm wind blowing against my skin. The air here is alive, perhaps only with the meanings I have embedded into this place but nonetheless, it is beautiful and sacred and I feel grateful. As we leave, I find myself touching the blackened stump of a tree consumed by a bushfire and whispering “thank you”.

Chronic

An elderly woman boards the train carrying several bags of groceries and a middle-aged man carries a toddler on with ease. Many commuters are hunched over their phones, typing and swiping for the duration of their journey while one teenage girl is standing, one hand raised up to grip the pole behind her, the other holding her book.

I repress that familiar feeling of bitterness and envy and look down at my hands which sit placed on my lap, useable yet useless. My fingers are curled in the way that always happens when my muscles tighten and my nerves burn, I try to focus on my breathing, on mindfulness, on anything that might help my body ease up just the slightest and give me some microscopic moment of relief.

I swallow the bitterness but when it reaches my stomach it becomes sorrow and once again I find myself crying in public. I find my mind fixating on the thought of people who spend countless pain free hours on video games, who can mindlessly utilise their hands for pleasure. What I wouldn’t give to have just a few hours to paint free of pain. What I wouldn’t give to have back the freedom I took for granted until I lost it.

Pain is a demanding companion, constantly clamouring for my attention. For the last several weeks my pain has sat at about a 6 out of 10 and while that isn’t as bad as it can be, what tortures me is how little I can do about this, how it is exacerbated by any sort of use of my arms so that my only real option is to wait this out but that waiting it out only means waiting for a decrease in pain because I can’t remember the last time it went away completely.

I truly have forgotten what it feels like to be completely free of pain. Every day is a negotiation, if I decide to drive for more than an hour, I may not be able to do anything else for the day. If I decide to sit down and write an email or two, I might not be able to paint for a week; if I decide to draw for an hour, I might be in especial pain for the next three days; if I use my phone, it will hurt; if I vacuum, it will hurt; if I bake, or weed the garden, or handwrite anything, or simply sit still to read a book or watch a show, it will hurt. Writing this is definitely going to cost me, despite the fact that I am using voice dictation software to make the process easier.

I am a person who thrives on activity and creativity but doing so little now costs so much. The things I love to do the most cost so much. Very often these days, my body feels like a cage and I have to fight the irrational but powerful desire to attempt to gnaw off my own limbs.

I was chronically ill in my childhood, bedridden on and off for many years and I still feel affected by the spectre of that experience. I have memories of immense loneliness, crushing boredom and claustrophobia, the feeling of being a burden to my loved ones and the despair of not being able to imagine any sort of future for myself. I remember at about 13 years old, I started thinking regularly about suicide; the idea enticed me, it seemed as if it would be an incredible relief, especially if I could find a way to do it painlessly and quietly, but the thought of causing my family that sort of pain held me back. I’m glad that despite my self-esteem being devastated by my illness, I was still able to understand that I was loved.

The other thing I remember from that experience was how many people told me I was faking it. Kids at school, their parents, family friends, relatives. So many people told me I was faking it that to this day I somehow don’t quite know if I was sick for all those years or if it was perhaps some early manifestation of the anxiety and depression I experience as an adult but now have the self-awareness and coping mechanisms to be able to manage relatively well.

Children have few defences against the unkindness and scorn of others. I felt an incredible sense of shame and began to dread being seen by people, for fear they would turn to my parents saying “she doesn’t look sick at all!” As an adult my response might be along the lines of “but you’re sure as dumb as you look!” but as an 11 year old, I just felt judged. Ashamed. Grotesque somehow. I can’t articulate why exactly, but I felt like I was failing at being what I was supposed to be and this made me feel ugly.

If I’m honest, I often still feel that way now. When I was a child it was Glandular Fever left undiagnosed for too long that became many years of Chronic Fatigue Syndrome culminating in a deep and abiding depression that I only managed to pull myself out of when I dropped out of high school, where I was too far behind to ever catch up, put together a portfolio and went to art school. I then had seven of the best years of my life, four years of art school and three years of working and living in Melbourne. Then I got Repetitive Strain Injury in both my arms which only recently has been given the tentative (but I believe to be correct) diagnosis of Thoracic Outlet Syndrome.

I could write about going through almost 5 years of unsympathetic doctors, misdiagnosis, misinformation, and bad medical advice that exacerbated and worsened my injury. I could talk about the miserable attitudes of the places I worked. I could talk about the incredible amount of money spent desperately trying to find a solution. It might be cathartic to write about those things but it would also fill a novel and be incredibly boring for anybody who is not me.

Instead, I will simply say this: for the longest time I blamed myself for my RSI. I told myself that I worked too hard and had caused the injury and a few years into my RSI, I told myself it was my fault that I wasn’t better, I hadn’t worked hard enough at fixing it. Basically, I blamed myself for working too hard and then blamed myself for not working hard enough.

We get told two stories in our culture. The first story is that if you want to succeed, you have to work hard, long and passionately. When I did that, it hurt my body. The second story is that if you are sick or injured, you can overcome it through sheer force of will and possibly a montage involving drinking kale juice, running along a beach and pumping iron with the assistance of a hot personal trainer. I’ve tried to get better in so many different ways and I continue to do so. Sometimes I do come across things that help and improve my quality of life but I am yet to climb Mount Everest using nothing but my teeth.

And sometimes I give up in despair. In fact it is a regular occurrence. There have been times when I have said “FUCK IT” and painted for too long, spent too long on the computer or neglected to do my stretches and exercises because sometimes they feel futile and I am just so tired of trying. During those times that I give up, I feel overwhelmed by the enormity of my failure and the physical pain feels like punishment for my weakness of will.

There is another story we tell ourselves in our culture and that is regarding the omnipotence of our doctors. I’ve lost count of the times I’ve been in conversation with someone who has repeated over and over again “Surely there is SOMETHING they can do! I can’t believe there is nothing they can do!” But the truth is bodies are complicated, medical science is still playing catch up and there is so much we are yet to understand. Until relatively recently, RSI was considered psychosomatic (an attitude I’ve seen still reflected by some of the doctors I have seen) and even now it is poorly understood. The surgeries are crude and have a poor rate of efficacy, in fact they can make the problem worse. I have tried a great multitude of treatments and the best results I have gotten is from deep tissue massage which only serves to relieve the pain temporarily, not fix the underlying cause.

But that attitude people have of doctors being all knowing, of medicine having a solution for everything – that is damaging. It hurt me when I followed poor advice and worsened the damage on my body. And it hurts me now when people don’t believe this has been as hard as I say it is. Effectively, I feel they are telling me that I haven’t tried hard enough.

I think I can understand this. I think that when we look at other people’s problems, we imagine that we would not get ourselves into such a situation. We like to believe we are smarter, stronger, better than the person who is struggling. It is perhaps comforting to think so.

I also believe that we have an almost animalistic reaction to those who are injured or ill, a fear of being infected by them, or of them holding back the herd. Whatever it is, weakness makes us incredibly uncomfortable and I can feel that when I talk about my injury or, as I am starting to think I should more aptly call it, my chronic condition. People don’t want to know, it is perhaps easier for them to view me as weak, whiny, overdramatic. Hell, for the longest time, I saw myself that way.

Another thing I have noticed is how often RSI, particularly carpal tunnel, is the butt of jokes in popular media. It is the imaginary affliction of hypochondriacs, drama queens and airheads. It is hard to conceive of an invisible, poorly understood affliction as being life altering. Perhaps this is the other reason I feel shame. Perhaps this is the other reason I ramble awkwardly and feel self-conscious when I speak to people about my experience; able-bodied people cannot imagine what it is like to have to pay the price of pain should you choose to do anything pleasurable, productive or necessary.

The other problem is that every second person has had RSI. Well, they’ve had pain from typing too much but it eased off quickly when they stopped typing or had a session or two of dry needling. That experience of RSI is very different to mine, just as mine is different to the people who have had it for 15 years, who have had permanent nerve damage, botched surgeries and who cannot even use a can opener. Because RSI is a blanket term, people struggle to understand that the temporary ache they have experienced in their hands is different to this thing that I fear might leave me unable to work for the rest of my life, the thing that makes me jealous of people who get to complain about the hard day they had at work.

Last year I was about to turn 30 years old and not long after that would mark the 4th anniversary of when I first noticed that tell-tale tingling in my right hand while I was video editing. I was unemployed, often in pain so relentless that I would wake in tears, unable to hug my partner in bed because of the discomfort and I felt completely worn out. I was tired of fighting and for the first time since I was a young teenager, I started to think about suicide.

That time was too recent for me to comfortably talk about in detail. Suffice to say, it was a dark, miserable period and Wes says it was terrifying for him. And Wes probably kept me alive.

Wes who has supported me financially for all these years and never makes me feel guilty about it, knowing how unhappy I already feel to once again be a burden on someone, though I know he doesn’t see it that way. Wes who massages my trigger points every morning and every night so that I can sleep without my hands going numb. Wes who has held me countless times while I cried for an hour. Wes who, simply for being in my life, reminds me to be grateful.

Here is what I am grateful for. I am grateful to have a partner who is consistently and unwaveringly supportive and loving. I am grateful that though it stretches our finances to the limit, we can afford my weekly myotherapy sessions that have decreased my pain somewhat and allowed me back into the studio just a little. I am grateful for the financial support my parents offer when they are able. I am grateful for having legs that can take me on long walks when I am in too much pain to sit still or do anything much else at all. I am grateful for Netflix documentaries that keep my mind stimulated when I feel starved and allow me to travel when I feel claustrophobic. I am grateful for audiobooks; where sitting still and reading for long periods of time has become difficult and painful, audiobooks have brought reading, of a sort, back into my life and currently I am devouring everything by Octavia Butler with relish. I am grateful for the incredible comedy group I am a part of, it has given me the sense of direction I lost, the creative outlet I craved and the sense of identity I needed. I am grateful for the incredible network of people I know who fill my life with colour, creativity and support. I am grateful for the stray cat, Dicey, who followed us home and now follows me about the house, keeping me company when I am broke, sore and sad and giving me a sense of having a future. I may never be rid of this pain, and maybe, Atheist’s God forbid, it may even get worse as the years go by, but for perhaps the next 16 years I’ll have a cat with a tummy that is soft, furry and made of joy.

It’s hard to talk about how my RSI makes me feel, how emotionally challenging this has been because I have felt so ashamed for how much this wears me down. But here it is, the truth is this injury has changed my life dramatically. In many ways, my life is worse, everything is harder and my future feels shaky and uncertain. Often, I feel vulnerable, lonely and unhappy. Sometimes I feel bitter, petty and jealous. Sometimes I feel grief for the self I was briefly able to be, the incredibly capable self who earned her own money, painted all day when she had the time, read in her spare time without pain, wrote constantly in her blog and looked towards her future with excitement. Sometimes I feel irreparably broken, indescribably weak.

But recently there have been some minor changes to that mindset. Recently I have stopped blaming myself so viciously for my injury, I refocused that anger on the doctors who told me there was nothing wrong, the work colleagues I had to battle simply to get basic ergonomic equipment and the society we have created that values ambition over compassion, competitiveness over kindness. This has been healthy for me. I am slowly coming to understand that this is not my fault and that I have tried hard. Really damn hard.

With that understanding comes a new sort of self-esteem, the sort where I can look at myself sometimes and admire my strength, my fighting spirit and my passion that keeps me being an artist despite how goddamn hard that is now. I’ve also learned to be more patient, to sit still and enjoy watching a tiny winged insect crawl across my hand even as my body throbs and burns and I now observe people who barrel through their lives doing a million incredible things, taking for granted a million different privileges but who can’t slow down long enough to enjoy any of it. I deeply believe that the struggles I have had over my life give me a compassion that I see sorely lacking in some others who have never been ill for a day in their lives, and the perspective to value, truly value, the gifts that life does happen to throw my way. Though the price I’ve had to pay for it can feel unreasonable and unfair, I treasure that compassion and those moments of wisdom. Lately, despite the continuation of the pain, the fear, the misery… I am finding ways to be happy again. Truly happy.

This is not to say I am happy with the way the dice has rolled for me but I know that it could be worse, so much worse and so I remind myself that in a universe indifferent to us, we are simply lucky to exist. On the days when my pain calms down and I can paint for an hour, I am so grateful and so happy that for a while everything else flows into the periphery of my vision. Joy is so precious to me that when I have it, I feel the ever-loving fuck out of it.

And of course I will never give up. Acceptance is different to defeat. Maybe I will never get better but I will never stop trying. The alternative choice is unacceptable to me.

Yesterday I found out that Invisible Illness Week had just passed. I missed it because I haven’t been online much recently due to a spike in my pain levels. It motivated me to write about my experience and I have endeavoured to be as honest as I possibly can. It feels uncomfortable to speak quite this openly about my experience but reading about other people’s struggles has helped me to feel less isolated and to find new reservoirs of strength within myself. I’m hoping perhaps my truth will resonate with someone else, perhaps even help someone.

I’m going to post this now before I chicken out. If you made it this far, thank you so much for reading. I think that most anyone who has ever hurt will agree that being listened to is all we really want from you.

Soft, furry and made of joy.