Category Archives: mental health

Is This What It’s Like?

17 Tuesday Jul 2018

Posted by in dementia, health, mental health, Uncategorized

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For the last few days, I’ve been stupid. Alarmingly so. I get menstrual migraines, and a big part of them, for me, is that I can’t think straight. I get forgetful, I can’t concentrate, and logic doesn’t exist. My brain pod hurts, sure, and I get some nausea and visual disturbance, but I can keep mostly functional with meds. Except for the stupid. The meds don’t touch that. And the stupid makes life incredibly difficult – particularly this cycle. It reminds me of when I got a concussion at age 11 and lost my memory. I’ll have a conversation, and 20 seconds later, forget what it was about. I’ll know we talked about something, but I can’t tell you what. It took me 15 minutes to pack my lunch bag this morning because I kept opening the fridge to get something and forgetting what I was looking for, or setting some ziploc baggies down and forgetting where I put them.

And then I panicked. Is this what the early stages of dementia feel like? Stepping back and examining what I must look like – shuffling back and forth to the fridge but not taking anything from it, hunting for the ziploc bags that are right in front of me – I realized that this is exactly what I’ve seen dementia patients do. It’s terrifying. Is this how my dad felt in the beginning? Did he realize it? Did it scare him? Is this what I’ll be like when I first get dementia? Will I recognize it? Is it already happening? How would I know if this was migraine effects or dementia, given that the kind of dementia my dad had can hit even when you’re still young? I mean, this is clearly migraine related, but my level of brain fog during my migraines seems to be getting worse. Is it a sign?

I doubt anyone who’s been a caregiver to someone with dementia – especially to a parent – hasn’t at least briefly worried that they’ll develop it, too. I’d bet every one of us has listed the reasons why it’s more or less likely that we’ll suffer the same fate. I mean, my dad had dementia. I’ve had 5 concussions. I get migraines. I’ve been on various meds that could have altered something in me, upping the odds that I’ll get it in some form. I feel like it’s inevitable. It’s just a matter of when it’ll hit. And who would take care of me? I don’t have kids or nieces and nephews.

Normally, this would be the point in my post where I’d give you some kind of silver lining or put it all in perspective to make us all feel a little better. But I’m not up to it right now. Right now I’m just scared and in pain and I needed to say this all “outloud.”

Let’s make a pact, okay? I’ll keep voicing these fears, and you’ll be honest with me. If you ever feel like you’re seeing signs in me, please speak up. And I’ll do the same for you. And we’ll do our best to take care of each other.

Dat Dere_compressed

Dat Dere – explanation here

so many kinds of yes

11 Wednesday Apr 2018

Posted by in culture, gratitude, health, kindness, mental health, tattooing, Uncategorized, writing

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I have a rule for myself: if I get an idea for a tattoo I want, I have to wait a year before I can get it. If I still want it a year later, then it’s not likely that I’ll regret the tattoo later in life. Well, it’s been more than a year since I got the idea for this tattoo, and 6 years since my last tattoo, so I decided it was time. Plus, I’ve never been tattooed by my tattoo mentor Julio, and I own a freakin’ tattoo shop. Julio had a little free time today, so I chained him to his tattoo chair and put him to work, even though today is his birthday (everyone say “Happy Birthday, Julio!!!!”).

My dad kept a magazine picture, of a little girl from a third world country carrying a jug of water on her head, in his music room to remind him that it could always be worse and that he really had it very good. It was one of the ways he dealt with his own depression. It helped him keep his life in perspective. To me, the picture just depressed me more, because not only did her situation not actually make my brain any more functional, but it frustrated me both that the world would allow her to have to live like that and that I couldn’t do anything about it. Reminding myself that I have an easy life just made me angrier that I still wasn’t able to be happy.

So instead, I’m choosing to just keep reminding myself to look for the good that’s all around me. Thank you Mr. Rogers. I have a stanza from an ee cummings poem printed out and taped onto the lightswitch in my art studio so that I see it coming and going. It’s a reminder that spring is always present in a million little ways if I just look hard enough. The color is there. The poem is called Sweet Spring, and the stanza I keep up is

(such a sky and such a sun

i never knew and neither did you

and everybody never breathed

quite so many kinds of yes)

I’m not spending much time in the art studio these days, because I’m busy learning a new way to make a living as an artist and spending all my time at the tattoo studio. I’m working to shape my life into what I want it to be and grabbing every opportunity that comes my way. I’m making all that color mine. When I can. And when I can’t, maybe my tattoo will remind me that there are just

so many kinds of yes.jpg

 

Drunken Black Whirligig

05 Thursday Apr 2018

Posted by in art, death, dementia, health, mental health, Uncategorized

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It hasn’t been the easiest of weeks. I’ve had a little too much down time. Appointments at the tattoo studio are few and far between since I’m still so new and haven’t developed a big customer base yet (hint hint: tell everyone you know to come see me!). So I’ve had a lot of time to think. That’s not always a good thing for me, because it leads to negative, cyclical swirling in my brain. It’s like my brain is a drunken whirligig of black and gray and more black and more gray. There’s an absense of color in my head sometimes.

I’ve had too much time to look at photos of the tattoos I’ve done and pick them apart and get mad at myself for them not being perfect. I’ve had too much time to worry about the probability that I’ll have to get a job soon since I’m not bringing in much money at the tattoo studio yet. When I’m not constantly distracted, I have too much time to focus on my body, which spends most of its time complaining about its own mere existence and threatening to quit. And when I get tired (which is always) and achy (which is always) and nauseated (which is often), and don’t have a decent distraction, I get little mini flashbacks of those final couple days by my dad’s bedside when I was so utterly drained and exhausted and ill and grief-stricken. And then, of course, I am again grief-stricken.

For some reason, the universe always chooses these moments to give me little nudges to keep me thinking about my dad. Lucky pennies left in the grocery store parking lot, dementia reminders all over the news, tv shows and movies where a parent dies, radio shows about grief…millions of little things that become an onslaught at a moment when I’m already fragile. I’ve cried. A lot. Which is embarrassing when I’m sitting in my tattoo studio room. Not the most professional. Thank god we have doors to close so I can hide for a minute or two and compose myself.

The thing that really gets me is that I’m still not missing my dad. I’m missing my demented dad, my sick dad. And I’m replaying his final days and trying to figure out how I could have spared him that pain somehow. I’m not thinking about him napping happily on the sofa with the cat, or hiking down the train tracks with him, or how he had a very particular way of eating yogurt. I remember those things, sure, but I can’t make myself focus on them. Instead, my brain goes to the hardest, most painful moments with him and replays them over and over. Those painful memories have become syndicated reruns, invading seemingly innocuous moments and leveling me.

I don’t know how to change my focus. I don’t know how to slow the whirligig down and add a little color. I keep trying to will my attention to happier things, like throwing colorful chalk dust onto all the ugliness, but the whirligig just blows the color all away again. I wish there was a way to scrub my memory clean of the dark stuff, because I know there’s color underneath. It’s there. It peeks out periodically. Sometimes it bursts forth and the blackness cracks and shatters and I can sweep it up and toss it out. But the black always comes back. And I’m okay with a little darkness; it’s familiar and makes the good stuff seem that much better. But lately it’s been overwhelming. I wish I could find some balance. Or maybe still have it not be balanced, but have the color on the winning team.

whirligig pinwheel

A Train For Dad

05 Monday Feb 2018

Posted by in art, death, dementia, family, gratitude, mental health, painting, sip and paint studio, tattooing, Uncategorized

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Today is the 2nd anniversary of my dad’s death. I still think about him every day. I still go through bouts of serious grief. I still picture those final, horrible, painful days with him as we sat by his bedside and watched him die. I still have nightmares. But, very slowly, I’m also starting to remember some small things from before his dementia, or at least in the very early phases of it. They’re not huge things, and there aren’t as many of those memories as I’d like compared to memories post-diagnosis. But they’re there.

I’m not going to lie and say that time has made this all easier to bear. It hasn’t. Life without my dad in it is lonelier. It’s a little less colorful. I feel less confident without him there to cheer me on. And I go through periods where the world seems bound and determined to remind me of him and make me cry. I want him back. Now. I want him to stop by and check on me, though I don’t even know if that’s possible. It’s hard not being a person of faith. Sometimes I think that his soul might be floating around out there, still tethered to mine somehow, like some big, transparent, elephant-shaped balloon. Other times that seems ridiculous. It feels like I’m looking for signs that aren’t really there. Or maybe they are.

In this time of transition in my life, I need him more desperately than ever to help confirm that I’m on the right path. Closing the paint and sip studio was hard, because it was a huge chapter of my life that he never got to see. And closing it reminds me of how many more chapters I’ll begin and end that he won’t be here to witness. But even if those chapters can’t be ours, they’ll still happen.

As we gear up to open the tattoo studio, I’m so sad that he’s not here to hug me and tell me how proud he is of me. I still need that paternal affirmation. So, I find myself doing little things to make him a part of things there. And that’s where this painting comes in. Long time readers know my dad was a huge train buff, so I created this painting for the tattoo studio lobby in hopes that I’ll feel like he’s taking part in this next phase of my life.

Steam Engine Wheels.JPG

Steam Engine Wheels 36″ x 46″ oil on canvas

Prints and other merchandise available here and here.

And in case you don’t already know: Know a caregiver, or someone with dementia, or someone who knows someone with dementia, or someone who knows someone who knows someone else who’s a caregiver? Or heck, do you know a person? Well, you should tell them about my book, Fractured Memories: Because Demented People Need Love, Too. Part memoir and part coffee table art book, I recount my family’s heartbreaking and hilarious journey through my father’s dementia. Available to purchase here (this is my favorite way if you live in the U.S.), here or here if you’d rather get the eBook than a print copy, and here (especially if you want a hard cover copy).

Book cover 1

It’s a Christmas Miracle

12 Thursday Oct 2017

Posted by in art, culture, gratitude, karma, mental health, tattooing, Uncategorized

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It’s a Christmas miracle! It’s Christmas now, right? Or a Halloween miracle? I’m not really sure. I’m unemployed, so I’ve lost all sense of time. After several months of trying to find a space to open a high-end tattoo studio, we are officially under contract!!!!! It’s been a long, strange trip, and it’s not over yet, but we’re farther along than we’ve been thus far. Let me back up a bit and explain.

We’re opening a tattoo studio. But maybe you figured that out from the first paragraph? I’ll be training to do permanent make-up, scar camouflage, and other para-medical tattooing (like giving women areolae following reconstructive surgery post-mastectomy, and giving people eyebrows after they lose them to chemo), as well as traditional tattooing. While I’ll be doing pretty much any kind of tattoo people ask for, my goal is to focus on transformational tattooing, helping people document life transitions. I’m super excited, because it means learning a new medium, and it’ll hopefully mean that I’ll be doing something meaningful for my customers. We’ll have a couple other artists there, too, that I’ll be learning under, and between all of us, we should be able to handle just about any style requested.

But first, we had to find a space. If you’ll recall, we had to close our paint and sip studio because our new landlord decided to double our rent when we tried to renew our lease. We really didn’t want to go through that again, and we’d already run into an issue with trying to lease a space for the tattoo studio and getting rejected because tattoo studios, are apparently, portals to hell. So we decided to buy a space.

We fell in love with one in Cary, NC, and put in an offer. The seller agreed to the terms, then emailed that he was un-agreeing. Apparently that’s a thing? So that fell through. We licked our wounds and resumed the hunt. We found two spaces in a plaza in Wake Forest, NC, one of which was going to auction. So we decided to bid on that space but given the issues we’d run into regarding plaza’s not wanting a tattoo studio, we sent out a letter explaining our vision so that the other owners would know we weren’t opening something seedy. But the other business owners really didn’t want us in there. Not only are tattoo studios portals to hell, but our clients are actual minions of the devil. Here’s a quote from one of the nastygrams we received:

“As property owners and fellow professionals, we have all worked to maintain the professional atmosphere of our buildings. In our opinion, the placement of a tattoo parlor at this location is wholly inappropriate and will diminish the reputation and image which we have sought to cultivate. In addition, it will bring a clientele into the area that will not enhance our reputation, and in our opinion, damage our  financial investment.

The commingling of the typical tattoo parlor clientele with business professionals, patients of medical providers, individuals and families seeking counseling services, and many others does not create a welcoming or professional atmosphere.
This situation certainly will not attract desirable owners or tenants in the future.
The letter sent by Attorney Herman is manipulative and disingenuous in that it commands those who object to remain silent and only those in agreement with their plan to speak up.

In addition, the letter from you, the proposed owners of the tattoo parlor, seeks to mislead and whitewash the true nature of this type of business. Despite the carefully chosen wording, this is not an upscale spa regardless of the reasoning behind the tattooing.”

oh no they didn't.jpg

I was sorely tempted, after that one, to send a newsletter out to my 10,000 person email list letting them know that, if they have tattoos, their money isn’t wanted by any of the medical providers, counselors, or other businesses in that plaza. But no, I’m taking the higher ground.

While, legally, they couldn’t stop us from moving in, but we decided not to bid because we didn’t want to walk into so much negativity. The same day we made that decision, the owner of the original space we’d wanted in Cary reached out to our real estate agent and said he’d resolved the things he’d gotten stuck on before, and would like to revisit our offer. So we sent over another offer (that’d he’d agreed to on the phone and via email), which he promptly refused to sign again. So we modified and tried again. And again, he turned it down. The whole thing was getting kind of ridiculous, and everyone was getting pretty pissy with each other, but S and I sat down and talked it out and we decided to compromise one last time. And, wonder of wonders, miracle of miracles, the seller finally signed. So now we have to go through inspections and the other due diligence stuff.

Jeez, I feel like such a grownup. Cross your fingers and elbows and toes and knees and eyes that the rest goes smoothly and I can stop feeling like I could vomit any second and maybe not actually become the alcoholic this whole thing has tempted me to be. Thank goodness I had the cats to snuggle away the stress.

 

Don’t Let Your Lemons Get In A Twist

29 Friday Sep 2017

Posted by in art, humor, mental health, painting, Uncategorized

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Whoooooo, it has been a week, y’all. A serious week. I got my lazy ass in gear and worked out on Monday (by which I mean that I did zumba with no music with my friend in her living room), and then looked at some commercial real estate. I had lunch with a friend that I hadn’t seen in almost a year, and then looked at more commercial real estate on Tuesday. Wednesday, I drove over to a little nothing town in the middle on NC to test-ride a couple horses with my mom (who is looking to buy for herself), then she and S and I spent the night in Winston-Salem, my old stomping grounds. Who’s a giant ball of pain now? This girl!!! But it was totally worth it because I haven’t gotten to horseback ride in about 6 years, and, assuming the horse passes the vet check, we found my mom a new buddy. On Thursday, we went to a Georgia O’Keefe exhibit, then visited my paintings on the Wake Forest University campus, had a little lunch, and came back home. And then spent the rest of the evening discussing a game plan regarding the commercial real estate we looked at on Tuesday. Really, we’ve been doing pretty much nothing but discussing real estate for the last month or so. And I am worn out. This brain? It’s actually just a matzo ball by now. Or maybe a dumpling. Either way, it’s soft and soupy and not much of a thinker. I needed a break.

So I spent the day painting, then napping, then painting, then napping, then painting some more. Turns out, painting actually requires thought, damnit. Who knew? It’s exhausting. But I was able to listen to podcasts while I painted and finally not think about real estate for a minute and a half. Ahhhhhhhhh. And now, I present the fruits of my labor:

Lemon Twist I

Lemon Twist I 5″ x 5″ oil on canvas

Get it?!! Fruits of my labor? Admit it, you kinda sorta secretly liked that pun, didn’t you? Anyway, this is actually one of 2 lemon paintings I worked on today. Hopefully the other, which is significantly larger, will be done in the next week or so. If you like this one, you can buy it on my website at https://shop.emilypageart.com/t/realist-works or get prints or other fun thingsies here and here.

And one more thing: today would have been my parents’ anniversary. They need to come up with a way of acknowledging occasions like this, when it’s no longer happy. Saying “Happy Anniversary,” seems inappropriate now that my dad is dead, but I still want to let my mom know that I’m thinking of her, and them, and marking this day in some way. So maybe we need to come up with a phrase like, “Marking Anniversary,” or “Acknowledging Anniversary,” or “Nostalgic Anniversary,” or “I Really Love You And Know This Day Might Be Hard But I’m Still Kinda Sorta Celebrating Your Marriage.” Or something. So Mom, when you read this, pick which ever of those phrases you like best. Love you.

I’m Still Here, Sort Of

11 Monday Sep 2017

Posted by in death, dementia, mental health, sip and paint studio, Uncategorized

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It’s been a long time since I last posted. This is partly due to laziness, partly due to being totally overwhelmed by life, partly because it’s the time of year when my depression usually kicks things up a notch, and partly due to the hurricane coverage that has sucked me in. A LOT has happened over the last almost-month that I’ve been an absentee blogger. And as I got farther and farther behind on posting, the harder it’s been to make myself sit down and actually write. So, because I’m out of practice, this post may be total shit. Apologies in advance for shitblogging.

As you may or may not recall, our landlord for our sip and paint studio decided to be a total douchefuck and double our rent. If you missed that post, go back and read it to catch up before you come back and finish this post. I’ll wait (I won’t really wait. I’m not typing this live, as you read it. I shouldn’t have to explain this to you people.).

So, now that you’re caught up, you’ve probably figured out that we did, in fact, close the brick and mortar location. I taught my last in-studio class on the 19th, and then we had 2 weeks to clean the space out, during which I also had to travel to Colorado to train artists for a new sip and paint studio for which we were doing some consulting. ‘Cause there was so much time for THAT. Aaaaaaaagggghhhh! Cleaning the studio out to close down the business completely wouldn’t have been that big a deal, because we could toss, donate, or sell most of the stuff filling the 1400 square foot space. But because we’re still doing mobile events and offering consulting services, we had to keep a lot of it, which means that we had to find storage for it all. Double-aaaaaaaaaaaggggghhhh!

We had to go from this (which doesn’t even show the back rooms which were also choking on art supplies):

full AA class

To this:

empty AA studio.JPG

The room where-art-goes-to-die was already packed to the gills, and we need the space we have in the buildings at the haunt to make more fun things like the creepy trees. So we had to spend a few days emptying everything out of the already packed spaces so that we could put shelving from the studio into them and re-pack them even more. I had to throw out some old art, which isn’t a happy thing to do, but, realizing that they hadn’t sold since college and aren’t really representative of the work I now do, I said “fuck it” and tossed the paintings out. I also renamed the room from “the room where-art-goes-to-die” to “clusterfucklandia.” (I think maybe I’m German or Dutch. I keep combining words to make a newer, longer words. I must have germandutchitis.) A local friend also generously allowed us to store a solid crapton of stuff in the space above his garage, which saved us a whole heap o’ trouble. So we worked it out.

the room where art goes to die

Except for the desk. My dad’s desk. We’d brought it down to serve as our check-in desk at the studio after we put my dad into the dementia care facility. Try as we might, we couldn’t figure out a place to keep it now that the studio is closing, and it was insanely heavy and damn near impossible to get into the back of the pick-up truck for easy moving. It shouldn’t have been a big deal, but for some reason, I got really, really sad at the thought of giving it up. I’m not entirely sure why, but I think that maybe, on a subconscious level, it was a way of having my dad still be a part of a chapter of my life that he’d never see in person. He was contributing to the studio, in a way. And now here I am closing that chapter, and it feels weird that there’s an entire chunk of my life that he never knew, and as I move forward into the next chapter, I won’t even have his desk along for the ride to make him a part of it. It’s silly. I know. It’s just a desk, not my dad. But I just can’t help feeling really sad that I had to let it go.

And then, suddenly, everything was sold or donated or in storage, and I had nothing to do. Except think about that damn desk. And my dad. And now I’m grieving hard again. And, of course, things keep popping up to ensure that I continue to think about it: References on TV; lucky pennies; someone he knew, while growing up, contacting me out of the blue because they read my book; going to a friend’s wedding at which her father said to me, “You know, your dad’s band was supposed to be playing for this,” and at which she and her father danced the father-daughter dance to “What a Wonderful World,” which is what my dad and I danced to at my wedding; cleaning out old emails and discovering a bunch from my dad from his early days with dementia; and on and on. You get the idea. And now I’m reeling a bit and have kind of shut down and hidden from the world for the last little while.

But, as we all know and sometimes like to pretend we don’t, life goes on. And we have plans. All the plans. The best plans. But those plans are for another post. For now, we have bourbon. All the bourbon. The best bourbon. And right about now I’d really like to get all the drunk. But I won’t. I need to save some of the drunk for you, dear reader, because I’m generous like that.

My Cervix Is Not a Cloaca

17 Wednesday May 2017

Posted by in endometriosis, health, humor, mental health, Uncategorized

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My cervix is an asshole. I mean, not technically. It’s not, like, a cloaca or anything, even though it’s acting kind of shitty. It’s still a cervix. But it’s kind of being a dick. Again, not technically. It’s still a lady-part. What I mean is that, for the last 6 or 7 years, it’s taken its job as Guardian of the Galaxy waaaaaay too seriously – like, thin Chris Pratt seriously, even though we all know fat Chris Pratt is so much funnier (yes, my friends finally talked me into watching Parks and Rec and I’m part way through the second season so it’s virtually all I think about).

chris pratt

Gentlemen, you should probably look away now.

Ladies, does your cervix cooperate? Because mine is all, “You ain’t payin’ rent, so you ain’t comin’ in,” to my doctor when she tries to get a sample during a pap smear. She pokes and prods whispers sweet nothings into my vagina, but my cervix is closed for business. If it had a shoulder, it would give her a cold one. Then, when the doctor finally gives up, my body throws a dance party, but it clearly gets out of control and turns into a mosh pit which is all fun and games until someone pokes an eye out…if my cervix had eyes…or even just one eye…which it doesn’t…I’m pretty sure. Anyway, I’m sure the mosh pit is fun for my reproductive organs, but I interpret all that hurling itself around as painful cramping which is less fun. Also, I feel a little left out that I wasn’t invited to the party. I can rock a lampshade on my head with the best of them. But I guess you don’t really wear a lampshade in a mosh pit (etiquette and all), so maybe that’s why I wasn’t invited.

So, then I asked my doctor if my cervix had, like, super powers, and I no longer need birth control to avoid getting pregnant because it would stop sperm in their tracks, but she just looked at me condescendingly and patiently explained that sperm are microscopic, and my cervix isn’t magical. Then she also reminded me that when I go off of the pill, my endometriosis goes craycray and I get erythema nordosum, so I should really stay on it. But then I said that maybe my cervix was so magical that it caused the erythema nordosum just to give itself a break, which is genius and pretty much the best birth control ever because no man wants to be with a woman covered in boils. My cervix is smart, y’all. I suggested we make it a cape in case it also has the ability to fly. Then she noted something in my chart and left the room. I don’t know why.

So I dressed quickly and hightailed it out of there before she either ordered a psych consult or alerted the enemy about my superhero cervix.

P.S. Cross your fingers that the doctor got enough of a sample that I don’t have to go back again for another try and pay for it again.

P.P.S. I was going to draw you a little picture of my cervix wearing a cape, but then I Googled cervix images to work from, and now I need to go throw up. Or drink some bourbon.

Why Did I Ever Become An Artist?!

03 Wednesday May 2017

Posted by in art, culture, humor, mental health, painting, singing, sip and paint studio, Uncategorized, writing

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Uuuuuuuggggghhhhhh. Why did I become an artist? Why can’t I be good at coding, or rocket science, or accounting, or marrying rich men? Why do I have to be good at something that is so damn hard to make a living doing? I need to rearrange the room-where-art-goes-to-die so that I can bury more art in it. I’m out of art storage space. I mean, really, that room is so embarrassing I’m not even going to share a picture with you.

But Emily, you say, you do make a living as an artist. Don’t you own a paint and sip studio? Yes, yes I do. Which means what I’m really making a living at is teaching. Yes, I’m teaching people to play with paint, but that’s not the same things as being an artist.

What they don’t tell you in art school is that you’ll need to spend more time marketing your art than creating it. This holds true for other kinds of art, too: acting, singing, writing…pretty much everything for which I have any vague talent. Hell, I wrote a damn book full of pictures and words and chortles and sniffles and now am overwhelmed trying to just sell one book every couple weeks. I am not a marketer. I hate sales. Schmoozing is my worst nightmare. And when you’re selling your art, you’re selling yourself as much as the painting or manuscript or recording. Selling should really just be called begging. I often say that I’m not a writer despite this blog and my book, and I think one of the reasons for that is that I’m hesitant to own yet one more thing I’ll never make a living doing.

Lately, I’ve been feeling like I’m really-uber-super-extra spinning my wheels. I’ve tried so many things to get my work out there, and none have panned out. I’m tired of feeling like a failure. It’s not that I doubt the quality of my work, it’s that I doubt my ability to get it seen by the people most likely to buy it (whoever the hell those people are). I get shut down so easily by rejection, so it’s really hard for me to keep pushing and rolling with them as they come. I am, admittedly, too sensitive. I hate that about myself, and I’m trying to toughen up, but so far, I’m still all soft and squishy.

And so, as happens every couple years, I find myself in an existential crisis: how do I justify spending so much time, money, and effort making art that’s just going to sit in our third bedroom collecting dust? Do I really need to paint? Could I just…stop? What would that be like? Do I do it because it’s a habit or because it’s what I’m passionate about? I don’t read art magazines or follow the latest art trends. I studied art history in college, but I’m still woefully ignorant and disinclined to correct said ignorance. So if art isn’t in my blood per se, then why the hell do I keep doing it? Boredom? Maybe I just need another hobby. Maybe I should take up wingsuit flying, or collecting swords, or falconry. I swear, half the time painting’s not even fun. There’s always a step or two you have to get through to get to the good stuff. But then, I guess, half the time it is fun, and maybe that’s why I keep going? Though the let down when I add a new painting to the piles of other art that haven’t found a forever home (or maybe they have, and it’s in storage, which is even sadder) kinda negates the fun of making it.

I’m leaving in a couple days for a trip down the Seine with my mom. I’ll be gone for about 2 weeks. I’ll be bringing my watercolors, but maybe I’ll experiment with not painting for awhile and see how that feels. Maybe I’ll see so much great art on the trip that I won’t feel like I need to make more. Maybe there’s already enough. Or maybe I’ll be totally inspired and feel like I absolutely have to waste more time and energy. We’ll see.

Anyway, I’ve lined up a couple guest blogs and will post some old paintings and such while I’m gone so you don’t end up totally bereft without me. Drink some French wine in my honor until I return! Or better yet, drink some bourbon.

old tub

This bottle has my name all over it. This is what happens when you talk about bourbon all the time: your friends bring you awesome gifts like this!

Don’t Forget To Have Some Fun

01 Monday May 2017

Posted by in death, dementia, family, Fractured Memories, gratitude, mental health, Uncategorized

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Facebook reminded me recently about taking my dad out to fly a kite. So this is just a reminder for anyone else going through the caregiving experience. Dedicate some time for fun with the person you’re caring for. It can’t all be about the daily caregiving grind. You need to find a way to enjoy the person and remember why you love them enough to care for them in the first place.

For the year that we all lived together, we made Sundays a day to go out and do something fun as a family. So if it was a nice day, we flew a kite or went to a playground. If it wasn’t, we went bowling or out to dinner. Look for ways to rejuvenate yourselves and your love for each other. Get chair massages. Go out for ice cream. Have a picnic in your living room. Watch kids playing at a playground. Enjoy your favorite movie together.

And take pictures. I promise you that you’ll be so grateful later to see pictures of the person you love smiling.

dad with kite 3

dad with kite 2

The memories you build on those days will be a comfort once your caregiving experience is over.

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Thanks so much for reading my ridiculous thoughts! If you’d like to see my ridiculous thoughts translated into art, visit my website, or follow me on Facebook and Twitter. Know a caregiver, or someone with dementia, or someone who knows someone with dementia, or someone who knows someone who knows someone else who’s a caregiver? Or heck, do you know a person? Well, you should tell them about my book, Fractured Memories: Because Demented People Need Love, Too. Part memoir and part coffee table art book, I recount my family’s heartbreaking and hilarious journey through my father’s dementia. Available to purchase here (this is my favorite way if you live in the U.S.), here or here if you’d rather get the eBook than a print copy, and here (especially if you want a hard cover copy).