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The Therapy of Art

By Julianne Bordick

I first started making art projects in preschool, as most kids did. In elementary school, I remember being excited to go home and show my mom the new thing I had crafted at school that day. As I grew older, my mom noticed the joy that creating art had brought me, and she signed me up for drawing classes both inside and outside of school. I had been involved in many activities growing up including soccer, softball, piano, gymnastics, and swimming, none of which stuck with me as much as art did. Whether it was drawing with chalk on my driveway or painting on the walls of my dad’s apartment, I always found a way to incorporate art into my day. Around sixth grade I began experiencing mental health issues that affected my ability to do the simplest of things. I would have anxiety attacks in my bed at night. They would keep me up for what felt like hours, until I eventually passed out from exhaustion. The lack of stimulus in my dark and quiet room gave my mind far too much space to think of all the horrible things that have happened in my past, and all the horrible things that might happen the next day. I never told anyone about those restless nights, I was worried what my family or friends would think of me if I did. I felt as though I didn't have anyone to lean on, and like I had no one to talk to. That is when I remembered the one thing that would always be there for me, art.

From a young age, it was apparent that I had bad anxiety. I had panic attacks before I was old enough to understand what was happening during them and why I was suddenly struggling to breath. My mom recognized this, and she did her best to help me get through these attacks that often came on at random. They happen anywhere, anytime. In the car, at softball practice, in the middle of class. My anxiety has always displayed the worst decorum known to man, constantly interrupting my day and making every social situation feel painfully awkward. As I got older, it only got worse. In middle school I was late at least once a week because I would be crying inconsolably just thinking about having to go. It took me about an hour to get dressed in the morning because either my clothes felt weird on my body or I was scared of what someone may think of me based on my appearance. I was picked on very often, getting unwanted comments on my body and laughed at for the way I talked and acted. During late middle school and into high school, I began to experience various symptoms of depression. I hated myself. I was embarrassed of myself. I stopped being able to eat. I stopped doing the things I loved. I completely lost myself. And the worst part was I had nowhere to go, I felt too ashamed to talk to anyone about it.

People always say, “Just ask for help.” Just. It may seem simple from the outside. If you are struggling, then you get help. But it is not as simple as just taking Tylenol when you have a headache or just going to sleep when you are tired. Once you are living it, truly experiencing it, you will find yourself realizing it is not something you can just do. I don't want to make my mom worry. I don’t want my little sister to be scared. I don’t want my family to think less of me. I don’t want to be a mental or financial burden on my family. These are the thoughts I have experienced for a large portion of my life. So instead of getting help, I tried to find a way to help myself. I experimented with a lot of things like music, writing, and meditation. These things helped in the moment, but nothing made a lasting impact on me. It wasn’t until my second semester of sophomore year that I started taking art classes again. That's what led me to rediscover the safe space that art created for me. Creating art freed me from my constant racing thoughts and helped me process what was going on in my life.

Flash forward to the summer before my senior year of high school. I received a scholarship for a week-long camp at West Virginia University. It was kind of like a crash course in forensic criminal investigation (the major I am currently studying). I was over the moon excited to go to this. I could not wait to learn about something that I was genuinely interested in. But then I got there. I was sitting in a dorm room, alone, eight hours away from my family and friends for the first time. I felt like I did not belong, like I was not good enough to be there. The first night I was there, I had the worst anxiety attack of my life. My mind was suffocating me, I was drowning in my own thoughts and feelings. I was humiliated. My roommate had walked in, saw me, and walked right back out. My eyes were swollen and my hoodie sleeve was covered in snot because I ran out of tissues (I know, gross). I did not know what to do, all of the coping mechanisms I had learned through the years failed me. So, I called the one person in my life who had always been there to help, my mom.

I am completely out of it. There are no thoughts in my head other than I need to get out, I need to escape this place and these people and these feelings. I no longer have the capacity to care what people think or how my actions are going to affect people. The phone feels like it is ringing for minutes before she answers. Breathing was already near impossible, so it took all my strength to form the words, “Mom, I need to come home.” She begins to flood me with questions, “What happened? What is wrong? I thought you wanted to be there? I thought you were excited?” I can tell she is concerned, but also confused and frustrated. “You can’t come home, you just got there”, this is the last thing I needed to hear. “Just try to breathe, Julianne.” I can’t breathe, I can't speak, I can't see.

I said a lot of things that I feel horrible about now. I needed an escape from the whole situation. Not only did I want to leave the place that I had so badly wanted to be months prior, I also wanted to leave my own mind. I could no longer bear being this distorted version of myself. I was not able to control my thoughts and actions, and it quite literally almost scared me to death. I had allowed myself to get to the point where I wasn't able to help myself anymore, and not a day goes by that I don't regret letting myself get to such a horrible, destructive space. Not only was I hurting myself, but I was also beginning to hurt the people around me.

The next morning, I was on a flight home. My mom agreed to fly me home if I agreed to start therapy. I was not excited to start that journey, but I also knew that it was something I desperately needed. I was embarrassed and scared of the idea, but I also was filled with a sense of relief. After all these years of struggling alone, I got help. I regret not asking for help sooner, because maybe I wouldn’t have had to miss out on that experience or the many other experiences that mental illness has taken from me.

A few days after I got home, I had my first therapy session. I was horrified, to say the least. Thinking about having to share my thoughts and feelings with my therapist was scary, especially when I had never spoken about these things to anyone before. It's not an easy process, but over time I slowly allowed myself to open up and I am so glad that I did. My therapist, Amy, helped me really understand myself and understand what coping methods work for me. To help me open up to her, she had me draw during our sessions. She recognized that art was something that calmed me and helped me feel okay. The more I did that with her, the more I began to realize how art really helped me to express myself. I was able to work out my emotions in my sketchbook or a canvas or my notebooks at school. Amy strongly influenced me to start making time every day to do some form of art. I am beyond grateful that she steered me back into art as a coping mechanism. Whenever I find myself in a bad mental space, I go to my basement (which I have turned into my mini art studio), and I put all my emotional energy into creating something. The pieces I create aren’t always about what I am feeling, and they don’t have to be to help me calm down and find peace in myself. Although my work often reflects something I am going through, I also make things that don’t have a clear purpose or meaning. For me, it is not always the end result that I focus on. The process of creating and having control over each small detail is extremely therapeutic to me. I have created a lot of work, from small sketches to month-long paintings, that have helped me work through things and find peace in my struggles. I now have something I know will always be there for me. I will always have a place to vent to, something that will always listen to me without judgment. I am thankful for the support I have received to find myself again. I am thankful that I finally am getting the help I have desperately needed for so long. Above all, I am thankful for my ability to use art as a form of meaningful expression, and that I have learned a healthy and productive way to cope with my struggles. I have learned that you are never alone, and that you don’t need to suffer in silence. My only regret is that I didn’t learn these things sooner.