Grey Gardens

Grey Gardens

Much like the tormented artists of old Montmartre, sipping on La Fee Verte with pen in hand or paintbrush, they wait for a muse. Just something inspiring, whether it be the image of Hellenistic nymphs frolicking in green meadows, or the deadly kiss of heroin, they each had their spark of creativity, that starter fluid for masterpieces. I am no exception to this unspoken rule or even stereotype: The lonely painter in his opium-laced Summerland of a mind, or perhaps the grotesque genius of Joel-Peter Witkin peering through the lens. I wait, listless and lazy for that spark. My personal ignition now is music, preferably by Rufus Wainwright or Tchaikovsky, but it wasn’t always this innocent.

At one time, my mind was a decrepit house, a manor of misdemeanor. My psyche was my personal Grey Gardens, the beauty from filth. The Beales were my thoughts, coupled in never-dying loyalty to each other, living in squalor but never regretting it. I was overcome by Bi Polar disorder, Not Otherwise Specified to be specific in the most contradictory way. I would slip in and out of depressions and highs, from anger to pure bliss in hours for no logical reason. As I did fall in and out, my thoughts were as clear as ever. I would write magnificent pieces, paint landscapes better than Monet, and sing till my voice was raspy and gone. Of course, I’d always come back down to a mortal state of being, then fall into the quarry known as the lows; Sleep all day, miss school, and be incredibly apathetic. It was bliss, agony, pleasure and pain all in one. It was sadistic and masochistic, and I hated yet adored every minute of it. It cause so many wretched feelings inside myself and others, and put me in the hospital multiple times. But I would never give it up or change my past or my present because of it.

Although my struggle with illness did inspire me, it also taught me a plethora of things nothing else could have taught me. It forced me to grow up, accept change and be responsible for myself and others around me. It’s fueled my intellect, and yes, it probably is the root to my creative tendencies. I’ve learned to charge that sadness, that nirvana and everything else associated with Bi Polar and focus it into my now stable life. I wouldn’t be the same person if I wasn’t thrown to the wolves with mental illness; I’d be weaker, less responsible. My view of the world would be much more narrow and I wouldn’t have had to opportunity to flourish. My mind, my Grey Gardens, may still be destroyed and scarred, but from that comes the beauty, the undeniable quirkiness that is Emily. No need for opium, La Fee Verte or mania. My spark is myself, and I have been shaped from mental-illness and also taught something no book or classroom could teach me.