Category

Disposable Kids

Category

Paintings in Braille @ngajuana

It starts with a boy.  He’s 16.  His path set from birth, he has only ever had one road to travel, how fast he gets to the end is all he can control.  Could he fight fate?  Could he have escaped the addiction to crack, abuse and pain if he’d wanted to?  Only, somebody who is utterly irredeemably stupid and without honest empathy, can conceive of asking that question. A baby born to a poverty in inner city hell. A diamond in the rough.. he could have been so much instead he is ensnared in a living hell that will his lot from birth to grave. He will fight.  He will push against the demons. But the drug he is addicted to is destroying his brain.  Crack “Cocaine, but powder taken back down the evolutionary path to coca paste which rock.. aka “Crack”, smokeable at cigarette temperature with 20 times…

Keep your Pity, I don't need it

Fluffy folk want wealth, fame and Happy. Messy men with broken brains seek simply Honesty, Respect and Peace. Fluffy folk prefer prettily poised paintings; Readily within reach: realistic art asks no questions, It just tells lies. Messy men with broken brains see truth untouched In art unleashed. “It’s okay, you can tell me.  I want to understand and I want to help you.”  I am on the floor.  Again.  The culprit this time?  A floral patterned skirt wrapping a new friend’s legs in swathes of painful childhood memories, evil men doing evil things.  Princess Possum (my new pen name) had been tripped like a trip wire slung across a busy playground earlier that day and the previous week, I was holding on to the present, to reality, by my finger nails – the floral patterned skirt was the trigger snapping final straw. Down I went. Tiled floors are not…

EMDR: The Chemo of Psychotherapy

The paramedic held my head in his hands, large gentle hands, and with soft kind eyes looked down at me lying on the floor where I had fainted.  “You know you need help, don’t you?” The hangover from hell, when I come round that’s when the ‘xplaining has to begin.  The deft dodge of direct questioning that I am expert in.  How much mopping up do I need to do this time?  At 22 years old I was already adept at figuring out quickly whether this was a situation I could recover or whether I just needed to get the hell out of town; try again somewhere else. It was a get of town situation.  No amount of deft dodging could wipe the fear and anxiety from my friends’ eyes, they had heard too much of my flashback.  Somethings cannot be unheard, once that genie escapes there is no shoving…

PTSD PAINTED: THE HURTIN SIDE

Kandinsky, the grandpa of abstract art, gave those of us with mental health challenges a gift.  Perhaps because he too had seen too much, he closed his eyes and breathed in the music as it lit every dark recess of his brain.  Instead of simply hearing the notes strike his heart, it went off like a gun blowing a hole in his calm reflections.  It exploded into colour and form.  Textures traced through his minds eye. Imagine each note hit you like that.  Seeing each word sung strike you like a snipers shot through the belly: what colour does that have? Please read through the whole before starting and take my warning, below, seriously. BEWARE: continue with this but have a safety plan in place please.  I have not taught a class like this without triggering deeply buried anxieties, abuses long forgotten, battle scar tissue buried in the amnesia that…