Ever have one of those moments when a breakthrough hits you so hard that you’re absolutely stunned that you never saw it before? I was only diagnosed with CPTSD last year, so this has been happening a lot. The connection that shook me hard pointed to a core trauma from early childhood, but the trigger seemed so innocuous, and I was so good at avoidance, that the issue never dawned on me.
I’ve always loved art. I like to draw and paint, but I don’t spend much time with it, as much as I’d like to. Over the years, sketchbooks were depleted of paper as I destroyed anything I didn’t like. Too many mistakes on a page resulted in it being torn out. Even a single mistake, if egregious enough. Years passed between my hesitant art phases. Yet a collection of colored pencils, nice ink pens, and other supplies grew.
A few years ago, a coworker shared a link to The Sketchbook Project by the Brooklyn Art Library on a general message board. For a fee, they’ll send you a sketchbook to be filled out as you like, and they digitize it and make it available online. It’s open to all ages and skill levels. The books themselves are sent around the country in batches and appear in various art museums and exhibitions. I even had the pleasure of visiting my own sketchbook during its brief stay at the ICA in Boston. But it wasn’t easy to do, and I didn’t understand why. Some pictures didn’t turn out as imagined and I despaired, and on multiple occasions, I was tempted to toss the whole thing in the trash bin. I felt overwhelmed and panicky. I was three pages away from finishing it when I held it over the open bin, but my husband stopped me and convinced me to keep at it. I hadn’t been diagnosed with CPTSD yet, but the dam was close to breaking.
Fast forward to last fall, shortly after I found myself reeling from a series of appointments, starting with the employee assistance program available through work. With little knowledge about therapy, I searched far and wide for resources. Along the way, a one-off virtual art therapy event popped up somewhere on social media. The organizers sent the supplies in the mail. Crayons were included in the package. Creeping anxiety haunted me. While I did enjoy the event, the childish drawing that I produced filled me with fear. I dissociated for quite a while after that—that old thousand-yard stare because a terrible epiphany arrived.
I attributed my avoidance of art to my stepbrother, who was immensely talented. From childhood on, he was obsessed with drawing. A devastating accident took him from us when we were both in our early twenties. He had plans to publish his own graphic novel series: he was the artist and I was the writer, and we had a lifetime of projects planned. I reasoned that my grief was enough to make me avoid art. After all, it was his territory, and I couldn’t help but compare my childish style to the masterful way he had of drawing elvish lords and alluring vampiric seducers. But the truth was scarier to admit to and confront.
I was three when my mom married a much older man who had several children from a previous marriage. His teenage sons became my abusers, torturers who delighted in thinking up new ways to terrorize me. One of them developed a routine where he’d lay out a coloring book and crayons and he made marks to tally up each time I went outside of the lines. I still remember how the sunlight came through the window on the table where we sat. After the session, he’d strike me for each mark on the paper. Sexual abuse was usually part of the punishment. My body was covered in bruises and welts. That marriage was over long ago (and not at all connected with my stepbrother the artist), but the memories continue to burn my spirit.
This memory never faded, but the connection with my avoidance of art didn’t seem obvious before I had a crisis and started therapy. As awestruck as this revelation made me, I also felt stupid. How could I have not put those pieces together before? Like a jigsaw puzzle, the pieces of my past are all shaken up in my mind. The impulsive perfectionism and shame that forced me to destroy the evidence of my mistakes, as it were, by tearing imperfect art out of my sketchbooks became crystal clear. I grieved for the inner child who wanted to call herself an artist. An emotional riptide controlled my mind for days. But then the perimenopausal bog witch within had enough. And she was mad. “Why shouldn’t I do art when I want?” she demanded. Many of the resources I’ve turned to since being diagnosed recommend art therapy. I enjoy it immensely whenever I can successfully banish the anxiety. One of the books I’ve been working my way through has regular drawing assignments. The insights gained have been tremendously helpful, but I have to pace myself sometimes. Exposure therapy became part of my regimen for something that is typically found to be soothing for so many others with CPTSD. I don’t sit down to draw if I’m tired or not feeling well. If I feel myself get frustrated, I stop. I let myself cry. I scribble angrily and draw exclusively outside of the lines. I create artistic chaos while listening to loud music if it damn well suits me. Paint specks on the table are now a badge of pride. I will not let the past win.
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Lee Frost has worked for nonprofits and marketing agencies focusing on healthcare for the past ten years. She’s a patient advocate and recently launched a blog about menopause and CPTSD called the Sinsemillier. She grew up in the Boston area and has a BA from UMass Boston and a master’s from Harvard Extension School. Lee lives north of Boston with her husband, where they both love to nerd out on sci-fi and fantasy.
Thanks for sharing something so difficult. I never would have considered this as exposure therapy, so now it’s something to consider. The artist wannabe in me says, there’s color and beauty outside the lines, too, so go for it! 😊
Thank you so much for this.