I am an artist.

I create abstract art that represents a fractured mind.

I have a mental illness.

I believe art and madness are fatefully intertwined.

It’s not like one day you wake up and know you are insane. No. It is a gradual development that the world around you is not right. Things need to tell you this. Shit has to happen. A lot of shit. Bad shit.

Only then, when you are at your lowest, when you think you can’t survive another day alive, when you are at your breaking point, you ask for help. But that’s the difference, isn’t it? You didn’t break. You didn’t leave this world. You got help.

You had to figure out what was wrong with the world. But you find out the world is working the way it’s supposed to. Your brain is working wrong. It, in itself, is not wrong. No. The chemicals are off. The balance is wrong. There is a reason for all of this pain and confusion.

Sure, it takes decades to find the things that make it work right. You spend countless days and nights in hospital wards, nights and days lost to madness, friends and opportunities snatched from you, years of your youth wandering through life unaware that there is something much better.

But, when you find it…

You get life.

Art has always been there for me. Late nights avoiding social gatherings as a teenager, days trying to ease my mind from the thoughts by creating worlds in which things are the way I want them to be.

It’s funny. People say something is their drug. Like “Oh yea, music. It’s my drug.” Like they need it or it gets them high. Like they are addicted to it. But art can be a real drug. It is pharmaceutical gold. It is a true way to self-medicate in a non-destructive manner. It was for me. It still is.

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