From Behind Bars, Part VIII, On Art Therapy

Art Therapy. It was odd. Cute, interesting, but odd.

Let me just throw something out there: I am not, not a creative person. I try, yes. Do I yearn to be artsy? Indubitably. But do I have actual talent? Hell no.

So we’d walk into the art room, amid squeals of delight by the talented “Art Folk,” (I, obviously, was not one of them) and the smell of paint and glue. We’d retrieve the projects we’d been working on, which for me were sadly Kindergarten-esque.

Thus began a long hour-and-a-half of raw consternation. I was trying to be creative. I was trying to draw something other than a stick figure and a bird that looked like an M in the sky. I’d inevitably give up, though, halfway through class, and grab a big ‘ol bucket of black paint and slap it around on some construction paper and call it Fine Art. Skill. Abstract art, if you will.

Looking around me, I could see hard-core art projects going on around me. Creative Tycoon to my left was making a life-size chair out of puzzle pieces. Puzzle pieces! Art Freak to my right was getting in touch with her pain and other such junk with a gargantuan painting the size of Europe. Or whatever. I glumly look at my black swirls. Suck. God gave me no talents, apparently. This was never clearer to me than in Art Therapy, and nothing is more therapeutic than realizing you have nothing in life but the clothes on your back and hard work. Or something. No talents, none. Zip. Just my sad, anorexic, miserable little self. How cheerful.

As soon as the group was nearing its end, Art Therapist would go around the room and have us talk about our work, how it made us feel, what we were trying to depict, etc. After I have been enthralled listening to others epic woes and deep anguish, (and this black swirl represents the cellulite on my left thigh. And this ripped out heart represents, well, my ripped out heart) we come to me. Kindergarten Finger Paint Girl.

Me: Um. Black. The color just spoke to me today. You know.
Art Therapist: Ooooh. I can see your fear! Look at those rough and jagged strokes across the page. But you’ve left so many white spaces on your paper. This is depicting the emptiness you have in your life. Maybe you can have less white next time? Fill your life with color! This is moving, Brie. Wow. I’m impressed. Good work today.
Me: Didn’t I simply throw some paint around so I would have something completed? I’m deep now? Wow. Thanks. That’s exactly what I was thinking!

After Art Therapy, we await dinner. I always looked forward to evenings, because they were (usually) much quieter. Withstanding a few breakdowns and/or flashbacks from neighboring prisoners, it was usually easier to relax. I didn’t have to worry about therapy, for I’d already had it for the day. I’d already (somehow) survived Open Group and Study Hall, so all the tough and excruciatingly boring stuff was out of the way. Post-dinner was much looked forward to because we could receive letters from family and friends, (phase permitting) or even call them if we had an order from our therapist.

I tried to remain hopeful during this time, coaching myself, reminding myself that I only had one meal left to stuff in my fat emerging, evolving body. It was almost time to sleep, to get away from the crazy girls and the cool girls and the care techs. I just needed some freaking alone time, which I never got, ever.

But first, I had to climb the proverbial Mount Everest: dinner.