On Creativity: A Psychospiritual Journey

*This essay was written in August 2021.

I started drawing about a month ago*. An Akashic record reader told me that I love creating, that I love colors AND love to post things… who knew?!?! Certainly not my conscious mind. 

As a kid, I liked to draw. I remember in second grade marveling that I could look at something and then recreate it with my own hand. In third grade, imagination took over and I endlessly drew bunnies in ballgowns. As a fifth grader, I loved drawing ninja turtles and other ninja animals for my little brother. Sixth grade was the advent of self-consciousness for me. I started looking around… comparing. My best friend was so much better at art than I was. I remember noticing that when she drew even a line, it looked beautiful. I could tell SHE had a gift. My extremely talented little sister was labeled “the artist” of the family and so I accepted my role as “the happy-go-lucky one”, “the social butterfly”, “the cheerleader.” I stopped creating and subconsciously decided that there were only certain ways I could be seen. I restricted myself to the things that I was “good at”. Academics came easy and lived in my background. I was focused on my friends and I truly enjoyed smiling, jumping around and leading the crowd under the Friday night lights. 

When I went off to college, it seemed like all of my dreams were actually coming true but then why did nothing feel right? I thought the perfect body would save me so I exercised 3 hours a day and ate next to nothing. Anorexic and practically friendless, I fell into a debilitating hopelessness. I couldn’t move or get out of bed but I didn’t understand why. I thought I had everything but some part of me brought my life to a complete stop. Meds made it better and got me to class (sometimes) but over the next couple years they kept needing to up my prescription for it to work. They say it was the high dosage of SSRIs that triggered what happened next… 

A moment of awakening... like a cosmic hammer coming down upon my head and shattering perception into perfect diamond everythingness. Immense amounts of energy flowed, blasting through sleeping channels and for days I couldn’t stop my body from singing and dancing the praises of truth and love and a lot of other gibberish in my own made up language. Music moved my hands and I stayed up for 3 nights straight filling up journal after journal with scribbles and words and cut outs from magazines. It felt like my body and mind were swirling toward questions and answers that mattered. For the first time consciously, I knew through my being and beyond that life was not for nothing. 

My frenetic and uncontrollable actions were really scary for the people around me who loved me. I imagine that the crying girl in bed was safer than this. They brought me to the hospital and we were told it was an easy and obvious diagnosis. Bipolar. I was manic. The doctors were astonished by the amount of sedative it took to bring me down. I woke up in a complete fog, not even recognizing a dear friend. Over the next couple weeks, as an inpatient in the psychiatric ward, they tinkered with mood stabilizers, antipsychotics and antianxiolytics to get me back to “normal”. When I left the hospital, they told me I would need to take these 12 pills throughout the day and that if I ever, for the rest of my life, went off my meds, I would surely be back. On some level, I understood that at stake was my right to be a functioning member of society.  (Please note: I believe everyone in this story was well intentioned and this is not a personal criticism of anyone.) The side effects of the many medications on my sensitive body were so bad. Over half of my hair fell out and I couldn’t drive without falling asleep at the wheel. I failed exams because of the brain fog and had to quit my chemistry major. We questioned if I could pass any classes or finish school at all but still the treatment seemed worth it. At least I was “sane”.

I remember coming home from my stay at the hospital, tearfully filling a large garbage bag with what I came to think of as my “crazy journals”. I walked the bulging bag out to the trashcan to erase them from my memory. Head down, I had to come to terms with my new life. I was crazy. Oh, the shame. I would have to expend a lot of energy to not let this monster out again. 

Luckily while in the hospital, my parents brought the pile of spiritual books that I had checked out from the library after the awakening and before I was admitted. In the first pages of Thich Nhat Hanh’s “The Miracle of Mindfulness” I declared, “I’m a Buddhist!”. Here in the simplest words, he was explaining just what my mind had been spiraling to express. It was a relief to feel I wasn’t alone in this knowing. I started studying and meditating and didn’t stop. I began cultivating an inner life with an enthusiasm that I hadn’t known since elementary school. 

Now over 20 years a meditator and 15 years off meds I have a different relationship to my body/mind than I did back then. There’s more freedom and space. I can move my reference of awareness the way that I want. I can explore experience… ride waves, instead of being thrown around and dashed against the rocks. The energy that at one time blasted through my system and exploded out every exit, now dances and sears and transforms while I watch. And so when this Akashic reader said that I love to create, I thought… why not try?

This is my first drawing….

“That person isn’t lifting weights because they’re strong. That person is strong because they’re lifting a lot of weights. “

I heard this quote and it struck something in me. My hand chose a color, and then I let it move. I watched it unfold, curious of what it would become. I don’t know who she is but I really love to look at her. I crave to get out my journal and stare into her eyes and then my mind goes clear. It’s like my soul is creating its own medicine. How amazing that we can do that?!!! Now I’m enjoying drawing and coloring. I smile and roar and cry and watch and marvel. I want to show you and tell you about it because it feels really good. I didn’t realize how much I was afraid of myself and now I want to be braver. 

Let’s create things (in whatever way!). Let’s not worry about how it will look or what people will say but let's attend to how it feels… how it heals… how it allows us to be us. 

I wonder about your story. Did you ever get the idea to shut yourself down and go into hiding? What danger lurks in the eyes of others and now ourselves? How do we hold each other back? How can we hold each other in safety and support?

Wow! You read this far?! Now what are you going to do? I hope you make your own medicine too (in whatever form). For now if you want, you can look at mine. Thank you for being here with me! It feels so good to share! I didn't know it would. Thank you! Thank you! Thank you!

Blessings! 

Karen

*This essay was written in August 2021. I woke up in the middle of the night one night, picked up my computer and started typing. It felt so surprisingly good but it scared me too. I had not planned on sharing any of my drawings or my psychiatric history but found myself composing this essay that is clearly written for an audience. Not sure what to do, I sat on it and would sometimes just randomly pull it up and read it. It was settling. There has been something healing about landing in a story that relates so deeply to my experience of myself but that I had tucked away from even my own consciousness for protection. In January 2022, I suddenly had the urge to post the drawing and essay on Instagram and opened up the app ready to paste (these things always seem to happen in the middle of the night 🤔) but after finally feeling the courage, I found out that the piece was way too long for the platform. So here we are now in February 2025. I’m not so confident with technology so it took me awhile to get to it, but I finally made this blog so I could share the whole essay. It’s cool because I can gather some things on this website that I’ve been doing for fun.  Welcome to my “living” room. I’m glad you’re here! 🙏