the Therapy of Art

[dimensions: 15x20 in.]

[dimensions: 15x20 in.]

I.

Sobbing uncontrollably.

I feel as though my heart is going to stop. There are no words. My heart hurts so inexplicably and so profoundly that I fear its weight will wrench so relentlessly that my chest will cave in.

I want these pains, this grief, this impenetrable sorrow to cease. I want the agony to end.

I do not want to cry anymore. I do not want to feel anymore. I do not want to be adopted anymore.

II.

I'm trying to bring order out of chaos.

So many layers. Divided.

But I can't stop crying. I can't stop feeling. I cannot not be adopted anymore. This is how it is. This is my way in life.

* * *

I am friends with too many artists (and married to one) to ever feel comfortable calling myself an artist, but this does not stop me from engaging in my own sessions of "art therapy."

I had a serious moment of meltdown this past weekend, overcome by sobbing and grief, pain and angst. I told my husband that I felt as though my heart would stop, but that I could not find the words to express what I was feeling.

That's when he said, "You wanna do some art?"

Through my tears, I nodded.

Even as I painted, the tears pooled and streamed down my face. My heart continued to ache and twist. Yet, as the night wore on, I felt a deep breath of release, a slow rising of relief as the brush strokes began to say what words could not.