Making Art Doesn't Make Me Love You Any Less

My proof of existence feels more dramatic than I want it to be sometimes.

My fingers press into my temples, trying to find the spot to switch it off.
I’ve been crying for the last ten minutes.

Crying for me is like throwing up. I don’t do it often, but when I do, it’s physically painful.

My head is throbbing, and as much as I pray for it to stop, the tears keep flowing out at a violent rate to the point I have to keep reminding myself that nothing lasts forever.

That’s what I keep coming back to. Nothing lasts forever.

One thing I can depend on is the fact that when it’s all over, I will feel clean, I will feel empty.
I will feel as if I have committed a small exorcism on myself.
I will know that I will have space for new things and a lesson that can only be taught under extreme circumstances, because let’s face it, I wouldn’t be able to without the full ritual of stressing myself out.

One thing that does frustrate me when I cry is the fact that it’s almost always around somebody else, which creates a whole new resentment for my body that it can’t cry in a private space hidden from the world, so nobody needs to know that I, in fact, am capable of crying.
Or even the fact I don’t feel safe enough in my own company to really let go and cry.

An hour after I’ve completed this routine. I usually find myself lying on the floor trying to connect with Mother Earth through the carpet. I don’t usually call upon her or take her seriously, but in these moments, I hope she can forgive me.

When it comes to my feelings and processing them, art has always been that safe space for me. It has been something that no one is able to take away from me.
One reason I make art is that I don’t think we’re meant to miss out on the validation that somebody else in the world is going through the same thing or having the same thoughts.
Or selfishly even proof of my existence, so I feel like I somewhat ‘matter’.

For a living. I tell other people’s stories.
I love giving them the platform that they need in order to be heard... So someone in this world can feel a little less lonely.

Whether the benefit belongs to the person who’s telling their story because it feels nice to be given a microphone in a very loud world, or the person watching through the screen, looking for a sign of literally anything they need to hear.

I always get anxious about sharing these stories because it’s important for me. For an individual to be heard when we live in a world where even screaming can be silent, it’s comforting that there’s this void that exists that only your words fall into.
This void in particular, is Instagram, where many communities also venture into looking for meaning.

However, when I make efforts to process my own feelings and experiences through art, it makes sense in my mind that sending stories like these into the world will bring me some kind of hope that it finds its way to the person who needs it.
Whatever message they are at capacity to receive at that time.

Even if no one likes it at all, my fear has become that... a physical piece of art.
But me making art doesn’t mean I love you any less.

I’m currently working on my first really big piece and I’m already so protective of it, mainly because it’s a story created not only through my experiences, but these characters represent so many different versions of relationships and people in my life, because for me, the best characters are inspired by real people.

Doesn’t mean these characters are these people, but when it comes to points of conflict, I think about how real feelings impact these fictional scenarios.
My teachers at uni were huge on the fact that it was beneficial that we weren’t fresh out of school or 18 years old when we joined the course.
The older you get, the better you understand the choices your characters make because you’re better at observing the behaviours of other people from the knowledge of our own experiences.

I post a lot on social media.
My friends and family won’t believe me saying this because I certainly don’t come across this way, but whether it’s an Instagram story or a Substack post, every time I post them, I feel a bit cringe.

So this bigger piece to me feels cringe, but on top of that, it’s really vulnerable.
But now, knowing this is the end game for me, pushing myself to actually make the art and pursue it as a career, I’m observing more and more about how being so forward about the communication of my deeper feelings is not only making me uncomfortable but also super observant about how everyone else receives them. Because I will be super observant of whether people recognise themselves in the choices that my characters make.

And so I guess going forward, it’s kind of triggered this idea of letting go of not only how people perceive you, but just trusting you don’t lose your relationship with them because of how they perceive your experiences of the world and possibly the experiences you’ve had with them.

Everything I write, everything I work on is essentially a love letter to a time, point, person, or place in my life, no matter how flawed they are or were, because at the end of the day, it’s because I want them to feel seen the way they deserve to be seen.

I think we tell so many people to embrace the cringe and give up on this idea of perfection, and that’s not a bad thing at all. We should absolutely do that.
But I think, we also need to... and I say this for myself as well, let our friends be cringe. Let our friends be messy. Let our friends make art.
Let our friends encourage us when we express ourselves or love the people we love when they express themselves, however that may look.
Because if we truly care about that person, we won’t look down on them, we’ll love them for being human, so we can continue to all make mistakes and bring in new information together.

Crying and art are the same to me.
Crying is me getting my emotions visible to the world, for proof of my existence, just as much as me typing on this laptop right now.

Instead of pushing into my temples, it’s pushing onto the keyboard.
Instead of that pounding headache, it’s my second brain pulsating with ideas.
Art is what allows me to let go.
So next time I cry, next time I scream, next time I yell, just know that I can figure it out. I’m just getting comfortable that I can actually have those feelings.

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Author’s Note:

So I wrote this a couple of weeks ago, and I laugh at it now because I remember how horrific this night was.
I had a horrible day, I didn’t feel heard, and the only sane move I could make was putting pen to paper. I remember feeling overwhelmingly embarrassed at the time because I felt like a little kid writing in a journal, and I’m supposed to be an adult.
This was the only cure for getting everything I felt out of my brain. Not that I’ve come extremely far, but I truly did feel better the next day, and that embarrassment didn’t last forever. If anything, it just reminded my body how good it felt to cry.

I was also really frustrated at the time because I was having a lot of conversations about the dismissal of art and the lack of its purpose, when realistically, we consume art on a day-to-day basis. Fundamentally, I think it’s an undervalued skill or outlet that not enough people are taking advantage of. And, as written above, I felt the same way towards humanly expressing emotions.
(More on another piece, I’m sure)

What’s happened since then isn’t really a mental shift, but more a physical one, retraining my body to feel emotion around other people.
That’s been really scary. It hasn’t all been negative, in terms of crying or getting angry, but even things like romance feel just as terrifying to be perceived within.
I think proving to your body, through art, that it’s safe to feel something can be just as valuable as actually living through the moment itself.

So if you see me crying, being cringe, or actually telling you how I feel, you’re probably stuck with me for a while. Maybe even for life, if you’re lucky.