Why Artists Have Vices

Let me define my use of the term “artist” for you. An artist is anyone who works in any type of art medium. That is, your standard “artist”, such as a painter, but also writers, photographers, directors, musicians, actors, chefs, etc. I consider myself an artist, and the majority of my friends and family are as well. We have a bad rep in general, so let me break this down for you in order for you to better “understand” us.

Everyone knows the stereotypes of artists: whiny, usually young(ish), hipster-types, who claim that they’re misunderstood and just want everyone to love them. This is wrong. Okay, well, mostly wrong. Yes, we artists do whine, yes a lot of us are young and we do want people to love us, but not for the reasons most people think.

There is another common stereotype with artists that we have vices, that we’re alcoholics or druggies and the like. This, unfortunately, is often true, but for a very important reason. A lot of people who are the creative artsy types have all kinds of vices to “help” them along in life. They are on medication (prescribed or not), they do drugs (legal and illegal), they suffer from many, many psychological and mental illnesses including but not limited to depression, insomnia, ADD, ADHD, OCD, paranoia, schizophrenia, psychosis, etc.

Why are we this way? It’s simple and complicated at the same time. Our brains will. Not. Stop. Working. Even when we’re asleep (or trying to sleep in some cases). We are constantly thinking of new songs, poems, drawings, stories, camera angles, characters we need to become, or recipes to create. We cannot stop thinking about the best way to do whatever our chosen craft is and we must continue perfecting it until our dying day.

I, personally, procrastinate and sometimes never finish projects because I have an immense fear of failure. And I know that I am not the only one who feels this way. But, regardless of this fear, and because my brain will never stop thinking about creative ideas, I cannot be stifled. Artists must never be stifled. Why? Because, then we fall into the depression, or the alcohol, or we become over-caffeinated. If we don’t have an outlet, we cannot survive.

Sometimes as artists, we need to stifle this creativity when there is too much coming at us at once. Sometimes we are begging on our knees for just a word, a whisper, to help kick-start something new so that we can have that outlet. This does not excuse any actions, or addictions, but it explains them to the people who are not artists.

In most schools, we are taught to think “A” then “B” then “C.” But our artist brains are already on “Q” before you’ve gotten to “D”, and we are plotting and planning on how we can tie that back to “J” in a way that makes sense to other people besides ourselves. There is nothing “wrong” with this way of thinking. There is nothing “wrong” with artists. It is far more than being “misunderstood.” A non-creative person, a non-artist, will never get it. No explanation will ever be sufficient.

For example, when you’re a parent, you can try to explain to someone that moment when you heard your child’s first cry, the tears welling up in your eyes and the goosebumps appearing on your skin as you remember it vividly. But every non-parent will never get it, no matter how detailed or emotional an explanation you give them.

Do not expect an artist to fit into your cute little box of normality. Because our boxes are covered in every color and pattern you can possibly imagine. Our boxes are bigger on the inside. Our boxes are all kinds of different shapes and sizes. Our boxes are filled with countless images and ideas that would make your head explode. Our boxes cover multiple levels and so many dimensions that you can’t even think of. We are not, and never will be, “normal.”

So, the next time you talk to or hang out with an artist, thank them for their work, encourage them, offer constructive criticism if asked. We bleed for our work and it is never, ever good enough for us. We are more often than not way too hard on ourselves and we fear that we will get lost in our work and forget reality. Sadly, our work is sometimes better than our reality, which is why so many artists are depressed or addicted to something. If an artist shows you their work, remember that it is something they are proud of. It is something they have spent many a sleepless night working on, something that they have sometimes literally bled for, and if they want you to see it, to experience it, that is a big freaking deal.

Do not take it lightly.

If an artist asks for an opinion or a review, give it. Honestly. Don’t just tell them “Oh, that’s good.” Tell them why you liked it. Tell them what, specifically you loved and didn’t love about it. How did it make you feel? Did it leave a good or a bad taste in your mouth? What made you cringe? What made you laugh? What made you cry? What could they change to make it that much better? Or do you honestly believe that it is great as it is? Tell them.

Hopefully, this gives at least some insight into the inner workings of artists everywhere and can help you to better understand us “poor unfortunate souls.” Celebrate the differences, don’t ostracize because you don’t think the same. Yes, we are weird. Yes, we will complain. Yes, we will be neurotic and depressed and psychotic. Get over it.

And, here’s a bit for my fellow artists:

StandUp by The Cab

Being Pregnant Saved My Life

It sounds extreme, really, but it’s kind of the truth.

Anyone who knows me knows that I don’t complain about much, I like to keep my personal stuff to myself, I don’t like to be a burden on anyone. That said, pretty much everyone I’m close to comes to me for advice, to complain about their crap, for a shoulder to cry on, etc. I don’t know why everyone thinks I can fix everything, but they do, and I don’t mind being a needed presence or to give advice when necessary.

Along with that, I am also not one to go to the doctor. I’m not anti-doctor by any means, I’m just rarely sick and I don’t feel it’s necessary to go often. So, rewind to last May/June(ish), I’m about four months pregnant and at my OB for the usual preggo stuff. Up to this point, we know my thyroid is out of whack and I’d already started medication to try and level it out so that everything is good for the cooking munchkin. Doc says that there seems to me a nodule on my thyroid and that I should get an ultrasound and see a specialist. I do both. Specialist says, yeah, there’s a nodule, but don’t worry about it til after the baby is born.

Fast-forward to December, two months post-baby, I go in again to see the specialist, he recommends a biopsy of aforementioned nodule to see what it’s made of, make sure it’s not anything bad. I do the biopsy, it comes back suspicious. Yes, that kind of suspicious. The all caps, very serious, incredibly scary six letter “C” word.

It’s okay, you can mull it over in your head, whatever you need to do before continuing to read this.

I, personally, wasn’t really thinking at all at this point. It didn’t hit me, really, that this could be happening to me, but I quickly sucked it up and scheduled a surgery to remove the half of my thyroid that had this “suspicious” nodule on it. I wasn’t nervous, or worried, or upset, or really anything. I had come to a place mentally where it was something that needed to happen, regardless of my feelings, and I didn’t think that much of it. It’s February, the surgery goes as planned, I go back to work the next day, no big deal.

Waiting for the “but, then”? Yeah...

But then, the doc calls me with the results of the nodule they had removed. It came back positive for cancerous cells.

Yes, this happened. Why didn’t you know about it? Remember what I said at the beginning, about not wanting to burden other people? Yeah, that’s why. I didn’t want sympathy, sad looks, people constantly asking me if I’m okay. I don't like people thinking that I have problems, even if/when I do have said problems. Even though I knew that it was serious, that this was a life-changing thing happening to me, I didn’t want to talk about it to other people because most reactions to cancer are not ones I wanted to deal with. I'm not broken and I don't want people treating me like I am.

When my doc called me and told me that it was cancerous, I’m pretty sure I went through all the stages of grief in a matter of a few hours. I was shocked, really upset, scared, mad, beyond mad. I was pissed off. Here I was, twenty-five years old with cancer on my thyroid. Up until this point, I had resigned myself to the fact that I’d have to live with half a thyroid. I could work with that, take meds, change diet and lifestyle, I’d be okay. But now, I was hit with the sudden, chilling realization that I was only a quarter of the way through my life and would have no thyroid at all. And once it’s gone, you can’t put it back.

Anyone who really knows me knows I don’t get actually mad very easily. Sure, I’ll be snippy or cranky, but actually really pissed off takes me a heck of a long time to get to. After the phone call with my doc telling me that I had to have another surgery because there was CANCER in my body, I was so pissed off like I’d never been before. It wasn’t fair! Why was this happening to me? Why couldn’t I have a normal thyroid, a normal body, a normal life like so many other people? I cried in anger, which turned to sadness, and then I realized that I had to make a decision.

I made the conscious choice to not let this thing get the better of me. So, yeah, maybe I didn’t/don’t appear to be taking this whole situation as seriously as others do, but that’s because, if I dwell on it, it brings me down and screws with my life even more than it already has. And I wasn’t going to let that happen. When I say I went through all the stages of grief in a matter of hours, I’m not kidding you. Within probably about four or five hours after getting off the phone with my doc, I had cried my tears and my mind was made up.

This was reality (albeit a harsh one at best) and I had to face it head on. I had a newborn, a husband, family, friends, a LIFE to live and if I had to cut out my thyroid in order to maintain all of that goodness, then dang it, that’s what needed to be done. The cancer wouldn’t just go away. No amount of tears or anger or “it’s not fair” would make the situation change. So, I sucked it up, scheduled another surgery and dealt with it. I took Life’s lemons, grabbed some tequila and salt and a little ice and made some margaritas!

Remember how I mentioned at the beginning that my pregnancy saved my life? I’m not joking. If I hadn’t been pregnant, I wouldn’t have been at a doctor office, wouldn’t have known about the nodule on my thyroid and wouldn’t have gone through the whole ultrasound/biopsy process and wouldn’t have known about the cancer. Who knows how long it might have been before (or even IF) I ever would have found out about it. Also, we don’t know how long it was there. They say thyroid cancer is the “best” to have. Not that any are good, of course, but on a scale of which ones are the deadliest, thyroid is way on the bottom of that list. It takes a long time to grow, a long time to cause any problems and rarely actually harms anyone.

As of now, I have another scar to add to my collection, but I know that my body is clear of this mess. Yes, I have no thyroid now. Yes, I have a scar on the front of my neck that everyone and their brother stares at. Every. Single. Day. Do I care? Not really. I know my body is healthier now. I have a better appreciation for the specialist doc that I have. I had a huge, scary problem and I took care of it. I consider myself incredibly lucky to have had the outcome that I did with this. I would never want to minimize anyone else’s experience with cancer. I am fully aware of how truly blessed I am to be where I am and to have the clean bill of health that I do. Mine is a good experience, all things considered. Now, I am moving on.

Things can only get better from here.