My name is John Friday. I have been around for a little over sixty-five years. Although I have pursued my creative side off and on over the years, it wasn’t until 2012, as a result of a friend sharing their art journal experience with me, that I discovered my own story to share through my artwork. The compositions of most of my current watercolor creations have been pretty dark. In addition, because of the size of the projects, they have been time consuming. I watched my friend share her art journaling experience with other mental health peers. The peers were loving it. I was intrigued by their enthusiasm for art journaling. I approached my friend, and she shared with me the basic concept and process of art journaling. I began exploring this avenue of self-expression online. Fact is, there are no rules. The path one takes with art journaling is as broad and unique as the individual using it.

Then, in November of 2014, I was having a particularly difficult time with my mental health struggles related to my time in the U.S. Air Force during the Vietnam Conflict/War. This was not a new experience for me. For a long time, Veteran’s Day has been a trigger for me, stirring up all sorts of memories, feelings of guilt, and regrets at not having done more. Usually, I stuff my feelings, get irritable, moody, and ride out the storm of my emotions. This time, however, I chose to reach out to two sources for help in managing my wellness. I met with my therapist, who was also a veteran. He guided me to see, for the first time, that I was doing a disservice to myself, to other veterans, and especially to the memory of the souls who had made the ultimate sacrifice. Like all those who serve in the military, past and present, I too took an oath to hand over my life to our country to be used as they see fit for the wellbeing of the people of our country.

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One trigger
Sensitive
Troubled mattered
Disagreement
Anger
Anxious
Past my bedtime
Ripped up diary entry
Ripped up drawing out of sketchbook
Threw myself in bed
Tears endlessly come out
Fell asleep

I have a diagnosis of bipolar type 1, depression and have a past of bulimia. I was diagnosed when I was in my twenties. I always knew something was wrong because I couldn’t control my emotions, and I was sad all the time. Art has been a coping skills to escape these diagnosis and to get away from the negative people in my life.

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My first experience with mental health occurred when I was in junior high school. My art teacher noted that the compositions of my artwork were dark. She had me transfer a pencil drawing into a painting using her oil paint supplies. I didn’t think anything about it. But, soon after, my mother took me to a psychiatrist in the local children’s hospital. I interpreted ink blots, and told stories about photographs I was shown. I was seated on stage in an amphitheater, and shared my artwork with an audience of adults in white coats. I didn’t see them again, and never questioned the purpose of the experience.

A few years later, when I was fourteen, I was placed in a boys’ home in a nearby town. My mother said that she couldn’t afford to feed me any longer. My childhood was marked with domestic violence, being driven out of our home with my mom and my younger brother by my father. Being placed in the boys’ home made me feel totally abandoned. My mom did visit me from time to time.  My grades had dropped. As a result, my mom arranged for me to be seen by a psychologist in his home. When my mom learned that I was sleeping on his couch, instead of being treated, she ended the sessions. There are occasions of sexual abuse and violations of my sexual boundaries at various points throughout my childhood and adolescence. But, I don’t want to get into that story here. I don’t doubt that it only served to compound the issues I was dealing with regarding the state of my mental health. 

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Art is supposed to represent what the first amendment stands for. That is what I was taught to believe years ago. Apparently, times continue to change for worse instead of better. Today, I would just like to take this time to share my experience with you all about art and why I feel so indifferent about it now. Before you start reading, I am not asking for any sympathy points. I am a man who has been told worse and continues to be critiqued for a very long time. To some people, they would quit and move on. But for me, it just drives me and makes this man hungry for more knowledge/understanding. Thank you for your time from your busy schedule and with all that is going on with COVID-19/many unfortunate events that happened in 2020, I hope you all have learned something from my story today. This following story has been built up since I was first introduced the word “Art.”

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The bickering warm light,
tempered by a cold grey irony…

Somewhere—
the art of children’s laughter
the art of airy coquetry
the art of a neighborhood at ease
And yet, here, a dire chapter.
How fair the trees in their late spring fashion
with their shade to quench the summer passion.

…that haunts about these stark white walls
Plagued with the black mould
of what is felt, but left, nonetheless, untold:
the dark ill nature of secrets all.

The idylls of a domicile
can be, so easily
Harshened by the pained recollection…
of a fractured tale.

Only a pensive mood as this
could ever reconcile and brood
all these vast differences.

The wings of thought recondite
clipped by sheer reality….

-Ansel Oommen