So, tomorrow I have another appointment with my psychiatrist.
Since our first appointment back in September, she has been asking me to “Write a Story”.
The appointment always goes like this ever since: I come in, she asks me how I’ve been feeling, I always say “okay”, taking it as a formality.
Then she asks me if Sertraline has been giving me any problems at all, I say it hasn’t, except for the occasional trembling of my hands. Nothing big anyways.
Then, Silence. Then some staring.
She lowers her gaze and writes something on the chart. Probably something standard, just to record there has been an appointment at all.
Then she asks me if I’ve done “my homework”.
I say I don’t know what to write about. I ask her about the purpose of the story, since everytime I try to write something I stop because my mind starts wandering about what could she possibly get out of it, and how could I transmit something through the things that I write.
She says I only have to “Write a Story”.
I say I feel unable to just write “Once upon a time, there was a little pig, and it fell on the mud.”
I feel a lot of pressure. I feel there are so many things I want to express.
I wish I were an artist. To me, an artist is that person who has the ability to turn all the floating data on their minds that makes no sense, and give it shape, even if nobody understands but you. But it’s also much better if the shape you made of your feelings and thoughs makes everyone SEE what you’re feeling and thinking.
Whether it’s through a drawing, a song, a book, a photo, or any other media, it doesn’t matter.
For example, people who just make pretty paintings are not artists to me. They are decorators. I am a good decorator. I can use charcoal pencils, acrylic paints, oil paints, and even photoshop to create some things that look awesome.
I usually destroy them.
They are disconected to anything I’m feeling. I’m not an artist.
It’s a great frustration. It’s not the technique; anyone can learn a technique if they take the time to do so.
It’s not the language. This part it’s a little weird in my case. Although it’s my mother tongue, it is much harder for me to write in Spanish than it is in English. I’m not sure why this happens. I might know more about Spanish, and I’m probably better at it. But English, good or bad, it’s the language of my mind, and it has been for a while.It’s something else…
I need a thoughts translator.