From the moment I was born, my grandmother said the following words to my mother about me:
“Be careful with this one, this child will be tough as a rock.”
My grandmother was not wrong. I was a tough child – I am a tough child. It was not until later during my teenage years that I was diagnosed with the disorders that would completely shift my world. I spiralled down deeper into agony and self-destructive behaviours. My mental health consistently deteriorated, my disorders consuming every bit of me, and I felt insane.
In art, I found my escape. Through Edvard Munch, a mastermind who was able to decipher and express his troubles in art, I felt less alone. Unable to cope with my intense emotions, I have always been convinced that I am, in one way or another, insane.
And for the first time, through art, I felt somewhat sane.
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