Every day here in residential care is different. Some days are quiet, some days are restless, and some days surprise me. What stays constant is the slow return of my creative self — the part of me that notices things, documents things, and turns them into something meaningful. I’ve got a cold at the moment so my brain is on the go slow. It’s going to take me hours to go through my old art work.
I’ve been finding pieces of my old life again. Three years of visual diaries, full of sketches, notes, photographs, and moments I thought I’d lost. I even found the pinhole camera I built, and the surreal images it produced — soft, distorted, dreamlike. They remind me that I’ve always seen the world differently.
I’m gathering these things now. Scanning photos. Sorting through diary pages. Remembering installations I made, like the small room I covered in medication boxes — a strange, honest monument to survival. These works are part of my recovery, just as much as the routines and support around me.
I’m building a space for all of this. A gallery, a record, a place where my art and my recovery can sit side by side. I’m not rushing it. I’m letting it grow day by day, the same way I’m growing.
I’m an artist in recovery. And I’m finding my way back.