The Healing Power of Art

Part 1: How Art Helped Me Find the Words

In 2018, when people looked at my life, it seemed exemplary. 

I had achieved the American ideal of female success - the supportive husband, a beautiful daughter, a home in a great neighborhood, a successful executive role and to round out the picture, a joyful dog, named Jake. 

Yet, despite this idealistic looking life, at three o’clock every morning, I would wake up with debilitating panic attacks. My chest would feel like it was holding a five-hundred-pound weight. My stomach would lurch like I was going to vomit. Sweat would pour down my back. The bodily symptoms of a panic attack were excruciating, but they were nothing compared to what happened in my mind.  

At the onset of a panic attack, destructive thoughts would rush in like a tsunami, bombarding my brain at a frightening pace. It didn’t matter what had happened the day before; my thoughts would replay every event and use it to convince me that I was the worst person to ever walk this earth. 

Simple things like a routine meeting the day before, would become snarling monsters of shame at night. Thoughts about each event would scream at me. "Why did you say that?” or “You messed up so big!” and “You are such a failure!” 

If it was the weekend and I had a coffee date with a friend, the frenzy of thoughts were even worse.  "You will never be good enough,” or “You are a disaster” and the favorite “Why would anyone want to be your friend?” 

Each night my mind replayed these thoughts as my body convulsed.  After twenty to thirty minutes of an episode, every symptom would slowly come to a halt, as if the tidal wave ran out of water. The profound levels of cortisol and stress hormones that pumped through my body during these times would linger.  I would feel hung over and sick for hours afterwards and routinely into the next day. 

Throughout this time of ceaseless panic attacks, my sleep became nonexistent.  I visited numerous specialists desperate for a solution.  We finally landed on a drug called Xyrem – a medicine that had to be shipped in speciali medical pacaging, and signed for.  It had a litany of side effects, but it could chemically induced me into RHEM sleep.    

I would take the medicine at bedtime and fall asleep immediately. Then four hours later it would wake me up in a fright as it wore off.  Then I would take the next round and fall back asleep for another four hours. If someone shook me awake during the middle of a dose, I could not move my legs. Sometimes I found it hard to talk. It was really scary. 

The daytime offered no relief.  Outside of morning walks during sunrise, anxiety and depression filled the majority of my day.  I tried desperately to put my emotions on a shelf. I went to work, brought my daughter to school and smiled through dates with my friends.  I hid what was happening from everyone.  Everyone except my husband. Rich saw every panic attack. Every low.  Every time I wondered out loud if life was really worth living. 

I was broken.   

I was brought me to my knees and I did not know the way through. 

One night, during a three o’clock panic attack, my husband gently rubbed my back and brought up talk therapy.   

“Maybe if you talk to someone about what is going on, you can figure out what is happening,” he said calmly.   

I had done talk therapy before in college. The hurdle of starting again felt unsurmountable.  It required hours of research to find the right person.  Did they specialize in what you were going through?  Would they be open to learning about who you are and not just wanting to push pills? Could they provide empathy? And after all the research and introductions, you then had to go out on what is comparable to a first date over-and-over again, telling your story to strangers, until you magically find the one person who is a right fit and then you pray they take your insurance. 

I didn’t know if I had it in me.  

One day, during an especially hard moment, my husband walked into my home-office and lovingly said he had been doing a bunch of research and introductions with therapists (I still look back at this moment and feel eternally grateful that the world blessed me with this man. Rich said he believed he had found someone I that would work for me. 

The next day, I met Natalie for the first time.  She was an expert in anxiety, depression, and unbeknownst to me, art therapy. We began to chat about what was going on. Very quickly I could tell she was exactly who I needed in that moment.  We planned to meet for an hour twice a week. 

Through our initial sessions, it was clear we had found someone that had the experience, empathy and was a great fit for me, yet I had no idea what to talk to her about. As I drove to my sessions, I would try to make mental notes of all the things I wanted to talk about.  Yet time and time again, nothing came.   

I showed up and talked about the most mundane aspects of my day.  What I did. Who I interacted with.  What bothered me. What things didn’t. It all still felt so hard. I never knew what to say.There was clearly something going on within me, but I had absolutely no idea what it was or how to articulate what was causing it. 

After a few sessions, Natalie suggested art. She recommended creating a space in my home just for creating art. She told me to go to the store and purchase art supplies that felt fun andwelcoming.  And then each day set a timer for ten minutes and create. It can be anything she said.  The focus was just to play. 

Like a daily practice, each night after I put our daughter down to bed and while Rich watched his favorite sports team loose, I sat in the corner by our fireplace and created. If I couldn’t figure out what to make, I doodled.  If I got stuck, I wrote.  If I was sad, I moved paint around a canvas. Whatever felt good to me in that moment, I did it. 

Over the next couple days, I noticed a change. I went to bed calm.  No anxious thoughts.  No depression.  Just calm.  

After a week of creating, for the first time in eight months, I didn’t wake up with a panic attack. 

I walked into Natalie’s office the next day with so much pride.  I had done it!  I stopped my panic attacks! While I am sure I looked like a football player that just won the Superbowl, Natalie did the hard and the right thing.  

She smiled and then said, “Let’s talk about what you created." 

I pulled out all the pieces and looked at them with bewilderment.   

“How do I do that?” I asked her.   

Natalie leaned in and began with questions about my art. Why did you choose this color?  Why did you use this image? What does this piece remind you of?  

This last question hit me hard.  I knew exactly what each piece reminded me of. My childhood. 

Suddenly, as if by magic, it all began to flow out. 

Memories of my childhood were woven into every piece.  One reflected the times I was told I was too sensitive. Another one was from all the screaming I experienced as a child.  

Each piece was a distinct memory from a time I was terrified, overwhelmed, bombarded, picked on or treated poorly by a female adult in my childhood.  The art was a moment or a feeling I had unconsciously chosen to forget.   

Natalie would listen and ask questions.  She would provide empathy and give me a space to share. She would help me work through my emotions. I felt heard and supported, but it all still felt very confusing.  I didn’t know what to make of all of it.   

Why was art suddenly making me feel better?  

After numerous months of therapy, Natalie dropped a bomb.  

In her most caring and empathic tone, she leaned in and almost in a whisper said, “Danica, I need to tell you something that will be hard to hear.  After numerous together, I think it is critical that you understand the total picture of what you have gone through.” 

“I believe you were emotionally abused as a child, and you still are.” 

Natalie continued, “You have created a beautiful life for yourself, and I think your body and your mind now feel safe enough to show you what you went through.  It is time to heal.” 

There it was.  In one moment, I had the answer I had been desperately searching for.  My anxiety, depression and panic attacks, were light houses alerting me something was wrong and my art was telling me what it was. 

Art had given me words and a path to heal.