...But as my illness progressed, I soon was obsessed with embroidery floss and toothpicks... my worry dolls were the most detailed worry dolls the earth had ever seen.. and I made them by the dozens. Worry dolls of my favorite band (instruments and all), worry dolls of Disney characters... and worry dolls of every color, style, profession that my little 7 year old brain could possibly think of. I still stumble upon one here and there with a fair amount of regularity...
Phase after phase passed.. I found all sorts of new materials to get my fix... beads, pom-poms, and chenille stems... empty coffee cans, clothes pins, and colored paper... and then it happened.
The pen found me at 9 years old, with my first poem entitled: "The baby". It was about, what else, my new baby sister. I'm not sure if I have a copy anymore but I do remember it started with the lines: "The baby sleeps, The baby weeps, when the baby cries, she sees many peering eyes looking at her, just her"... A version of it, with a small drawing I had done won me a blue ribbon in a local fair children's contest, and gave me my first taste of recognition as an artist... even more than that, I realized that through my creations I could finally have my voice be heard... and in a family where I was but one of six children that was no small thing!
Anyways... from that point on a monster had been unleashed, and nothing could keep my pen from the page. As the years rolled by I continued to use my "gateway drugs", the pencil and pen, I also discovered in my early teens, the paintbrush and canvas... later I would fall in with a bad crowd and get hooked on the guitar and the song... but none of that compares to the addictions which now wake me at night, in a cold sweat... visions of trash and wool dancing about... Sometimes I wonder if I should seek help, but I am far too busy trying to pull every thought from within the deepest crevices of my mind... and to give them a solid form.
The needle marks from my felting needle are getting harder and harder to hide... and it scares me that someone might find my stash of plastic bags and cardboard and have me commited... but I hope that maybe with this blog, this psudeo-anononymous confession, and my growing number of Etsy shoppes (5 and counting) in time I may be ready to accept help.. after all, the first step is admitting you have a problem ;) ... and in the meantime, perhaps I will be able to find a few kind folks to take my creations off my hands, and thus ridding myself of the evidence... lest my loved ones catch on.
Please visit my etsy shoppes and take home the evidence!