Author: Faith

SUNDRIP – Art for Life is a site that expresses in every media possible an intimate look into the life of a person living with major trauma. The issues addressed in art and writing include Dissociative Identity Disorder, Post Traumatic Stress Disorder, Lupus and CRSD. Despite these issues, I intend to move forward, through and out with honor, grace and creativity.

Finally Together

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Mason Jacob Austin III aka Jake is the new fur baby.

He’s about 8 yrs old. He’s a terrier mix. Quiet, reserved, so far I mean. I’m happy he’s here. I’m happy he gets on my lap well as we return from the restroom.

The 333 rule is being applied to him and me. I have to get used to the change. Mostly friends are supportive. Doctors are supportive, especially Dr D.

Getting him to walk beside the wheelchair was simple. He’s smart as a whip. Getting through doors is a nightmare especially the turn. However, I remember when a different wheelchair user first got a dog. He went through the same trouble, publicly, trying to find a way to train the dog and not look like a person in a chair who’s in over their head and won’t work their way out. Like my neighbor and his dog , Jake and I will be ok.

I’m so prideful. Afraid of failing but sure I wont. I’m a newish wheelchair user with her first dog. My how the world keeps changing. I’m here for it!

Tails. Art. Tea. Happy.

African American Female Clown

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More than a clown is about a once voiceless woman, alone in the dark with her makeup. She was just a clown. She painted on faces until finally someone believed believed she’s more than a clown.

Then hope set in. Flowers began to grow, birds sing their morning songs and bumblebees bring in more life. Yes, change, all around her. There’s hope now that she herself believes she’s more than a clown.

Please see my Etsy shop for purchase details. www.Sundrip.etsy.com

Faith Magdalene Austin at Sundrip

More Than A Clown (details)

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A few more tiny details and the African American clown with red dreadlocks, who hosts birds in her hair will be complete. I’ll photograph her, seal her and add her to my Etsy shop.

The African girl clown is wearing white speckled overalls with shimmering maroon sleeves. Her hair is red dreadlocks with sporadic yellow, purple, blue and green dreadlocks. The younger August is painted white with the edges of her African American face still showing.

Her full lips are painted red. The nose is designed and painted red. Our little one looks straight ahead with big, brown eyes surrounded by blue clown eye shadow.

Striking are the large sunflowers the August child stands beside with her birds. A huge, white Gerber daisy and huge green leaves huge the clown and make her feel better.

Acrylic on canvas with 1 inch edge given. 18×14

Sundrip Art for Life on Etsy www.Sundrip.etsy.com

Faith

Or Me

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Bumbling and fumbling words rolling my tongue like a gutter ball on the side of this well worn lane. I am a fool now. Ignored. Unseen, laughed at when seen. I am a fool; not your fool.

Faith

We are Enough

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It came in the mail. I’m so happy to wear mine!

You are enough. The world is a better place with you in it.

Love, the person in front you.

I’ve gotten one person respond with a heartfelt thank you. I’ve gotten tears, a thanks from a boy who felt confident in his youth. One lady saw a way to make fast money, another said the world is a better place with me in it, too. Thank you for that!

I love this shirt.

Live Free. Create Well. Sundrip.

The Value of My Memories

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I struggle to get words to come forward that make sense to someone other than me. I struggle to verify memories. This is now a life of he said – she said. My brain almost doesn’t care as it has come so far down the stretch, towards the end.

When I was younger I wanted to drag people by the heels in public and force open confessions. I wanted everyone to know I. was. hurt. I wanted even more for someone to care about the hurt. Does my life matter?

What I remember the most is fear, abject fear. What I felt the most was cold but here we are half a century later in, “he said she said” and I ask myself why I ever said anything at all?

Hope. I was looking for hope. I remember.

It’s Just a Foot

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I owe you an apology. Please, wake up, I owe you an apology. I said it was just a foot and not worth dying over because I didn’t understand. Tears swell in my eyes. My lips begin to trimble as I stand before headstone after headstone. Wake up! every Granny, aunt, uncle with a leg, arm, hand or foot they let get too bad until it was too late and tell them I was wrong. It’s not just a foot is it? No. Not when it happens to you. Instantly you understand your humanity.

The wind hesitates. I pretend to breathe. I owe you an apology.

I didn’t know the brain would need to rewire. I didn’t know the fear you’d live in of another amputation, or of physical therapy.

“She’s your nurse” doesn’t contain the impact a stranger has of touching every inch of your body at all times, of dangling fingernails over all your belongings leaving nothing untouched, feeding garbage food you can barely taste because life itself is stale.

Sweetheart wake up. Wake up. I touch another headstone. I didn’t know it would be this hard.

For the living

I’m colder than I’ve ever been. I’ve felt more pain and fear in the last 7 years than the previous years of life. Only 2% of the time do I think to myself, I should have died. Most of the time I’m happy I made it but I’m in the crowd that has to say I was wrong to pass judgment on people who couldn’t see the amputation through. It’s not just a foot. I was young. I didn’t know what I was saying. Who am I to say who does or doesn’t have the strength to endure an amputation?

Faith Magdalene