From living through the Covid-19 pandemic, dealing with a chronic illness, recovering from addiction, and trying to stay [somewhat] sane, Disjointed is a show about being “out of order” in more ways than one.
Covid sprung a new reality upon us; we fled further into the recesses of the safe and warm digital existence. The internet, a fresh spring of chaos and confusion, brought together silly videos and violent propaganda – splayed out on the same screen and only a few clicks away.
This experience in Hong Kong with a deep-rooted mistrust of the government; and the streams of ill-informed “facts” coming from both sides; created a cacophony of digital diarrhea spread over Facebook, Telegram, Whatsapp, and WeChat.
Digital Fracture represents the psychological cracks behind each person’s face – the results of the constant bombardment of social media, bipartisan propaganda, false narratives from influencers, and the modern-day insanity of the information age.
Frantic, fumbling, and all over the fucking place. Noises bound and bounce as the intoxicating rush of light pollution sears my cornea. Imagine the amplification of all things visual to the nth degree, brightness, and intensity that leaves a physical pain lingering way past the initial exposure to the stimulus.
A sensory sensitive, surrounded by the buzz and blistering boldness that creates Hong Kong; the sounds, smells, sights, and serious assholes abound.
The Asperger’s brain supposedly visually processes 10x more than that of its neurotypical counterpart. My autism makes sensory stimulation intense. I experience meltdowns, overloads, and skull-cracking headaches.
Small triggers multiply to create a melting pot of sensory stress, a disjointed and somehow unconnected rattle of external jolts that can induce a mental meltdown.
This piece is a visual representation of what I cannot put down in words.
“China dolls are to be admired but not much handled, appreciated but not loved because they are too fragile to hold.”
In 2020 I was clinically diagnosed with Ehlers Danlos Syndrome. After years of heavy bleeding and bruising, skin fragility, and a series of painful dislocations – the missing piece of the medical puzzle was discovered, hiding underneath the metaphorical dusty old carpet of uninformed medical professionals.
Ehlers Danlos Syndrome is a rare congenital condition that affects connective tissue. Connective tissues support the skin, tendons, ligaments, blood vessels, internal organs, and bones. People with EDS have fragile stretchy skin and hypermobile joints that can dislocate easily.
While I felt slighted by the multitudes of doctors I’d seen over the years, it shook me to read online the stories of others with the same condition. Many people were not diagnosed until much later on in life, despite dealing with a whirlwind of supposedly unconnected symptoms and crippling chronic pain.
I’ve spent the past year in an up and down recovery from an EDS flare-up. Both of my shoulders, both of my kneecaps, my left elbow, my right shoulder blade, the metacarpal bone in my left hand, my SI joint, and my hips have all partially dislocated in the past year. I’ve also had medical care due to scoliosis and kyphosis, digestive issues, and most recently my first ever hernia.
This triptych visually explores three different experiences of pain connected to EDS.
EDS is exhausting, physically limiting, and a mental minefield – feeling so fragile and uncertain that anything could make your body falter. How much more disjointed can you be when you live with joint instability?
How many times during the pandemic did you scream out loud and curse the apocalyptic reality of 2020? Discuss.
With a blur of freelancing worries, existential dread, and an unprecedented flurry of social media idiocy – sometimes you can’t help visualize your state of being as falling out of a confused torrent of doodles into the void. So yeah, fuck.
She gazes over the great haze waiting for a future that will never come and a promise that wasn’t honored. As the pollution gathers, the dawn captures the calm brevity before the ominous giant prepares to tie the jackboot laces in preparation to stamp down the once vibrant city.
As the ghost town replaces its own words with its overlords’ publications, the waves of hopefuls chant in the streets for freedom. The few millions are left to gamble on the humanity of that which is not.
She sighs as the Island of Victoria, once ridden with colonial scum, sinks into the bay with the rest of the lot. There is nothing heard or seen, together with but not together, one country but two countries. The system breaks and ceases to exist.
“Coming full circle means that we survived our lives and framed it. But what’s truly remarkable is that with the gift of hindsight, we now know what’s really important to us.”
I spent too much money. I took a trip far away from reality. I can’t stop getting fucked up. These are the things I couldn’t control. Putting action into ink, these three circles represent the demons that stay only a few steps behind me at all times. A journey of disjointed twists and turns unify together to come full circle.
Money Honey: A reckless overspending and month-to-month existence – hand to mouth and financial irresponsibility that flitted thousands up my nose or into the ether.
Schizophrenia: A run-in with many psychotic episodes, depression turning into a state of disillusioned consciousness coated with malignant mirages that step closer into the frame. My mother and grandmother were both severe cases of schizophrenia. It’s been three long years since my last psychotic institutionalization.
1000 is Never Enough: Codeine, Tramadol, Ephedrine, Morphine, Di-hydrocodeine, Cocaine, MDMA, Speed, Mephedrone, Ketamine, a mix of Amphetamines topped off with enough Dilaudid to rattle that unresponsive nod straight into the ER. Anyone who makes music glamorizing drug use should have to include an obligatory verse about pooping out your insides as you come down from that haze or snorting a line of piss-stained cocaine from the club toilet floor. I’ve not drunk or taken drugs since 12th May 2018; thanks god.
Who lives on the moon? Whose faces emboss the lunar surface? What thoughts did they wonder? Did they wake in the moments when Armstrong and Aldrin leaped from the eagle into their cold baron satellite? Did they shudder at a touch of a metal pole christened in the name of freedom and liberty?
Could it be that we project our madness to the moon, while it simply exists? All the unconnected thoughts and more that made men into lunatics.
Didn’t you hear me? Just have a drink!
I don’t drink. I’m in recovery.
What? Not even one? Come on! There isn’t anything wrong with having one drink!
To pause for a second and not project my insecurities onto the well-meaning stranger standing before me, I watch as her image warps in the wine glass. From the recesses of my mind’s eye, a question mark flickers across from a visualization into a vivid reality. I stand silently, my eyes transfixed to a spot on the wall. I can hear every Friday night conversation fluttering away in the background, clinks of glasses, the sound of water rushing from the sink behind the door, and the natter of the staff washing dishes behind the pass.
Trying to find a considered, logical non-threatening response to the push-back of “what’s wrong with having one drink?” was a game-changer. I’d agreed to not start on it or say something snarky that would make another person feel off. Then again, I’m awkward, and I’ve spent several long silent seconds pulling faces at a wall in trying to craft the perfect response that would make me seem somehow charming yet firm.
In a vain attempt of exerting myself as the executive producer in a film called reality, I come up with the line:
“I’m on antibiotics. If I drink, my heart will burst into flames!”
We stand in awkward silence again. I begin to correct myself.
“Ok, so that was a lie, but I just never drink alcohol.”
I hope this conversation dies down, or that the floor would drag me down and save me from the embarrassment I’ve engineered for myself.
She smiles, “Oh! I’m sorry! I thought you said you wouldn’t drink, not that you don’t drink. Let me get you a soda.”
Huh. Maybe it’s not that much of a big deal after all, though we must never talk about this experience again.
A hand reaches to grab, yet it is just a compliment, not a violation of consent. Forgetting the boundaries of self, people impose their physical touch and declare their need for YOU to be ok with them.
There’s nothing more frantic than the unwanted grasps of some stranger, whether at a bar or another social event – I never consent to someone that I’ve said two sentences to, to touch me.
I spent a good few years doing drag. The number of women who would full-on grope me (and other drag performers) was vile. It’s not often talked about, women harassing people – yet it’s not an unusual occurrence.
What disjointed thinking, to think that everybody is craving your touch.
I’d never felt so trapped in all my life. With the help of a handful of pills, my reality melted away, enveloping my body in a warm golden glow.
Stretched out, emaciated, barely conscious, and bordering on psychosis, the empty pill packets littered the floor. I withered away into an 85lbs collection of drugs, bones, and bliss.
Have you ever taken something that didn’t just soothe you; but made everything feel like bliss? Sinking further into a hopeless depression, I was unaware of what washed up end awaited me if I followed this path further.
To someone who has never engaged in opioid abuse, I can’t tell you what it feels like, but my mind was never as warped and disjointed as it was for those long London days, wasting away on the floor of somewhere I can no longer remember.
I’m grateful to not experience my previous life today and to be filled with a genuine warm golden glow, being present.
