My name is Suzanne Lea

My name is Suzanne Lea. I am a Southerner by choice, having lived most of my adult life below the Mason-Dixon line. My work has been influenced by the darker parts of Southern tradition--strict religious views, conservative politics, and a history of discrimination. My work has also been influenced by the beautifully unique parts of the South--bare feet stained red with river mud, the sweetest of sweet teas, and the slow, rhythmic heartbeat of life found only along the shiny buckle of the Bible Belt. I am a news junkie, a pop culture addict, and an artist. My goal as an artist is to create distinctive and compelling things from re-purposed material. I can think of no better place to start than with language, disentangled and rearranged, creating by choice, or by happenstance, something meaningful along the way. 

10 Things That Keep Me Up at Night

1. I’m starving. I’m hollow in the middle and I’ve spent my life trying to fill that place with things. Sex, religion, drugs, booze, chaos, company, and of course, food. Over and over, I pretend each new thing is actually new; each thing will be THE thing. I usually hurt myself.  I don’t stop until I’m in pain. Real, literal pain. Then, when I’m most in need of filling, I remember that the thing that’s not there is me. I’m not at the center of me. It makes me lonely.

2. I should have been a better everything. I should have been a more confident child so my baby sitter wouldn’t have abused me. I should have been a gentler parent so my step daughter wouldn’t be so broken. I should have been a more empathetic friend so I wouldn’t be so lonely. I should have been a faithful wife, for all the reasons you can imagine. I should have been a better something, everything, at about a million intersections along the way.

3. I don’t want to die. I don’t want to die too old and I don’t want to die too young. Still, I think about dying a great deal. Once you’ve opened that door, it never completely closes, again. I’ve planned my entire funeral, down to the music and location. (Although those things will probably change since the guest list is getting smaller as I get older.)

4. I hate my body. I feel like I’m wearing a fat-suit. I say I am body positive. I say size doesn’t matter. I love women who wear their skin like they paid full price for it. Still, every jiggle and bulge, every dimple and stretch mark, makes me furious and disgusted and ashamed. 126 lbs was no more representative of my self love that 226 is but I still hate this body.

5. I blame other people for my failings. It’s not my fault. It never is. I have crazy parents and my friends don’t understand. My lovers were either emotionally unavailable or smothered me. If only they’d tried harder to know me, everyone would have realized my worth.

6. No one has ever left me. I leave first. That sounds boastful but the truth is, every one of them would have left, eventually. I simply left first. As soon as the winds changed, I packed my shit and ran. I never gave anyone a chance to leave first.

7. I’m a great writer with a mediocre imagination and a remedial understanding of punctuation.

8. I grew fat to protect myself from my own bad decisions. I detest my utter lack of discipline and self-control.

9. I can’t be silent. Ever. I can’t tolerate my own voice. Sometimes I write my thoughts, but I never just sit with them. Television, books, and music drowned out the sound of my own inner dialog. I’m afraid of what might be lurking in there, waiting to bubble to the surface and break me.

10. I might not be mentally ill. I might just be a selfish, self-involved, and lazy person who wants to drug herself into submission.

The Little Brick Duplex

Sometimes, when I can't sleep, my brain decides it's the perfect time to lace up its walking shoes and take a stroll down memory lane. After all, isn't 2:00 a.m. the perfect time to relive that awkward moment from 7th grade? I find myself sorting through memories I didn't realize I'd held onto. As each memory bubbles to the surface, I let myself imagine what would have happened if things had turned out differently. For a while, I've been wondering how to tell this story; wondering if I should tell this story at all. It's one of those cringe-worthy stories that has been keeping me awake at night. In the end, I am telling it now because I think, maybe, it says something important about the power of shame and the importance of forgiveness. 

Not so long ago, I ran into an old friend at an upscale cigar bar. After playing catch up, I worked up the nerve to ask him about a long lost boyfriend. We talked briefly about him and about how we each knew him. I explained that we'd lived together for a few years; we had even been engaged.  As a point of reference, I said, “We lived together in the little brick duplex.” He was quiet for moment and then he smiled, “Ooooh, you're THAT Suzy?" His description landed like a gut punch.  Days later, I was still rolling his words around inside my head. A familiar shame had settled over me. I knew that he hadn't meant to be unkind but his casual description spoke volumes about my history. He was describing much of my life before I received a proper mental health diagnosis. 

Sadly, I understood exactly what he meant. The memories of that time came flooding back. I remember going days without sleep, being paranoid and confused. I also remember going weeks without being able to get out of bed, unable to shower or brush my teeth. I have a very odd but specific memory of crying inconsolably for a solid week after watching a documentary about snow monkeys; how something about the human-like appearance of their hands had made me feel sad and fragile. I remember so many crazy things I said and did; all the times I embarrassed him in front of his friends and family. I also remember waking up to find a tube down my throat, pumping my stomach after an overdose. I remember listening to the doctor explain that I'd be held for 72 hours in the psych ward of our local hospital. Over the doctor's shoulder, I can still remember my boyfriend's face: tired, sad, frustrated, and frightened. I'm sure he had experienced the onset of my illness quite differently than I had. Even though I will always remember those years as some of the most painful of my life, I had to admit to myself that "THAT Suzy" probably did sum up his memory of me.

For the first time, I allowed myself to really examine those years. I spent quite a few sleepless nights reliving, with red hot shame, so many things I'd said and done. Then, quite unexpectedly, I recalled a bit of advice someone gave me, a long time ago: treat yourself with the same kindness you'd treat someone else - someone you love. That's not as easy as it sounds. We are often our own worst critics. There are times when we can be very cruel to ourselves. Still, in the nights that followed, I tried to view my story from a distance. What if that girl wasn't me? How would I judge her actions? 

Late at night, I let her story unfold. I watched this troubled girl trying desperately to find her footing. I listened to her search for the language to describe what was happening to her. I began to realize that she wasn't just someone's crazy ex-girlfriend. She was a young woman who didn't understand what was happening to her. She needed help. It really was that simple.

It wouldn't be true to say that I don't still feel a bit uncomfortable when I think about some parts of my past. Some memories will always be painful to revisit. Even so, for the first time in my life, I finally have a lens through which I can view my past with compassion. I might always be THAT Suzy to some people, but that doesn't have to define me. For many, I will be THIS Suzy - a million miles from perfect but further along my path than before. I wish I could go back and tell that lost girl that things will get better. I wish I could tell the girl in the little brick duplex about all the good things that are going to happen to her. I guess maybe I owe my old friend a debt of gratitude. If not for his off-the-cuff remark about my time in that little brick duplex, I might never have been able to forgive that lost girl.

Cicadas and Coffee and Roses

My husband wakes up for work at 5:30am. I am sitting on the couch, watching the news. He already knows what my answer will be, but he asks anyway. “Have you slept at all?” I shrug. He knows I haven’t slept. He knows I haven’t slept in days. He is stoic, but I know if I look up from the television, I will see his expression. It will be a little sad. It will be a little frightened. I can’t stand the thought that I have done this to him. He sighs and walks away. I assume it is to gather his thoughts and begin again. He makes us each a cup of coffee, mine in my favorite heart shaped mug. He uses the fancy, flavored creamer. He knows exactly how I take my coffee on mornings like this. After so many years of mornings like this, he knows too many things. His kindness breaks my heart.

He sits across from me and mutes CNN. He begins to gently pour his words on me like round fat warm summer rain, each drop pregnant with the possibility of growth. I know he is praying that something he says will land on fertile ground. Grow something stronger and more resilient.

He says, “This is what it feels like to live an ordinary life.”

He says, “This is what it feels like to sleep in the dip in the mattress, worn soft in the middle after years of dreaming, belly to back.”

He says, “This is the way people drink their coffee.”

He says, “This is the way people grow old.”

I can barely hear him over the din of sounds inside my noisy head. This is the way mania affects me. It makes me feel like my head is bursting at the seams, cracking open like a cicada shell. Like a cicada who has slept for seventeen years and whose wings are finally free to rip open the dark. When I am like this, I want to start fires. I want to plant roses at midnight. I want to gamble away our savings. I want to wager on horses and new dresses. Impulsivity nips at my heels.

He says, “Take your pills, Honey, and try to remember what it feels like to sleep through the night.

He says, “Be still and this will pass.”

“I don’t know if I want it to pass this time.” I say quietly. It has been long enough since my last manic episode that I have almost forgotten the unspeakable pain and shame that follows. Almost forgotten, but not completely. I know with certainty that I have said these words before. Still, he listens patiently, nodding to indicate he is taking it all in. I know he will never understand just how dark the darkness can be, or the way it feels taking the first few steps into mania. It feels almost euphoric. Euphoric, until the madness sets in.

Sunrise, sunset. Sunrise, sunset. We go around like this for a few days, then I relent and call my psychiatrist. I pretend that I am angry, but really, I am so very relieved. My doctor is responsive. He listens to the calm way I say, “I’m not feeling well.” He listens but he also watches my knee shake, watches my hands flutter across my lap like little birds. He decides it is time to update my medication cocktail. Add a new mood stabilizer. We choose together, the one with the least possible side effects. I am ready. I crave sleep like a lost lover.

After so many years of doing this, I know that calm will find me. I understand that I will sleep and wake to a different view of the world. I understand that I have an illness and need medication. Still, there is a very fundamental part of me that harbors the shame of hurting the people that love me most. I am devastated at the idea that I have sent my husband off to work with the image of me - hair wild, eyes wilder, drinking coffee, glued to the worst news of the day. How do I reconcile my desire to be well with my willingness to slip back into the old patterns? Shame can be as bitter as any pill prescribed to heal. Shame, and the ugly things we tell ourselves to feed that shame. I will have to remember to talk with my therapist about this. I will have to write down what I am feeling and thinking today, so that when the memory of this fades, my treatment can still be effective. I have begun to keep notes for her, so that I can tell her each important event, before the medicine sooths the hurts and I forget again, about the cicada and the coffee and the roses.