Missy K is an artist represented by Teresa Sarkar, Art Director, Dealer and Specialist. She uses art to talk about mental health and the stigma surrounding it.
"My life has been one minute up, one minute down with many a story to tell, some palatable, some not.
I always wanted to know what my role in this world was, what my purpose was, and over the years I realised I had to take the bad experiences and make them into something good.
Here is an example…
It was 2008 and I was living in Spain just after my middle daughter had been born. She was 3 months old and I was suffering from post natal depression, I was shockingly thin and exhausted. I was working two jobs and looking after four children (two of them step-children) and everything just got too much.
One evening I was on my own at home with my baby, I had been prescribed Diazapam like sweets and I would just keep taking them, they seemed to make me feel better, but then I suddenly just didn't want to be here anymore, I took too many and the world went black.
I don't know how long that was for - but the next thing is that someone broke in through the window and brought me round.
My daughter and I were put into an ambulance and taken to the nearest hospital. When we got there I was put on a drip and my baby was taken somewhere else, at first I could hear her crying but then nothing.
‘Where's my baby gone?’ I said.
‘We've taken her to the children's hospital at the other end of the city.'
I started panicking, my baby had been taken away, I needed to find her.
When the nurses weren't looking, I ripped the drip from my arm and ran out of the hospital. I knew vaguely where the other hospital was but it was at the other end of the city and I was on foot.
It took me approximately 5 hours to walk there, I was stumbling all over the place with all of the Diazapam in my system so it was not an easy walk.
When I got there I asked to see my baby and was told to wait in a side room, so I did and I waited and waited but no sign of my baby. Then I noticed there was a security guard standing behind me.
'Please can you tell me where my baby is?' I said. He ignored me. 'Please,’ I said standing up. That was when they grabbed me, something sharp went in my neck and then the world went black again.
I woke up in a hospital bed, my clothes had been removed and I was wearing a gown. I couldn't move my arms or my legs they were handcuffed to the bed. I screamed - everyone ignored me. What the hell was going on? I was told the police were outside waiting to arrest me … for what? They said I had given my baby Diazapam. I hadn't done that, I pleaded with the nurses to listen to me. They ignored me again; I was being treated like a criminal.
This time I screamed and I didn't stop, 'I want to see a psychiatrist!' over and over and over.. I knew there was something wrong with me but I didn't know what, it would be ten years until I got the correct diagnosis of Bipolar.
Well I've got to say my persistence paid off; the nurses couldn't stand the noise so I was sent to the top floor where the secure psychiatric unit was.
Finally they set me free. I was given a tour of the ward by the only English speaking person, a patient called Ariceli or Ara as she was called. She immediately called me Pocahontas as my long hair was in plaits and that was my name from then on.
When I arrived on the mixed ward the people were almost grey in complexion and shuffling around the small ward, seemingly over-medicated and definitely depressed. There were no activities to do except smoke at designated times in the small smoke filled room.
I visited each room to say hello and get to know the people who were actually lovely.
After the first day I was reassured my baby was safe and well and at home and I was allowed a visitor, finally I could breathe.
Then I got my friend to smuggle in my makeup and face creams and hair accessories.
I sneaked into each of the ladies’ rooms and gave each a makeover and put flowers in their hair;. I rubbed moisturiser on those who had marks on their wrists and ankles from the restraints. Oh - the difference in their demeanour!
Four of us linked arms and did the Monkees walk down the corridor with one nasty nurse (the rest were lovely) telling us we weren't allowed to wear makeup. ‘But it looks lovely and cheered the ladies up,’ I said and dutifully ignored him.
I asked for a pencil and paper to draw with and they smuggled some to me. This was all I needed!
I sat swiftly down at the table and started getting in the zone. Ten minutes later the pencil-smuggling nurse asked if the rest of the patients could join me in an 'art class' so we all sat round the table drawing each other, we ended up doing this every day.
I also discussed with Pencil Nurse the need for exercise there was literally nowhere to walk and no classes held. So good Pencil Nurse got the boom box out and we started copying his moves.
Oh my life! he was gyrating his hips like Elvis and doing the most ridiculous moves. We were all in hysterics.
The ward took on so much life in those eight days and I did a pencil portrait for each patient.
When I came to be assessed the lady asked me if I should still be there. I replied 'Yes, but as a nurse. I could make great changes.’ She laughed and said 'I agree,' and signed my release notes. 'Also I want to clear something up' she said, ‘We made a mistake.’
It turns out that they thought I had given my baby the tablets. That didn't happen. After conducting tests they realised she was clear and it was just me who had overdosed. I was free to go.
I believe the Spanish system has changed quite drastically over the years with more focus on mental health and aiding recovery in more suitable environments. I believe that hospital no longer exists.
I've been a singer, a Bluecoat (an entertainer) a bouncer and a website designer to mention a few jobs. I am also a very proud mother to three beautiful children who are my absolute world.
But it would be ten more years of ups and downs before I finally picked up the paintbrush again. I had always wanted to help others but first I needed to help myself.
In 2017 I became critically unwell again and it got to crisis point before I could get any help. After three and a half months in a UK psychiatric unit I was finally given the diagnosis of Bipolar. My medication was immediately changed and I made a full recovery in seven short weeks.
That's when I started painting for therapy and I haven't stopped. The joy, healing and peace it brings is immense.
So now I find myself in a much stronger position, my art is my healer and with it comes my voice.
Combining the two gives me a platform from which I can talk about mental health, the stigma surrounding it, be unashamedly me and encourage others to do the same.
If I had a purpose this was it, it helps me make sense of the world around me and allows me to make those negative experiences turn into something very positive. I am here now and for the rest of my days I will paint and not give up trying to help the people who need it most."
