"PTSD: When Art Becomes the Only Way to Breathe"

On trauma, art, survival – and a truth that doesn’t ask for permission

There are times when pain rises like stormy waves, and you stand emotionally bare before yourself with nowhere to hide.
During a recent PTSD episode, when I had no words - I painted.

The black paper became the only place that could contain me.
The colors - the only way I could breathe.

Three paintings were born. With trembling hands and a broken heart – but with truth.
Truth that didn’t ask for approval.
This wasn’t art made for aesthetics. I wasn’t seeking applause.
I painted to survive. 

The paper held me when no one else could.
These aren't artworks in the traditional sense – they are testimony.
This is what PTSD looks like when it burns from the inside:
Screaming colors. Shattered figures. Lines that don’t ask for order – only for survival.

I called this series what it is: PTSD  because there was no room for anything else. 

Today, when I look at these paintings, they still twist my stomach - but they also fill me with strength.  I see beauty in them – not the kind that comes from perfection, but from truth.
Raw truth. Honest truth.
And truth, it turns out, can be beautiful even when it hurts.
Especially when it hurts.

It’s not always easy to look at, but it’s always real.
And realness, somehow, is always inspiring.

A few days later, in a place of relative calm, I painted again.
The same figure appeared – but this time on a pink background.
The lines were familiar. The face too.
But something had shifted.

The colors softened. The lines became gentler.
Suddenly, I saw her differently – almost mythological.
She became a bridge between what hurt – and what could heal.

You can view the paintings in the Emotional Reflections collection on my website.

Today I know this, clearly and painfully:
Art is not just a form of self-expression for me – it’s my survival.

I didn’t realize how deep the connection is between creation and the soul –
until I went two months without painting.
Until I choked.
Until I realized I had lost my breath.

In my previous blog post, "How Heartbreak Led Me Back to My Art: The Power of Pain and Creation", I shared how every time I create, I reclaim my ability to breathe.

My studio is my safe space.
My paintings – they are the portal that reconnects me to life.
And if there’s still hope in me, still space to give to the world – it’s because I still have a blank canvas waiting to be painted.

On PTSD, Survival, and the Kind of Art That Screams Truth

These paintings weren’t created to be admired.
They were created to prevent me from disappearing.

I’ve lived with complex PTSD for years.
Sometimes, the only thing that bypasses the mind and reaches the truth inside me is art.
I don’t know if it’s healing or escape - but it calms me.
Sometimes I cry while I paint - but my brain is quiet.
And my soul breathes.

Since I released this series, the responses have been overwhelming.
Not criticism. Not analysis.
But empathy.
Warmth.
And love.

So to everyone who wrote me, commented, messaged, or simply paused in silence before these paintings - thank you.
You are part of my process. Part of my art.
Part of my healing.

And to anyone living with PTSD:
I see you.
Sometimes, just making it through the day - is a masterpiece in itself. 

And if you’ve made it all the way here – thank you.

Writing this wasn’t easy, and neither was painting what I painted.
But if something in my story touched something in you,
then this post served its purpose.

If you’re an artist, a creator, a survivor, or just someone navigating life with scars –
know that you're not alone.

I’d love to hear from you in the comments –
whether it’s a thought, a memory, a reflection, or just a heart emoji.
This blog isn’t just mine – it’s a place for all of us to meet in truth.

Thank you for being here.
Truly.

 Liya Ella Raspberry