A Collection of Dramatic (Manic-Depressive) Moments




(HYPO)MANIC EPISODES

  1. Hypomanic, again?
  2. A Dramatically (Hypo)manic March

Depressive episodes
  1. Love Yourself First Before Loving Others
  2. Another Dramatic Depressive Episode
  3. A Dramatically Depressive February

the states iN between
  1. I am a Stranger to Planet Earth
  2. Slowly But Surely Introducing My Dramatic Mind

ABOUT NABILA  AYU AVIANI

I paint and write because I have no sense of self. In my head, it is messy–unfiltered and obsessive, yet at the same time, alive. Safe to say that I am a complex individual and having a lack of shame, I am not afraid to admit it. Born in Indonesia, raised in the UAE and now living in The Hague, I exist between places, between languages, between space-personal yet universal, playful yet painful. 

Despite being diagnosed with bipolar disorder, I refuse to label myself as bipolar and instead, give this ‘thing’ a space to rest in my heart. Struggling with a chemical imbalance in my brain made me drawn to humanity’s imperfections, such as the raw and absurd moments we rarely articulate. 

This site is my visual diary entries, they are 
reflections of love, loss, nostalgia and closure.

PORTFOLIO

I am a stranger to planet Earth

I am alienated from other human beings because I am an alien trapped in a human body.


I have always viewed human connection as bizarre. A question I tend to ask myself since I was a child is how do humans connect with one another?

Now I think about my behaviour in my childhood and teenage years, I was the weird kid growing up who didn’t know how to fit in. Therefore, I had to learn how to fit in — how to be a ‘normal’ functioning human. At least, it was more so how to seem like a ‘normal’ functioning human. Growing up was rough and tough because I was constantly anxious on how to fit in with other human beings.

Be normal, act normal, don’t be weird, don’t act weird, no one will like you if you act weird.

How to be a human? How to be a normally functioning human being? How to act like a normal functioning human being?

I never had a best friend until I was a teenager, as making friends for me as a kid was a difficult task; I’d rather bury myself in art and my books. I liked interacting with other humans, I had friends, but I always felt awkward when interacting with other humans. Constantly feeling like I was weird and awkward, as a kid, I would spend hours studying how other humans interacted with one another, what the norm on how to behave, what the right things to say to other humans and what was right and what was wrong. From this, I would put what I have learned into practice and ‘masked’ my words and behaviour to fit in with other human beings within society.

My fixation and obsession when I was a kid was on aliens, which has carried on to my adult years. Perhaps one reason why I was obsessed with aliens and the possibility of aliens existing is because I felt, I feel, like an alien myself. I have a slight belief that I am an alien trapped in a human body. Think about it, I had to force myself to learn how to socialise with other human beings. I am a fake. Perhaps this is why I do not feel at home anywhere I go, that every place is a strange place.

I am alienated from other human beings because I am an alien trapped in a human body.

I am a stranger to planet Earth.

This life was not meant for me. Take me home where I belong.

Slowly But Surely Introducing My Dramatic Mind

Perhaps I am a pessimist, a nihilist, yet the truth is, the reality is pessimistic and nihilistic on its own.




To say the least, “complex” is the simplest word to describe my fruitful yet painful life.

Writing an autobiography is rather odd and pretentious and I promised myself never to do such a thing, yet here I am writing a rather odd and pretentious autobiography, after an emotional therapy session listing down my lifeline such as the events that happened in my life that significantly impacted my personality and who I am today. For certain, exploring the depths of my mind for lost memories and reconnecting with them is painful. However, I question if it is normal to look back upon your life and feel nothing but treacherous pain. Yet, who am I to write an autobiography? To put it simply, I am a mere twenty-four-year-old broke artist whose financial worth is minus six Euros – the literal amount in my bank account as I am writing this. I am nothing, a speck of dust in this vast universe. Perhaps I am a pessimist, a nihilist, yet the truth is, the reality is pessimistic and nihilistic on its own.