DISCOVER THE CREATIONS OF MCALLISTER
About Me
I’m McAllister. I have an undergraduate degree in psychology, a doctorate in psychology, and more recently, I earned an MFA in writing. I am also an artist and I have lived experience as a person in the mental health system. I convey my complex story through my drawing and writing. I use this hybrid medium to enable the reader to see my experiences through my unique lens. This website features my artwork, writing, as well as writing fragments from my memoir, and reflections, offering entry points into the themes that shape my work. The sample artwork with accompanying memoir excerpts can be found below.
“Companions” (2025) oil pastel on paper
Memoir Excerpt
“There was a flash of lightening followed by a loud crack of thunder. I was lulled to into a trance by the noise. I was transported back to my sister Elizabeth’s bedroom. I was 9 and she was 12. My mom had just kissed us goodnight and Elizabeth had allowed me to climb in bed with her as long as I didn’t wet the bed. I wet the bed almost every night until I was 13.
A flash lit up her bedroom, followed by thunder.
Elizabeth said, “Let’s see if it’s getting closer.”
We counted out loud together. “One Mississippi, two Mississippi, three Mississippi, four…” Then we both shrieked with the clap of thunder.
“Ok. Let’s see if it gets less than four, or goes up. If it goes down, the storm is getting closer,” Elizabeth said. Her blue eyes shone in the dark.
With each flash, we started counting. The excitement and dread built as the time between flash and thunder shrank.
Finally, the flash happened with the thunder. The house shook and we hugged each other shrieking, terrified and exhilarated.
I always loved thunderstorms. I never imagined the real dangers of the storms like possible fire, flooding, or wind damage. The anticipation of the storm was a rush. Fear combined with a thrill.
Over time, the storm died down and I grew sleepy, trying to hear the distant thunder. Counting as long as I could. My mind drifted away from the excitement of the storm and I fell into a deep sleep.”
Throughout the time I was in hospitals, I was pretty much separated from my family and all the people I had ever known. Memories, idealized people, and even fantasies of connections sustained me. These relationships could be real such as that between my sister and me, or they could be aspects of myself. I held onto whatever I could and when I couldn’t hang on to the outside world, I had a rich inner world which housed both good and bad fantasies of being a part of something bigger. My inner world was full of thoughts and feelings which came alive in a way that kept me absorbed and disconnected from my surroundings. This inner absorption protected me.
“Distorted Self” (2024) charcoal on paper, 9” x 12”
My old identity was “slipping away” and I had no idea who I was anymore. I had nothing to hold on to, no way to understand who I was or what was happening to me. I had somehow gotten so far off-course and I believed it was my fault. But I could not see anything in myself that had power, and I did not believe that I could change the course I was on. I could not see myself clearly. I did not see what was going wrong internally nor did I see what strengths I had to get myself out of horrible situations.
Memoir Excerpts
“I was confused and looked around the room and noticed there were no cabinets, shelves or places to put belongings. Just beds crammed into the space with narrow passages between them. On some of the beds, most of which had been made in a slipshod manner, were random items such as holey sneakers, articles of crumpled clothing, cheap lipstick, and food wrappers. The floor shifted and my knees weakened as a deep sadness and frustration came over me. I didn’t want to part with my possessions. I had my Benneton and white Hard Rock Café- Stockholm sweatshirts, Gap jeans, Esprit tops, and Doc Martens in there. Sure, the clothes were stained and frayed, and the Doc Martens were beat up, but they were ties to my upper middle-class existence which was slipping away faster than I could have ever imagined possible.”
***
“That guy has been here 2 years,” he said as he pointed to a short old man with a scraggly beard and blue jeans layered in ash. He was wearing at least 3 shirts and a jacket. I could not imagine wearing all those clothes in this scorching heat. I wondered why he didn’t look hot. My heart sank as I imagined myself looking like him if I had to stay that long. He was muttering to himself and flicking his cigarette furiously. I wondered if there would be anything left for him to smoke. I couldn’t imagine him wandering about, free in the world. He looked like he belonged there. He was the person I imagined when I thought of state hospitals. Not me. I was not like him, was I?”
“Shielding” (2025) colored pencil on paper , 11”x14”
I lived in fear of being exposed. I believed anyone could be a risk to me in some way. I was vulnerable and alone. I had no one to shield me. No one who knew the whole story, and at that point, I did not want anyone to know what I had been through or what I was going through. The only way I could figure out how to protect myself was to hide in one way or another. To shield my face, to try to camouflage by blending in, or to completely withdraw into my own inner world.
Memoir Excerpt
“I studied the faces of each person with whom I came into contact on the unit. I stayed away from people until I determined they were safe. I spied on people from around corners, took stealthy glances with my back turned away, and I hoped and prayed each person knew nothing about me.
I imagined the reactions of people who possibly knew me: former patients afraid to approach, classmates now armed with gossip, my confidentiality blown, previous coworkers approaching me with a sense of obligation experiencing mutual discomfort, and people who had known me when I was younger and institutionalized, feeling pity because I had almost made it in the outside world. Almost. I imagined that some of these people knew me and I didn’t recognize them. What scared me the most was the prospect that someone, unbeknownst to me, might spew facts and versions of my struggles to God knows who. Anyone could be finding out about this while I remained oblivious to the scope of the spread. I feared judgement and pity; I could almost hear professional doors closing. I projected my humiliation and self-flagellation onto everyone.”
“Aperture” (2026) colored pencil on paper 11” x 15”
Aperture has to do with controlling the amount of light that is let through to expose images, bringing some aspects more into focus and limiting the exposure of others. As I gain more insight over time, I can see things more clearly. The background static of complex emotions are no longer the primary focus, but served as the landscape behind which the main factors pop. Seeing this allows me to gain a clearer perspective of what happened and why and to get a better sense of how unusually complex my experiences have been.
Memoir Excerpt
“The benefits of hurting myself were two-fold. These benefits made sense to me at the time, and I can enter into an understanding now, but it is fleeting. The benefits were that I would get to harm myself, and, in that way, punish myself for how bad I was. There was a sense of satisfaction to it. My feelings, my needs, were simply not ok. I was too needy. “Too much” as my mom had told me repeatedly. The other benefit of which I was barely conscious, was that it would bring people to me. People would help. They would see my pain in my blood, my bruises, and my violence. The violence became its own language.
At that time, these were not neatly parsed out thoughts and decisions as I am laying them out now. I was like a little boat lost at sea in the middle of a hurricane. I was being thrown about by emotions and thoughts. The tossing and dizziness were all I knew. I did not even realize it was an internal hurricane. I suddenly adopted a belief whereby the world was trying to hurt me, punish me, and toss me aside. And I went from hurt to action very quickly. I now see that it was deemed somewhere inside as the best way to get the soothing and containment I so desperately needed, with a fuck you attached. You won’t give me attention when I am withdrawn and needy? Then I will fucking put my hand through the wall.”