My doctor recently slapped a label on me for insurance purposes: a damning and marginalizing condition I don’t have but was convenient for him. I paint about the irony of how far I have come: all my progress has not freed me from stigmatization. The surface of my canvas teems with fish, crawling insects, the turning colors of leaves, floating bubbles of air, deep blue waters, thoughts, and memories. Here, nature and memory anchor me. Other forces preoccupy me. I find my center with each stroke of my brush. My creative process is the reason why I can say my doctor is wrong. He’s just wrong. I have painted my way to this moment where I can say it to my doctor, too. He said the label didn’t matter. I had the guts to tell him I’d like the right label: not the one that lets him write the script for “on label” purposes. It was a bit of a battle, but I was strong, brave, and calm. He acquiesced. Creative process is the reason why I persevered. In all the angst of the present moment, Art frees me from within the liminal experience. I know the truth about who I am because I paint.