Archive | April, 2015
26 Apr

Mid-June 2014:

I have been tired for a long time.  Days; months; years; decades; centuries; eons and eons and eons of time.  I have never not been tired.  My bones are made of rotten, dry wood; my flesh is wearing thin with holes in the elbows and knees.  I feel my blood, sluggishly oozing through my veins, trying desperately to bring oxygen and nutrients to my body in entropy.


I feel a waste in this life.  Full of ideas but unable to make myself do anything.  Unable to care enough to make any of the things that spring into my imagination.  I still struggle to feel good enough; to feel worthy to create a thing with my own two hands.  I am not an artist because I’m not cool enough.  I am not an artist because I cannot bring myself to see my horrible ideas come into horrible fruition.  I don’t want to make something that isn’t simply perfect the first try.  But I have to try.  Right?  I have all these ideas and feelings pulsing in me, trying to make me move, wanting to be made into something tangible.  I’m overly idealistic and pessimistic.  I can make things if I want.  Why not?  Why couldn’t I?  Because I didn’t go to school for art?  Because I’m a stay at home mother to 3 kids and I want to have more?  Because I don’t feel smart enough to have ideas that anyone else would actually be interested in?  And, at the same time, because I’m so ego-maniacal that each time I receive a compliment on something I’ve done, I feel validated and like that I knew it was a good idea all along.  Deep inside me, I am desperately thirsty for approval and validation.  I need to know someone else thinks I’m smart and clever; my ideas are good; my mind works clearly still, and I am not just stuck with a stupid brain.


I’m still often tired, but I’m not nearly as upset about it.  Plus, now I’m able to blame it on medication instead of depression.  It feels better to do that, for whatever reason.

I would also shakily admit to being an artist now.  I took the chance and plunged into making things this past November.  I was accepted into the group show I submitted my very first piece to.  That felt good.  Real good.  I’ve made several more pieces and been accepted to 2 more exhibitions this month. Also good-feeling inducing.

I make shit with my hands, man. It is an incredible feeling: to imagine, sculpt, and see a thing come out of thin air.


The Night is Loud

25 Apr

Apparently, I wrote this as a draft in early December this past year.  I don’t remember writing it, but I sure as hell remember feeling this way. 


I am alone around others. Not all of the time; just some of it. And I try to curl into myself, but I can never get away from the tepid loneliness that I carry with me.  It is in my intestinal lining, slowly eating away like the acid in my stomach does to food.  What does it eat, though?  My self-worth and esteem; my feeling of connectedness to my family and friends; my desire to continue being vulnerable and work toward mental health.

At the end of the day, I’m done.  I am overwhelmed by the overstimulation that comes with parenting small children.  I wonder if I can even call it “parenting”; maybe “surviving” would be a better description. I wonder what my blood pressure looks like around 5pm each day?  Maybe it all just evens out, in the end, after not being able to feed myself lunch until nearly dinner time and my racing pulse from listening to two small boys scream and dance and stomp and run and cry and sing at the top of their lungs.

Maybe it’s time to quit.  But it also isn’t. This is a job, a project, a lifestyle I’m unable to walk out on. But I don’t feel real today.  I don’t feel happy today.  I feel sad and alone. I feel guilt for feeling sad and alone when there’s so many people who love me and care for me and want me around. But I also don’t believe that’s true tonight. Who wants you, I say to myself.  Who needs you?  Who would care if you weren’t there tomorrow? I know who, but they just seem to be erased from my memory right now.

And now I’m smoking.  Not just on the weekends and not just one a day, like I used to do.  I smoke several (usually no more than 4 or I start to feel manic) times a day.  Mostly at night; mostly outside; sometimes hanging out of the bathroom window with the door locked, fan on, and all cloth things removed from the room with a towel pressed at the bottom seam of the door. I get a lot of shit about it, too, from those who know about my new iniquity, my newest sin.  I just don’t care.  I just want to smoke.  I just want to be in control of something and, for now, this is it.

For a while I thought I couldn’t possibly workout and be a smoker; but I’m doing them both because I won’t give up the smoking right now, and I need to exercise to keep healthy in other ways.  I try to drink tea, but God knows that is not the same as nicotine.

I feel like I’m trying a lot; and I’m tired of all the work I have to put in to simply remain on even keel.  I’m tired of the pills already, although they seem to be helping.  I’m tired of trying to stick to a morning and evening routine, of going to bed at the same time and waking up at the same time each day.  I hate routine; I feel constrained by schedules and simply want to be free.  I wouldn’t even know what to do if I was free, though. I’d be overwhelmed and afraid, probably.  Just like I am now.  So I suppose there’s not good reason to want to be “free”; it’d just be more of the same.


Ps: I’ve stopped smoking. Mostly.