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.

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