feeling it

i kinda feel like
opening my wrists
& painting one last
picture
blood for ink
ink for blood
until nothing is
left
of me.
i know this is not
a healthy thought
a hopeful thought
but it is a feeling
i cannot
deny.
you might even feel it
too
if you were
overwhelmed
unloved
emotionally stripped
to the bone
& pretty much sure
you’d done it all
wrong.

another inspirational post for my birthday.
i have been looking at art on instagram & hating my art…again. so i did this one with a bamboo pen to mix things up a little. i want to be more abstract. but i am not sure how to do that. so i might have to start trying harder. i know it is hard to break those habits of realism. even for someone like me who barely lives in reality.

anyhoo. i am not out on a ledge. i am just having a really rough time. the usual suspects. four year olds & forty year olds.
and birthdays.
and…well…life.

but i’m not giving up just yet.

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broken people

i’ve always loved the broken people
always always
i am drawn to them
but not like a moth
to a flame
because i am also the fire
my damage
at least as deep
as theirs
i love them because i think
they will understand
they will know me &
they will love me
because i am like them…
thing is
when both of you
are broken
who is picking up the pieces?

*this post was inspired by all the feelings i have when i hear lovely the band’s song, “broken.” which, coincidentally, played on the radio as i was illustrating this page.

i think a lot about this, especially since the song came out. i mean, dusty always said he was attracted to me because he could tell i was damaged. and even when i look for a healthy relationship i always find myself oogling those obviously broken men, trying to cover up their damage with cynicism & dark humor.

seymour was not broken. while i was with him, every broken man i saw turned my head. i never had that problem when i was dating damaged guys. i focused on them & obsessed over fixing them. but seymour had nothing for me to fix. so i wandered away. stupid girl. stupid stupid girl.

turns out, those of us who are broken, we need someone who isn’t broken. if we the broken choose other broken people to love, all we do is keep on breaking each other.

mean mom

“you are a mean mom,”
the four year old says to me.
“i wisht i killt you.”
he has just woken up
maybe he had a bad dream?
or
maybe he remembers
maybe he remembers the nine months
inside me
my wishing him away
every minute
of every day
of that pregnancy
or maybe he remembers
those 26 hours of labor
those two hours of pushing
as i fiercely
tried
to
eject
him
& he turned sideways
& backwards
he turned me inside out
refusing to leave
peacefully
maybe fearing what i would do
once i finally
got my hands
on him….
i flinch
with guilt
as i remember
as i can never
forget…
i love my son
…but there was a time
when i did not.

i don’t think i will ever fully recover from my last pregnancy. i just wish i knew for sure that my son will. i don’t want to take him down with me.

 

midnight, my love

when i was a little girl
i had a big, black tomcat named
midnight
that farm cat
was my best friend
i bonded with him
in that special way a child
can lose her heart
to an animal

one day
my dad shot & killed midnight
an event he joked about
for years after
did he know
he killed a part of me
that day?
did he care?

funny how one event
in a young child’s life
can fuck up that person
for ever after
one event
can crush a child’s ability
to find love
to bond
to have normal relationships
with neither animal
nor person*

so my parents are here
& my mom may or may not
be senile
i honestly can not tell
what is senility
& what is a fucked-up
mind games
but she keeps telling stories
about the only cat she ever liked
& she keeps calling that cat
midnight
finally my sister corrected her
& told her that the cat
she is thinking of
was actually named “licorice”
(which is my mom’s favorite candy…
so how could she forget?)

and my mom replied,
“then who was midnight?”

& my whole world went red
as forty years of rage
poured out of me
& at my parents

i have only once before
gotten that angry
& that was when i found my ex-husband
making out with another woman
just one block from our new home
where we were
“starting over”
again

at least this time i
(hopefully)
won’t get a citation
for disorderly conduct….

for all my screaming
& profanity
for as much as it relieves
that certain pressure
on my soul
for all my screaming
they still didn’t hear me

but maybe i can start healing
anyway….

 

*i’m sure there are more than one…but this one is monumental

too many men

too many men
haunt my heart
they would say
i didn’t love them
enough
i would say
i loved them
too much
a bright light
i burned out
to nothing

i had another dream/nightmare about dusty last night. why? why? i keep asking myself that question. why is he haunting my fucking dreams? why do i spend my nights chasing something i do not want? begging him to take me back?

he would love to know that i have reoccurring dreams about loving him.

i would love to know why i am having these dreams. what does he represent? what does our fucked up relationship represent to me?

why am i being haunted?

i replay the dreams in my head. i look for clues–for meanings. maybe i am over-thinking it. maybe i should just let it go…instead of being pissed off all day long because of it.

day six of inktober

i’m in a piss-ass mood…
still.

ironically…”don’t worry, be happy” is playing on my radio.
but we all know how that ended….

fuck.

i texted dusty today to let him know i think is a terrible idea for us to live together again in any context.
so then he called…and i said i was busy…and he said “please, please, please” and i said, “no.” but he kept insisting i talk to him.
so i got on the goddamned phone and told him he needs to start taking responsibility for his shit. that i am tired of rescuing him. that he needs to stop taking the easy route and start actually working for a future instead of fantasizing about one.

fuck!

i’m just so fucking desperate that sometimes dusty seems like a good idea.

so fucking desperate….

fuck.

and still my inktobers are getting lukewarm receptions.
so i’m just doing whatever the fuck because no one seems to notice either way.
which
is actually
the story of my life
if you think about it
so maybe
i dunno
maybe
i will be doing some dark & depressing memoir bullshit comics….

bleah.

 

lips

so i looked at this ink stain

inklips

and i did not draw a labia.
but then i was like, “lips are lips are lips.”
and drew the other set of lips one would find on a lady.

i am currently single and sexually inactive.

if you have read my blog, you  know what an incredible mess i am. today i had to sit my kids down and explain to them that my childhood was so fucked up that i have a lot of anger issues and that i feel really bad for being screamy and calling them “spoiled brats.” (not at all my finest moment…really really bad, in fact.) i tried to tell them that i had really bad role models. that my dad was physically & emotionally abusive. that i am trying–even when it seems i’m not. i’m trying to be a better mom. i get so angry when i feel like no one is listening. so angry. and you know what kids like to do? they like to not listen.
and my dad had us all doing chores from the age of five. like on a child labor level. and i don’t want to do that to my kids because it was awful. but then i get all pissed off when they don’t help me and say “no!” when i ask for help (hence the nasty name calling.)
and then my anger is intensified by the fact that i just spent the past 14 years with their dad who did the bare minimum…and had a bag of tricks for encouraging a person to not even ask him for help…
you know, like ignoring them…
or snapping at them…
or agreeing to help & then not…
until you got to the point where you just fell into a black hole of despair whenever you needed help. i mean, you can see the able-bodied man right there…but when he tells you you are “controlling” or “playing games” when you ask for help…you stop asking.
especially considering your parents did the same trick.
ignoring you when you asked for help.
ignoring you when you asked for attention.

sigh.

so, yeah. i have anger issues.
and i know my kids are the last people on earth who deserve that anger…but they are right there. and kids are brilliant at provoking. that’s what kids do. yesterday my three year old dumped paint on the floor and then later in the same day, dumped pebbles all over the floor. it’s what kids do. they test their environment. they push the envelope. they learn by doing. poppy is excellent at being a three year old.

recently on facebook, some trolls got mad at me because i said i choose not to spank because being spanked only taught me to fear my parents and to not trust them. i said i want my kids to not be scared of me–i want them to come to me when they are scared.
and that upset some women?
i’m really not sure why?
i try to never judge another person’s parenting because parenting is so fucking hard with so many fucking decisions to make.
but they called me a “sensitive twit,” and started commenting things like, “let us know when your kids go to prison.”

there are studies that show that screaming at your kids is just as damaging. i think so anyway. i’m kind of pulling that out of my ass. but i think i read that somewhere. i think about that every time i lose it and scream at my kids.

but i’m not going to hit my kids. i’m not. as much as i want to sometimes when the anger is white hot inside of me and my eight year old has just pelted me with a bouncy ball after screaming, “i hate you.” i’m not going to hit him or grab him by the arm or physically hurt him in any way. i’m not going to spank a three year old for dumping out paint…but apparently i will scream at an eleven year old for not putting the paint away….

parenting is fucking hard. especially doing it alone. their dad gets mad when i call myself a single mom because he thinks that is insulting to him??? we have been divorced since 2010, but i am not allowed to say i am a “single mom.” of course,  i have felt like a single mom even when we were “together.” the other day he hadn’t called in a while, and i started fantasizing that he had died. fantasizing that i was free to live my life. fantasizing that i could find the kids a new dad that would show them how to be nice to the mom….
and then i felt disappointed when it turned out he was still alive.
i am an awful person sometimes.

i want to be better. i want to heal. i want to know what to do and to believe i am not fucking up my kids–constantly. every day i make it through without screaming, i mark it as a win. i hope i can move that bar up a little bit…one day?