out of sorts

holy moly i am so out of sorts.
it’s a january thunderstorm. i quit drinking & facebook all in the same week. i’m already feeling all rejected by the men of “okcupid”–though the men there do seem way cooler than the men of “plenty of fish.” my kids are on overdrive and i keep thinking, “if i can barely deal with my life, how can i ever expect to find someone to jump in & be all–yes! this is what i want.”
other than dusty, who would jump back in in a heartbeat. which is a tempting thought sometimes when i am lonely & frazzled and then i have to remind myself of all the crap he has done to me. all the crap he says to me. and the crap i feel like when he is around.
crap.
and my berkey water filter has quit working.
all while i’m reading future home of the living god. reading books, as an empath, is risky. i get waaaaaay way too into the plot & characters and actually lose myself.
so i am currently lost in a dystopian nightmare.
and my end-of-the-world water filter has gone kaput.

i am so out of sorts.

i’m trying to draw this comic, but my kids are so super needy. plus there is laundry & dishes & food to make.
and i am crawling out of skin.

did i mention the winter thunderstorms of doom?

okay. here is an okcupid story to cheer us all up.
someone from the small town i live in messaged me via okcupid to tell me i should check out his profile and told me how he had read mine twice before he messaged me.
so, hey, he’s not physically my type, but i go check out his profile. first off, i see he is looking for a woman who owns a pair of heels and actually wears them–who dresses up every now & then.
the highest heels i own are on my motorcycle boots.
then he goes on to say in the “message me if…” that a woman should message him if she agrees that she should wear stockings & heels in the bedroom.
he says he read my profile twice?
i go on & on about sustainability in my profile & refer to myself as punk rock.
i don’t have on any make-up in my photos…i don’t even know how to put on make-up. my hair is short & messy–like it always is. (i’m assuming here that if he wants a woman to dress up every now & then he probably expects make-up and hair done.)
and in the “6 things i can’t live without” section, i have listed as my number one thing:  barefeet….
what woman who values barefeet would put on heels ever–especially in the bedroom??
why would dude think i was his type at all?

why not just have “message me if you are a warm body”?

internet dating is so weird.

re-cap:  end of the world, y’all, and my water filter is not working & i am still alone & lonely.
plus i have no beer.

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lurking demons

the harder i try
to be
seen
the more invisible
i become
the louder i cry
out
the less
anyone can hear
me
the more i look
for love
the bigger pariah
i become.

put the last three journal pages together & it is my trifecta of torment.

poppy was screaming at me almost the entire time i was drawing & painting this. he wanted cream cheese & toast, but he has been holding his poop lately and i am afraid of creating a dairy stoppage…so i told him no.
over & over
as he screamed at me for cream cheese & toast.
i offered him other foods…but he only wanted cream cheese & toast.

eventually i relented.

which makes me the worse mom? having him scream at me for something that might make him sick? or giving in & giving it to him?
both?
being a mom is a catch 22.

i woke up in a good mood this morning. however, fidgit & iggy were relentlessly cruel to me–in the way only children can be to their barely-holding-it-together, ultra-tormented mother–until i snapped.
which is why there are so many demons in my drawing.
i feel like i am filled with demons.

y’all are probably tired of reading my journal & looking at my self-portraits. y’all are probably tired of hearing about how i never wanted to do this alone. never wanted to wrestle with four headstrong children by myself. never wanted to be single & lonely & overwhelmed by my roles in life.
sorry.
i’m still talking about it. still. it still weighs down my heart.
i’m still writing about it.
i’m still drawing it.

maybe tomorrow will bring something new.
maybe.

out with the old; in with the new

i’m trying not to be sad
today
i’m trying not to lose my mind
today
i feel music in my soul
today
not quite drowned out
by the screaming
crying
sometimes playing
sometimes fighting
children
my artist’s soul
& my mother’s heart
trying to live together
in my troubled
self.

october 26, 2016 is the date inside my old journal. the day i started it. today is the day i end it. there is one page left…but i have already spilled some angst onto it and now just have to illustrate my own pain.

the first page of the new journal, also, is already decorated with thoughts fallen from my head.

i love being productive. i love looking forward to a blank page. i love writing down my silly, sad, sentimental, and sordid epiphanies to ponder with pen & ink brush.

ha.
i am not a poet though.
i thought that today when i could not think of the word for what some of you might call my “poems.”
i am not a poet.
i just vomit emotion, often & as colorfully as possible.

no fucks left to give

i think i have developed a callus
on my soul
…or is it that i have completely run out
of fucks to give?
it feels
liberating
i feel
free
like the calluses on my feet
the callus on my soul
allows me to run
skip
dance
where others must
tiptoe
& crawl

today, my trump supporting little sister who now lives in germany with her army husband, sent me a big box of german chocolate.
today i accepted a friend request on facebook from a fellow homesteader…and then saw a pro-trump post by him.

and i was all like. whatever.

that was it. no anger. no need for vengeance. no blinding need to light a match & burn that bridge…

weird. i still hate trump. i still want to see him impeached and all of his cronies de-throned…
i still will continue working towards equal rights for everyone and will never stop celebrating diversity.
and i have no intention of stopping my efforts towards resistance & rebellion….

still, all i could muster was a “meh.”

am i de-sensitized? numb? overwhelmed by the bad news sermons of dusty? (seriously, he can put an apocalyptic spin on anything!!)

or does the callus on my soul simply allow me to process without becoming overwhelmed, numb, and de-sensitized?

desperate to be heard

desperate
desperate for adult interaction
desperate to be heard
i share my thoughts with him
only
to have him
wad them up in a ball
& hurl them back at my
head
my heart
my soul
…crash

this may be weird…or maybe not, but whenever i touched my pen to the page to draw the lines of my face, i started crying.
drawing pain.
i used a mirror. i don’t usually use a mirror. but i needed to see where the lines fell.
those lines made me cry.
there is a lot of pain
in the lines of my face.

turn out the gaslight

he drinks from my glass
instead of getting his own
he says he would be in a good mood
if not for me
he accuses me of “gaslighting” him
& i wonder
or do i know
that he is gaslighting me?
he hurls words at me
words i said
stories i told
when i–in a state of delusion–
trusted him
he saves up the words i give to him
like ammunition
to strike me with
as his mask falls off
& he embraces
the person
he claims he no longer is….

yeah. things are not going well with dusty being here. two weeks now. every morning i am grateful for the help.
by nightfall, i hate him.