always you

it was always you
every whisper
every sigh
it was always you
the magic in my heart
my feelings of sunshine
on an overcast day
it was always you
laughing until my face hurt
feeling like
like i mattered
you showed me a world
i had never seen
& have never glimpsed since
but i know it is there
i know you are there
& that is enough
it was always you
it always will be.

this is something i need to work through, y’all. being lovesick isn’t the most attractive of topics…but, he was more than just a boyfriend. more than just another warm body. more than just a chapter in the book of a serial monogamist.
he was so much more.
please bear with me (or check back later to see if i have gotten any comics done)
my art journaling is an important part of my journey as a person & as an artist. my art journal is my way of healing…
i want to understand my heart & why it holds him so close,
when it is quick to let everyone else go.

silly love song

silly love song

i’ve realized
you are the only person
i want to be
not someone like you
(as unlikely as that is)
not someone who treats me
like you treated me
but you
exactly you
only you
when i think of dating
of loving
anyone else
i feel repulsed
when i imagine
dancing in my kitchen
with you
waking every morning
to you
my whole body tingles
& i swear
i must glow
with sweet longing.

writing this was easy…sharing it–not so much. so i started wondering as i tend to do. why is it easier for me to share my dark & disturbing parts?
my sad & barely surviving parts?
my anxious & depressed parts?
my struggles & shortcomings?
my feelings of worthlessness & isolation?
my oh so crazy bits?
but sharing something i wrote about love…my feelings of love…for another person…i feel like i have gone too far.
i feel like i have crossed some sort of line.
this shouldn’t be allowed!
and, to boot, it is unrequited love i am celebrating.
yuck. so gross.
why do i react to love as if it is something unspeakable? unthinkable? illogical? is this cultural/generational or is it reflective of my damage? or…is my damage also reflective of my culture/generation?

there are entire movies. entire tv series. books, poetry, and songs. all of these. dedicated to love. all kinds of love.
so why do i feel so stupid admitting that i love someone?

so in art journal psychotherapy today we have learned that i am more comfortable with & even celebratory of my darkness & my damage and will happily shove it right in your face….
but when it comes time to share my thoughts of love & devotion & romantic longing…for a man of all things…to admit that i have these feelings…then i ready myself to fall on my sword.
i find being morose a more natural & acceptable state than being dreamy.
yet i call myself quixotic and think of myself as whimsical? a puzzle inside an enigma wrapped in a conundrum.
do you see the exhausting challenge of being me? of living in my head?
in the interest of balance
here it is
a little of my yang for all of the yin
a silly love song.

this hole in me

part of me is missing
maybe you know
where it is?
every morning
i wake up
it’s another day
that it is
another day
another day
another night
i go to bed
knowing that my morning
my next day
will bring more of the same
& i want to scream
i do scream
i cry
part of me is missing
you know where
it is?
it is you?
i read something
that said grief
is just
trapped in the corners
of your eyes….
i don’t know what to do
with all this grief
part of me
is missing
& i’m oh so tired
of looking…
but if i stop…
if i stop
will i drown in
all this

i like this illustration. i’m not sure i captured in my words what i feel…but i think i captured it in my drawing.

i think i am still recovering from the visits of my mom & my ex-husband. two people who put the knife in and twist it. both are relationships that i desperately want to be different. i know i could be a more complete person…
if my mother had mothered me
if my ex-husband had been able to love me
if neither of them had emotionally abandoned me
& betrayed me….

i desperately long to heal that wound. that emptiness.

but maybe i have turned to stone.
to clay.
to something that barely resembles the person
i could have been.


i don’t want to hurt you
i just want to survive you

are words that i would say to him if i could. sometimes i feel it is impossible to talk to him. impossible for him to hear me?
so he & my mom were here at the same time. with my mom here, he was the lesser of two evils.
when she left, i realized just how much like her he really is.

neither one of them can hear me. even before my mom was deaf, she had very selective hearing–only hearing what she wanted to hear…only hearing what was valuable to her–what she could use to her advantage.
she never heard me.
i was never valuable to her.
was i ever valuable to him?
did he ever listen to me? or is he only paying attention when i’m giving him ammunition to use against me at a later time?

ex-husbands & mothers.



you can’t hurt me
i will hurt
i will hurt myself
you can’t degrade me
i will push myself
into the
i will mock
i will revel in my own

is it obvious i have been looking at the artwork of egon scheiele? wow. if you haven’t looked at his artwork…wow. lots of cocks & twats though, so don’t leave it laying out in mixed company.

i am trapped in the country with my parents.
the only way i made it out of the airport when i went to pick them up was to start wondering if i could use the experience in my artwork.
fuck a duck. i almost started crying. fuck a duck. does anyone else have parents like this? as soon as they came into view they were bitching about each other. and then at each other. and my mom kept telling the poor airport attendants about how awful my dad is. and the airport attendants were asking me if i needed help (both my parents were in wheel chairs) and i’m sure my eyes were begging them to help me–but, by god, i could not think of anything they could do other than wheeling my parents back onto the plane….

and crazy does as crazy needs–i immediately texted dusty for help.
i’m sure it is somehow his fault. so i asked for his help.
and, of course, he is coming….

but two negatives make a positive…right?

ps. i am not sure which is worse–when my mom is yelling at my dad…or when she is cuddling up to him.

i need therapy.


and so this is christmas

i used to joke
every year
“will this be the christmas
someone dies?”
dark jokes
somehow kept us alive
my dysfunctional family
two years in a row
someone i loved
right around christmas time

my parents have
to visit me
this christmas
the thought
right back into my head

so i drew my bottom half the way i always drew christmas trees when i was a kid. does anyone see that? i liked that idea.
my folks, whom i am estranged from–yet whose house i live in–are coming back to visit me? my kids? their house?
and i am terrified.
i think it triggered a lot of the darker stuff i have been posting in the last few days, their planned visit.
my parents…let me tell you about my parents….
(it’s a bladerunner reference…i’m not really going to tell you about my parents. that is a whole series of psychology books)


i don’t like to ask
for help
i will spite myself
go hungry
risk injuries
slip deeper into my cozy pool of despair
rather than ask for help
i spent my childhood
in my parents’ blind spot
& instead of acting out
to grab their notice
i built my little throne of thorns
to sit quietly
glare & think to myself,
i won’t give you the satisfaction.
i spite myself
instead of asking
for the most human of things
why won’t anyone
i think
as i close that door.

watch in real time as i battle my demons. tonight, oy, the last week…longer?…my demons have been chewing on the cords of my self.