emje’s world

i really don’t understand
like a sick
like a suffering animal
could you just tell me to
stop?
put me out of my misery?
if you want me to
stop
you should know
with the life i’ve had
i only thrive
on rejection
on being ignored
i only try
harder
to be seen
when you look
away
please
just say “stop”
if you want me to
stop
otherwise
i will never
give up
on you.

i often examine my behavior towards seymour and wonder if i am harassing him. if i were a man, and he were a woman, i think it would definitely be considered harassment. i don’t believe in double standards…yet…one of my therapists assured me that it is different for men than it is for women. i mean, a woman might play along and not say stop because she is afraid. she stokes an ego for her own safety.
but why doesn’t seymour just tell me to stop?
i would. i know i would.
it would hurt and i would want to keep reaching out to him–but if i knew for sure he wanted me all the way out of his life, i would respect that.
but he never says it.
granted, he never says anything.
and like i said in my journal page, being ignored is not a deterrent for me. it’s just a signal for me to try harder.
thanks to my fucked-up childhood with parents who ignored me pretty consistently. thanks to always being attracted to people who ignored me in relationships.
thanks to growing up as a sensitive wallflower.
being ignored is just part of life.
i don’t want to be ignored…but being ignored is its own attention. seriously. when you make an effort to ignore someone, you are–in a weird & fucked up way–paying attention to them.
let me stress, fucked up way.

i want to ask him.
i want to know.
but part of me is scared of the answer.

ps. i drew a naked version of this painting “christina’s world” because when i drew a version with clothes on, it looked like i had crawled right out of a japanese horror movie. so i did me naked (again) so that i could maybe try to get the position to look natural. however, i neglected to get my back fat in there right. i tried to be true to my back fat, but i don’t think i quite captured it.

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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
with
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?
but!
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
knowing
it’s another day
feeling
lost
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
sometimes
i do scream
mostly
i cry
part of me is missing
maybe
you know where
it is?
maybe
it is you?
i read something
that said grief
is just
unused
love
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
grief?

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.

survival

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.

sigh.

worst

you can’t hurt me
i will hurt
myself
first
i will hurt myself
worst
you can’t degrade me
i will push myself
into the
mud
i will mock
myself
i will revel in my own
pain.

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.

stat.

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
…then
two years in a row
someone i loved
died
right around christmas time

my parents have
planned
to visit me
this christmas
unbidden
the thought
popped
right back into my head
again

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)