memoir in progress

i started working on a memoir over on tumblr (link is on the right hand side there… “meet me in the sunroom”)

i am writing it on tumblr because, frankly, i fit in better with the hopeless romantics over there…the open hearts & injured souls. i get more of a response over on tumblr than i do here. i mean, i totally appreciate y’all who do read me, but there just aren’t very many of you.

so i will keep this as my “website” for business (if that ever happens) purposes…but i might start doing my ranting over on tumblr.
i am trying to decide if i should delete my blog & just keep my artwork up? we’ll see.

anyhoo. in more efforts to exorcise demons, talk to ghosts, and figure myself out, i have started a memoir about seymour and myself. i used a stock photo of matt dillon to do this quick portrait. it doesn’t look like either one of them…but it does what i need it to do.

that’s all for now.
xxoo.

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i’m writing this because no one ever responds when i ask for feedback

when i was nineteen, i started going to therapy because i was dating a guy who i knew was bad for me, but i could not break up with him.
i knew he was bad for me before i even started dating him. me & another friend would make fun of him all the time calling him “geek lord” and telling each other horrible true stories about him. lets call him “lester.”
lester was all industrial & goth (it was the early 90’s.) he owned a “mystic bookstore” and was a total pervert. he would brag about how many times a day he masturbated–while attending to his store. he was so lazy he would pee in a pitcher instead of walking to the bathroom.
so i knew he was gross.
but i also knew he had the hots for me.
and somehow i started dating him. i’m not sure how it happened. i only know that i have extraordinarily low self-esteem and just want people to love me but cannot believe that anyone can actually love me.
so i started dating the “geek lord,” and he would do things like lock me in his basement to keep me from storming off. he once called my answering machine (the 90’s remember) and  left between 20 & 50 messages starting with “fuck you, bitch,” and ending with him softly moaning along to a ministry song.
everyone i knew told me to break up with him.
“i know i should,” i would answer, but i would stay.

so i started going to therapy.

among many other things, my therapist told me i had the social skills of a five year old. i was nineteen at the time.

the social skills of a five year old.

crap.

i eventually broke up with him for good. i was trying to shop & he wouldn’t let me shop. that is a weird line in the sand especially considering i really don’t like shopping. however, i had decided i needed to change my wardrobe. if i just changed my wardrobe, everything would magically be better, right?
so i needed to change my wardrobe.
years later i realize that this is part of having anxiety & ocd…but back then i just recognized it as a need that i need need needed.
lester went shopping with me. but every store it was all about him & what would he look good in? then he got tired of shopping and insisted i was done.
i refused to stop, and he tried to force me into his car.

so i ran. literally.
and then i changed my phone number.
i changed my locks.
i stopped going anywhere in that small college town that i might see lester.

it was the first time i had to go to extremes like that…but not the last.

so i am sitting here. feeling defeated about no one responding to my blog. no one responding to my facebook. and jenny lawson not validating my existence. so i am alone; alone and arguing with children and dogs. all while i have just gone to extreme measures to break up with yet another abusive narcissist whom i desperately looked for love from…

and i wonder…where are my social skills now? have i made it any further?

and wondering if maybe my therapist was being generous in her assessment.

why am i so needy? why am i always searching for that love i believe i will never find? why does it feel like a knife in my heart when i look at someone else’s blog and their “about” page has more likes than my blog has in its entirety? what does it matter…or why does it matter?

but it does, somehow.

fuck. i just feel so alone.

and i read jenny lawson’s book, and i sob because she might be fucked up…but she has people who love her. i don’t have that.

and worse…i can’t even imagine having it.

the river

yesterday
i was so weirded out by the dragons in my picture
that i never stopped to wonder what a person might think
of my skull wearing fire goddess.
which then i obsessed about for awhile
wondering if i would be labeled too dark
too witchy
mostly thinking of how my younger sister would see it
my conservative republican trump-voting highly delusional little sister.

then i thought
you know
if i had a horned skull and a feather tutu
i would totally wear that.
so it must not be weird,
right?

ha!

then i was fine with it.

and today i have another goddess portrait
a river goddess
wearing welding goggles
because, you know, to keep water out of her eyes.

so tomorrow i go fetch my minions back
the end to my alone time…
and i won’t get a picture done tomorrow…maybe the next day?

so tomorrow i see dusty
very briefly
which is how i prefer it.
i haven’t missed him at all.
i can just pretend he is still sitting at his laptop playing video games
or getting high in the garage.
not much different with him gone.

and i finally read my tarot cards today.
i have been avoiding them ever since they yelled at me about not
taking my art seriously.
today they told me
(abridged)
“keep on keeping on–& don’t fuck it up.”

so that’s my game plan.
steady as she goes…watch out for sink holes & water falls.

and here is my ink stain. i could see a face and knew it was a portrait of someone wearing goggles. i fleshed her out. then i found the river.

inkstainriver

ranting wailing mourning

why am i so pissed off again?
already?
okay, so i’m not going to be magically
okay
so i’m not going to be magically
together
i’m going to be bitter & angry
shouting
screaming
crying
wishing things had been different
careful i am not wishing my children away
as i wish i had never met their father.

and
it’s fucking thanksgiving
i don’t know about you
but this was the most dysfunctional
of fucked up dysfunctional holidays
for me
i spent years avoiding
this
fucking
“holiday.”
for years, i couldn’t even eat turkey
without feeling angry
fucking thanksgiving
the holiday of family fights
based on a false
gathering
as white invaders who
murdered & stole from indigenous peoples
after being welcomed into their land
it’s a fucking
cursed
holiday.

fuck thanksgiving.
fuck my ex-husband.
fuck my parents.
fuck black friday
and the mentality of buying buying buying
hoarding goods
made by abused workers
in other countries
as a cloud of pollution forms
over their heads
fuck this fucking country and its killing ways
its stealing ways
its hurtful
hateful
ways.
this whole land
is cursed.