i’m glad i’m me

“i love myself
i’m glad i’m me
there’s no one else
i’d rather be”
goes the storybook
i read
to my children
& it’s true
even with all my self-loathing
there is
no one else
i’d rather be.

but i really am not happy with this illustration. oh well. some days you eat the bear. some days the bear eats you.

dear diary

today…i saw myself naked & was depressed the rest of the day
today…i realized i know the least favorite songs of two of my exes and found myself wondering what to do with this information
today…i embraced my lonely & bathed in my solitude never imagining myself in another relationship & then, of course, wondered if that meant i was going to meet someone because they always say that you meet someone after you’ve given up trying & then i hated myself for wondering that….

ack.
being inside my head is exhausting. i need a vacation from me.

whisper campaign

i was getting a little too friendly with the world, you see. too butterflies & rainbows.
it made some cracked wheels turn inside me as my tragically introverted self,
my dark & morbid self, my inner brooding monster whispered in my ear,
“they all hate you; you’re such a cunt. why do you even bother?
go home. go to bed. hide in a book or better yet a tv show…just. hide.”
& i found my delight in my self-loathing. poking that bruise on my soul
as i covered all of the mirrors and windows and told myself,
“it’s okay. you’re happier when you’re alone.”

true story. this happens to me sometimes. i sometimes cannot handle being happy & friendly and stable-ish. i cannot handle being likable or successful in any way. it stirs up my demons and terrible things are said until i sink back into a gloom they are more comfortable with.

see you next tuesday

sometimes i forget
what a bitch
i am
& it always surprises me
when i realize
all over again
that i am so totally
a cunt.

i would actually rather be called a cunt than a bitch. i just like “uh” sounds better than “ih” sounds. i have been called a bitch more than once to my face (or directly behind my back.) shocking, i know.
i don’t know if anyone other than me has called me a cunt. i might start requesting it. like, if you have to call me a derogatory term of a feminine nature…go with cunt…or twat…but please don’t call me a bitch.
i used to joke that when i was a kid i thought a cunt was a car that wouldn’t start. i learned all my curse words from my father, an explosive mechanic, as he screamed them from under the hood of a car.
maybe this is another reason the word does not bother me the way it bothers most american.

the prison of me

i need to break out
of the prison
of me
i’ve built some high
walls
dug some deep
trenches
it
won’t
be
easy
but i need
to be free
of me
(not all of me)
just the bits that
whisper
the bits that
scorn
the bits that kill me
a little
at a time
telling me
i’m not good enough
not
brave
enough
not ready for the world
the bits that tell me
to just
go home
& hide away
don’t even try.

inspired by my tarot card reading that asserts i am creating my own restrictions to my happiness (with some help from the ex.)
but i need to break out of the groove
i have set
for myself
first.
then, maybe, i can stop letting others put me in boxes.

my fault

this was also written during a fight with dusty as we try & fail to move forward.
watch as i start to spiral downward….
alas…hopefully this was only a setback.

backwards II

i was having a really really bad day. i think all the work to move forward needed to somehow balance itself out?

these are thoughts that whirl inside me when i am plunging into a dark space.

backwards

i keep an art journal to sort through all of my thoughts & feelings.
my art journals have saved my life.
i share them just in case they might let someone else know they are not alone.

i had a really bad day a couple of days ago. i am thinking, one step forward–two steps back??

rough thoughts; rough sketch

he sleeps in my arms now. as beautiful, as peaceful as an angel.
but the last thing he said before he fell asleep?
he looked into my eyes.
he snarled, “i hate you.”
my four year old hates me.
he wishes i was dead.
maybe he doesn’t mean it…probably he doesn’t mean it.
but how could i blame him if he did? after all,
i spent 42 weeks hating him.
i spent 42 weeks wishing he was dead.
what kind of mother am i? not the mother he deserves.
“i hate me too,” i assure him. “i hate me too.”

my fourth child. my quixotic child. he was the only one i didn’t plan. the only one i didn’t hope & wish for. and every day since he was conceived has been a struggle for me. i love him. i truly do, & i wouldn’t trade him for the world. he is an amazing little person…but every day is a struggle. and i wonder what my struggle has done to him.

if you are interested, here is a creative non-fiction piece  i wrote about my pregnancy with him.

sometimes i just feel extra invisible…

ack.
social media sucks ass.
i mean
at least
for us super sensitive
extra damaged
introverts
sometimes i hate
facebook
so so so much
stupid tool
i feel like a stupid tool
extra invisible
everyone hates me
why do i do this
stupid
tool.

inktober3(3)

this is the third inking i have done today.
i am about to post it on facebook. in that stupid group i am in. and it will get zero “likes” as have the other two today.
inktober3(2)

c’mon.
my art doesn’t suck that bad.
why can’t i get a “like”….

and why do i care?

fuck a duck

i am ready to just quit facebook. a fucking social media site should not be able to cause me this kind of torment.
it’s stupid.
i know it’s stupid.
yet i am tormented.

IMG_0023

i am going to keep doing inktober.
i am going to keep doing art.
i am going to keep practicing my ink brush painting (right now i am opening the book the photo ark to a random page and painting it.)

and! and–i am going to get back to my comics. my moses jones and all the others.

it’s been too long.

so fuck you, facebook. even if you hate my art. i love my art.

i love being an artist.

a nice fucking neurotic artist.

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