i believe in me

imposter syndrome triggered….

i just applied to be on a website that features women illustrators. it is for professional illustrators.
am i professional?
am i?
well…what am i if i am not professional? who am i then?

so many questions.

all i can do is write “i believe in me” over & over until i am convinced i am spelling it wrong.

(i believe in me)

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wolfmom & the bear trap

i don’t know how
to be human
right now…
i just want to
chew my arm off
& escape
this trap.

i’m crawling out of my skin tonight…crawling into my wolfskin, i guess.
i am terrible at human interaction…and sometimes i am even trying not to be.
terrible.
which makes it all that much worse when i fuck it up.

how it begins

i am the sad one
the broken-hearted
i am the one
who feels
my pain is invisible
i am the one
who feels
too much
…but when the little voices
whisper
“don’t give up”
i listen
i may be sad
& broken-hearted
…but i don’t
give up.

so if i were to start an art journal memoir…this would be the first page.

moses jones q&a

here i am
i have never left
can you hear me?
can you see me?
i am here
i have never left
see me.
hear me.

it felt good to do a doodle of my other self…my moses jones. my apocalyptic mama. it felt good to think about her.
she is a sort of self-portrait.
the me in a parallel universe
where dytopia has already sunk his teeth into us all.

i want to bring her back.
bigger.
better.

read my comics, if you will.
give me your thoughts.

sad aloneness

sadness
aloneness
& i wonder how many times
in how many ways
i can say
the same thing
& not be heard?
the comfort
of my invisibility
suffocates me
i want out
i. want. out.
can you hear
me?
please
get me out
of
my own head
before
i decide
i never
want to leave.

i think maybe this project has reached a conclusion…or maybe it will go on forever.
maybe i will go on forever
comforting myself with my own suffocating sadness

or maybe i will start an illustrated memoir.
i should really start an illustrated memoir.

okay.
so…i need an agent & a cheerleader.
someone who can tolerate large doses of bitter animosity & self-pity.
also, must enjoy loud children.

tender hearted

my pain
is my own
just because
i show it to you
does not
make it yours
i love my
tender
fucked up
heart
&
i’m not good
at sharing

i’m pissed off at everything lately. everything.
whether it is my parent’s impending visit. the anniversary of my brother’s death. dealing with the passive aggressive assholery of my ex-husband. the fact that the minions cannot go a full two minutes without screaming and jumping on someone. or that the whole world is full of hateful hurtful people yet i remain…alone…alone with my hate & hurt.
all these things.
none of these things.
maybe i’m just an irritable asshole.

my self-portrait here seems to be a re-occurring theme. of course, van gogh did himself over & over & over…add a bowler, now with a pipe…
i like posing with my demons.
my lovely loving demons.