inktober 15…invisible

which is how i feel…invisible.

if i’m on social media for the sake of my art…and i get extremely very little feedback on said art…then why am i on social media when it just seems to contribute to my depression & anxiety?

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inktober 14th

i am liking doing journal like inkings.
writing & drawing & spilling & splattering.

i’m not sure what i wrote made sense. it was mostly train of thought. randomness. talking to myself.

my approach is kind of that i don’t think anyone is actually paying attention, so i am just seeing what comes out of me. that’s actually pretty much my approach to life. i mean, i feel invisible most the time, so i don’t really worry what anyone thinks of me. you know what they say, there is no such thing as bad publicity.
so on i go.

and my self-portrait is all gunslinger. but no gun.
after i posted it i saw today’s prompt is “fierce.”

i’m fierce.
every day.

 

day six of inktober

i’m in a piss-ass mood…
still.

ironically…”don’t worry, be happy” is playing on my radio.
but we all know how that ended….

fuck.

i texted dusty today to let him know i think is a terrible idea for us to live together again in any context.
so then he called…and i said i was busy…and he said “please, please, please” and i said, “no.” but he kept insisting i talk to him.
so i got on the goddamned phone and told him he needs to start taking responsibility for his shit. that i am tired of rescuing him. that he needs to stop taking the easy route and start actually working for a future instead of fantasizing about one.

fuck!

i’m just so fucking desperate that sometimes dusty seems like a good idea.

so fucking desperate….

fuck.

and still my inktobers are getting lukewarm receptions.
so i’m just doing whatever the fuck because no one seems to notice either way.
which
is actually
the story of my life
if you think about it
so maybe
i dunno
maybe
i will be doing some dark & depressing memoir bullshit comics….

bleah.

 

self-portrait on a tuesday morning

the only time
the only time my parents
showed interest in me
paid attention to me
put me in their spotlight
was when they were
desperately
trying to dissuade me from being a writer….
just imagine
what would have happened
if they had put that same energy
into supporting
into nurturing
into being proud of their creative daughter
building her passion
giving it wings
rather than
pissing on it

ug. this is what i spent last night crying about. stupid, huh? i know i’m not supposed to dwell in the past–the what-ifs…because i need to just accept that that is what it was and move on…
but sometimes it really sucks…
and i can’t help just imagining if i had had supportive & nurturing parents…if i had married a supportive & nurturing man….

so the summer i turned seventeen, my parents sent me away to camp.
this might not sound odd–unless you knew my parents. there were six of us kids and they hated spending money on us. or, at least, it seemed that way to me. none of us ever went to camp. for the money reason–and also because we were free summer labor for my dad. so it was totally weird that they sent me to camp.
i thought about it last night.
this was eons before the internet–how did they even know about the camp?
how did they find it?
i must have told them i had an interest in forestry.
so they went through all the trouble and research to find a forestry camp to send me to?
all because i wanted to be a writer…i was a writer. i had even won a national award (2nd place) for writing when i was thirteen. i had written three books at this point in my life–sure they probably sucked–but i was writing books when i was just a kid. i was producing substantial work.
but they sent me to forestry camp because being a writer was…was what? did it embarrass them? were they afraid for my future?
because thanks to their lack of support and encouragement, i have spent most of my life working menial jobs, wanting to be a writer, but having no confidence in myself….

when i finally got myself into a creative writing program in 2014, 44 and a mother of four, my professor told me i should go for an MFA due to my talent & skill with writing. she thought i had promise.
of course, i had to quit school and move away because my ex (mr. school is a waste of time) husband was being abusive and sabotaging my very existence…. yay.

so i’m wallowing a bit today.
thinking of running away from home.
mentally packing my bags & my goats and wondering if i could just take the minions and disappear from my own life….

tueday morning…another day to survive….

my dead brother

having someone in your life die changes you as much as, say, having a baby.
i would not be the artist i am today if i had not become a mother. i would be a different artist.
and i would not be the person i am today if my brother had not been killed eight years ago today. i would be a different person.

my big brother…sigh.
he introduced me to movies. that is one way i remember him. he took me to see raiders of the lost ark when it was in the theaters and i was all like, “this movie sounds stupid.”
and then i was all like, “that was the best movie ever!”
he took me to see the empire strikes back when it came out
and i remember as we walked back to the car after the movie, he said, “it’s leia. they are talking about leia.”
and i had no idea what he was talking about until return of the jedi.
he brought a copy of terminator home from college and as i watched it, he would say, “surely he’s dead now” every time they thought they had destroyed arnold schwarzenegger.
he introduced me to one of my most favorite movies ever blade runner.
and to another dytopian influence a boy and his dog.

self2

these two pictures were done for a drawing class where i was supposed to do two self-portraits that were meant to be hung together. the top one is from a photo of me as a baby with my brother mike.
the second one is a self-portrait of me in tribute to the polaroid taken of sarah connor  at the end of terminator.

his life and his death are both heavy influences in who i am today.
sometimes i don’t know how to feel about that.

here is a poem i wrote in a writer’s workshop about it:

heavy

when someone close to you
dies
it becomes part of your description
she has brown hair
a nice smile
and her brother is dead

birthdays are the hardest
his last one
i didn’t know
it was the last
his voice sad on the telephone
my pledge to keep in touch
this time

we live in a world
where I can obsessively search for
intimate details of his death
available in short video
burning plane
gray matter splattered on a playground
his last words, “oh, fuck.”

notorious IT guy for the other side
the forrest gump of stolen elections
everything reminds me
of him
the sound of a single engine  plane
sad songs on the radio
politics, christmastime, and charismatic men

i drink irish whiskey this time of year
but it was scotch at his wake
four years now
four years since the last election
four years since the plane crash
a conspiracy theorist’s wet dream
murder republican style

when someone close to you
dies
do you let it redefine you?
hello, I’m connell
a mama, a student, an artist
let me tell you
about my dead brother

this is not the person i am supposed to be

i feel like a failure.
what’s worse is that i feel like i am a failure at being a failure.
other people seem to be able to make a life out of failing.
i can’t even do that.
i want to tear a hole in the world with my teeth.
there is so much pain inside of me.
and when it comes out–
i feel even worse because i am causing pain.
i won’t tell you.
but i am a monster.
an awful horrible monster.
and that is not who i am supposed to be.
i don’t know why i am a monster.
i want to be a good person. a helpful person.
a loving
and nice
person.
i can see that person in my head.
but i am not that person.
i am a monster.
i can see in my head
the person i was supposed to be.
kind & nurturing.
not a complete fucking mess
so angry at the world that it tears me apart
and spills ruination on anyone
everyone
around me.

i tried to so spells
wear stones
to help me find balance
let go of negative thought patterns.
i failed.
i think i somehow charged the stones
to do the opposite.
now i am an even bigger mess.

i started reading jenny lawson’s book
furiously happy
which highlights her struggles with mental illness
you know
in a funny & heartwarming way….

fuck me
i am frankenstein’s monster.
i am
i wanted to love…
but all i can do is cause fear
and disgust.
an abomination.
i am an abomination.

i was once a sweet child.
a hopeful child.
but i grew into an abomination.