value impaired

i don’t value myself.
why don’t i value myself?
how do i learn to value myself?

case in point. yesterday i realized i had no idea where i had left the box full of my books i have available for sale should someone want an autographed copy.
i searched for over an hour, wondering what the fuck is wrong with me.
i eventually found the box being used to prop up my daughter’s doll house.
nice.
so how do i learn to value myself? why do i continue to make myself the lowest priority? the last person i will support?
fuck me.
(wait! don’t fuck me–be nice to me! believe in me, goddammit)

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.

just another pretty face

maybe they are
all jealous of me
as dear old mum
liked to tell me
when i was sad
& lonely
& unable to find
my tribe
the other girls
forming packs
leaving me behind…
maybe they all think
i’m just another
pretty face
with nothing notable
to contribute
sure
put baby in a corner
she’s just an airhead
just another
pretty face
…says the lady
who doesn’t even believe
in her own
prettiness.

this was written during a meeting i was at where all the other women seemed to be pretending they couldn’t see or hear me.
i would like to think that the post-fifty competition wouldn’t really be a thing…but like my mum, i couldn’t think of a better reason for being left out of the clique.

here is my pretty face 2 days shy of my fifty-first birthday

for what it’s worth

“what will you do for money?”
the question asked
when i quit my last “real” job
“i’ll get by on my good looks,”
is the answer given
“what do you do?”
“where do you work?”
“who’s your employer?”
n/a
i scribble
or
i’m a writer
i’m an artist
i’m a mother
(aka i have no income)
what is money
really
what is worth
what am i worth
to you
with no employer
with do husband
do i
still matter?

i decided at a very young age that i did not want to be part of the rat race. i watched my parents work full time & come home to watch tv. go to bed. wake up. do it all over again. buying expensive toys. worrying about money. never being happy or satisfied worrying about what they did not have….
i have worked many many many jobs. i have supported myself and still done what i want to do. i never really joined the rat race…. then i had a baby, fully intending to go back to work, but realizing that being a mom was what i wanted to be doing.
except that doesn’t pay. it’s not worth anything to anyone other than the mom & the child…& eventually society if the child becomes a functional & thriving member of said society…but, no, not worth anything.
so i became good at not spending money.
and good at not making money.
but still i have to answer this question. “what do you do?” as if it defines me.
i am a mother, artist, and a writer.
does it matter?

pretty picture

pretty picture
they say
how much?
i tell them
& they walk away
&
i spin
am i asking
too much?
sure
ink is cheap
paper too
but
i put so much of myself
in every
inking
years & years
of trying
of failing
of hurting
of growing
of figuring shit out
pretty lady
they say
what are you worth?
any price
i put on me
is going to be
too much
just
walk away.

i have now a diminished idea of what my inkings are worth. so if you want some, now would be the time to buy!
conversely, i now have the highest self-esteem i have ever had since childhood. did i have self-esteem in childhood? i can’t remember for sure. i mean, sometimes i can’t tell the difference between self-esteem & just not giving a fuck.

last day of inktober.

tomorrow starts nanowrime & my first year ever doing it.

everything must go

cut me down
to size
marked off
everything
must
go
when i realize
i am worth
far less
(far far less)
than i thought
i was
it is weird
to think
i valued myself
more
(far far more)
than the rest of the world
values
me
&
here i thought
things couldn’t get
worse.

this was my pull me down to earth (wasn’t i already there, buried in fact?) thought when i had to re-price my art to a lower asking price at the physical site as well as on my etsy site and at my art exhibit. i thought i was under-pricing my art. turns out i am worth even less than i originally thought. it’s a sobering thought…. but supply & demand & all that….

sigh.

so i am not making any new pieces to sell. instead i am focusing on other projects, including doing nanowrimo for the first time ever.

so maybe it was the push i needed?
(lemons & lemonade & all that)

trapdoor heart

this is just something i started thinking about pets & livestock & then realized i could include most of my human relationships as well.

i am really really really uncomfortable even suggesting someone might adore me….
why is that, i wonder? hmmm

finding medusa

i’ve spent a lot of today working on my collection of short stories that i hope to publish.
so far i am calling it walk with me.

then i took a break to doodle medusa. (doodling medusa…that would be a good title for something!)
which brings me to the proclamation of how much i fucking love writing. creating. making entire universes and breathing characters alive.
and there are stories everywhere.
just waiting to be plucked & polished.

i feel like i am blooming.
as an artist…as a writer…as a person.
it’s very exciting.

and a nice change from moping.

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.

from the journal of…

i just realized why i am feeling
so profoundly sad
& heartbroken
lately
i met two of my husbands
& one of my fiances
in septembers past…
september is either a very good
or very bad
month for me
romantically speaking….

and since my romantic value is so intertwined with my heart value…with my self value….

thanks a fucking lot culture that makes women worthless unless they are valued by a man.

fuck me.
or…
don’t fuck me.
i am unfuckable.
just a baby vessel who is spent already and who draws stupid pictures anyway.

there is this song that comes on the radio that makes me want to run over the artist with my truck. james arthur’s “say you won’t let go.”
man, that song pisses me off. it’s like a man proving he’s mr. perfect, caring man…like there is such a thing.
puke.
i am just feeling very oh-so crappy about love & romance & relationships & i just kind of hate everybody right now (not you though.)
if good love exists, i have never actually seen it.
which just pisses me off.

like, what did i do?
did i crush puppies in a past life?
what lesson am i supposed to learn here?

i’m pretty useless these days.
i have produced some art, but i not-so-secretly fear it sucks.
i am a terrible mom.
i just want to crawl in a hole with a bottle of whiskey.
i’m pretty sure i have no friends
or else i’d be saying this to them
not torturing you with it.
and when strangers smile at me in public, i think they must be confused.

sorry if i have sung this song before.
sorry if you are tired of it.
i just feel like crap.

and i hate my art.

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