i kinda feel like
opening my wrists
& painting one last
blood for ink
ink for blood
until nothing is
i know this is not
a healthy thought
a hopeful thought
but it is a feeling
you might even feel it
if you were
to the bone
& pretty much sure
you’d done it all
another inspirational post for my birthday.
i have been looking at art on instagram & hating my art…again. so i did this one with a bamboo pen to mix things up a little. i want to be more abstract. but i am not sure how to do that. so i might have to start trying harder. i know it is hard to break those habits of realism. even for someone like me who barely lives in reality.
anyhoo. i am not out on a ledge. i am just having a really rough time. the usual suspects. four year olds & forty year olds.
but i’m not giving up just yet.
i’m severely depressed, dear reader. i am telling you, because i don’t really have anyone else to tell, but i feel the need to tell someone. and the funny part is, i only know how depressed i am by how difficult it is to get out of bed…and to stay out of bed. all i want to do is bury myself in blankets…a kind of non-committal death. a half-hearted suicide. i’m not sure i have ever been this depressed…but, having survived my sylvia plath phase, i have to guess that i have been this depressed before. it just caught me off-guard because i thought i was doing okay.
i thought i was getting better.
i keep expecting to pop back out of it. usually i just pop back out of these little funks (that sounds less scary than depression…deep blue funk? poetic even.)
i don’t usually stay depressed for more than a day or two. but it’s been five days now…& two of those days were very sun shiny. and i dug in the dirt which is one of my go-to ways to feel better…. yet, this sadness lingers and pulls at me and wraps itself around me in the most seductive way.
and i cry for no reason i know for the upteenth time.
i used to always wonder at those people who could get in bed & stay in bed for days no matter what. those people so depressed that they could not get out of bed for anything.
that seemed like the way to go.
but as a highly functional messed up person, i have to do things even if i don’t want to. like celebrate birthdays, have company over, go to the grocery store, plant potatoes.
i always joked that my anxiety would never let my depression totally sink me.
like, i could kill myself, but then who is taking care of my children???
i could stay in bed all day, but the fucking dishes will pile up…i have to get up to let the ducks out in the morning or they might peck each other to death…i have to get up to check on the goat to make sure his leg wound doesn’t get infected…my kids actually do okay when i am like this–they just crawl in bed with me or watch movies all day while i stare at a wall…but i still have to fix food…clean up messes…
& make sure the world doesn’t end–even if i secretly want it to.
page one of chapter one
of my tell-all memoir
i have done sylvia plath
i have done vincent van gogh
now i am going to give
is this going to work? are you intrigued or are you all, “meh”? not that it matters what you think because i think we all know i’m going to draw/write whatever the fuck pops into my head whether it’s popular or not….
i’m wondering…should i try to keep it as close to memoir as possible–filling in the blanks & bulking up the dialogue etc. within reason? OR–or or or–should i just go “fuck it” and add fairies & demons, squid & flying whales?
honestly, i’m leaning toward option two.
also. i am working on more moses jones.
and thinking about just doing art journals for characters instead of me.
my cogs are turning.
let’s see if we go anywhere.
edit…so i kind of fucked around with the original and made it look better–to me. you can let me know what you think. you know. if you wanna.
here’s how it looked before:
i have done
i have accomplished
i have done so
in a vacuum
so to speak
my life is that experiment
i am that monkey baby
clinging to a wire surrogate
left without nurturing
from the world around
despite the lack of praise
in spite of that lack of attention
i can’t say i “thrive”
but i survive
i keep alive
i am exploring the fact that i have never really received any encouragement in light of my recent frustration with not ever getting much or any encouragement. my parents gave me way more discouragement than encouragement. i was an honor student and won awards in art, writing, and speech…but they never seemed to notice. i did it because it was who i was…not for anyone’s accolades.
just like my current art & writings. i do it because it is part of me–not to some day have a blockbuster film adapted from one of my works.
i am calling this “my van gogh stage” because he created–in great volume–despite only selling one piece of art in his lifetime.
also, his use of the self-portrait to express himself.
however, as with my sylvia plath phase, i will be avoiding the ultimate outcome.
hey. you know what?
if i’m depressed and thinking about how nice it would be to just be dead…
to just escape
all of this.
it is not going to do any good to say,
“shut up, don’t say that, you have kids.”
here is the thing
one of the reasons i think death would be nice
is because i wouldn’t have to be a mom anymore.
do you get that?
please, get that.
but it did work out.
you pissed me off.
what? am i an incubator? am i just a big nipple?
am i not a person?
do i not matter?
if i had no children, would it be okay then, if i wanted to die?
do you only care about me
because you hate to see motherless children?
there are plenty of suffereing children. go rescue one. if you want to help me
you don’t tell me what i should be thinking or doing or feeling
you fucking listen.
so now i’m pissed off
which is good
because it is hard to be sad when you are pissed off.
now i want to spite you for suggesting all i am is a vessel
only valued for my contributions as a mother
never really valued for that either)
so now i’m pissed off and i’m going to live to fight another day
my big epiphany for the day is that women are taught to not get angry. to be nice & pretty & to smile and to not make a big deal out of it.
and so we stuff all that anger down…and it contributes or results in a state of depression. we can’t be mad. we can’t be sad either…but it is easier to hide sad.
and mothers suffer it the most. we have to be everything. strong, but not too strong. always there. able to fix any problem. no time to think about yourself–why would you want to think about yourself? what? you’re thinking about yourself?? we have to love being a mother. it has to define us.
but what if it doesn’t? what if we have doubts?
stuff that down, too.
so i was depressed. now i’m just pissed off. which is good. all that sad is turning to mad and i am letting it out to go where it needs to go. i told those fucking exes who i have been reaching out to–out of loneliness–i told them what i needed to tell them. basically, to fuck the fuck off. i don’t need them. i really really really don’t. in fact, i am way better off without them. but i had to find that out. and i had to get pissed off.i had to realize that they actually made me feel more alone, because they couldn’t give me what i needed. and they don’t want to give me what i want. and i just have to get over it.
and get pissed off about it.
so maybe depressed women (men too?) need a healthy and appropriate outlet for their anger. maybe? i know it’s not that simple, but, hey it couldn’t hurt.
are you depressed? let’s go burn something down!
(at least we can burn a bridge to that toxic person in your life who you keep around because you haven’t gotten pissed off enough)
it’s one of those days
that i have too often
where i don’t see the point of my own species
misanthropy moves deep beneath my skin
a part of me
i think about suicide
and my thought is,
“fuck the survivors. they had a chance to change how they treated her.
they had a chance to understand.
to offer help.
they had their chance
but now they curse the dead for dying
and bemoan their own pain.
‘if only i had known
i would have helped’
but you did know…
how could you have not known?
you might not have been able
it’s hard to fight the demons
that chew at a brain
a soul…leaving you empty inside.”
i think as i do the dishes
make the breakfast
knead the dough
wipe up the messes
realizing once again
that my children are innocent
and cannot be left unattended
in this fucked up world
“well, there goes that escape,”
i say to myself.
no sylvia plath for me.
it’s funny, exhusband#2 accused me of–well, i’m not sure what–he insinuated i was up to no good because i checked out some sylvia plath writings & biographies. i’m not sure what he was accusing me of.
“i’m doing research,” i told him. “i reference her all the time. i think i should make sure i’m not being reckless with my references.”
what was he accusing me of?
researching my suicide via literature?
trying to be dark & depressed & desperate enough to stick my head in an oven?
is that something you would be nasty to someone about? their suicidal tendencies? but, i guess that is par for the course for exhusband#2.
i am so angry at him. mostly for not being the person i had convinced myself he was. the person i needed him to be. for being an asshole when i needed a hero. the anger helps. it helps to keep me from reaching out to him when i am lonely.
which is often.
it keeps me from reaching out to him when i am desperate.
which is all the time.
it keeps me from convincing myself that things aren’t as bad…that he isn’t as bad as i know he is.
sometimes anger is good.
sometimes anger has a place.