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:
in efforts to stay true to my art
& to myself
i have adopted the mantra
“what would van gogh do?”
…now i find myself wanting
to have drunken fights with other artists
losing body parts
& giving them away
to ones i love.
fuck mainstream comics. fuck “real” art. fuck convention. fuck fitting in. fuck it all. i am what i am.
i want to go back to a more raw appearance for moses jones. back to when she was just a prototype
back before i was trying to make her look like the world tells me she is supposed to look. i want my mojo to be rough & raw & ready to fight zombies.
ps. this was the last page of my journal. year of the dog, y’all. new things to come!
when last we left off with our hero, she was slaying zombies in the forest while foraging for supplies….
actually, i started a new episode after this called “the return of dusty.” but it puttered out.
i have been trying to get it re-started…but i really don’t think i want dusty in my story anymore. i think it is time to write dusty out of the script.
which i did, last night. i have yet to draw it though.
meanwhile, the real dusty is threatening to come visit. i am torn. while i wish i lived in a world where i never had to see him or his hell-spawn of a mother again…i also hate the idea of my minions going away to wisconsin again to spend a week with him & his hell-spawn of a mother again.
it is one of those things i have severe anxiety/control issues about. i mean i became a stay-at-home mom when i realized i could not leave my child at home. instead i was taking baby fidgit with me when i went out to pick up stray animals. he was sitting in on dog evaluations with me at the humane society where i was employed when he was born.
realizing i could not leave him, i quit my job.
i know i cannot control their lives. it just seems dumb to let him take them to wisconsin when he doesn’t even know what the fuck he is doing with his life.
he is taking my minions to live in his limbo.
it just seems dumb.
so my choices are to let them go…or deal with dusty in my space.
fuck a duck.
so i am currently trying to figure out which hurts less….
in other news. i am having a crisis of faith with my art.
i guess that’s not really news….
today i tried to read a comic book & found i could not. comic books seem dumb to me now. maybe not all of them, but definitely the mainstream ones.
i tried to post my page that i made yesterday (archangel carl) on a facebook group called “women creating comics” along with my lament about my crisis of faith…but as soon as someone started suggesting things i could do to make my art more “acceptable” to the comic world, i deleted my post & almost quit the group.
what would van gogh do?
oh! i almost forgot! (thank goodness for blog titles)
so we recently entered year of the dog. i was born in the year of the dog. i looked back, and other than my 12th year, i could remember having a life changing event in every year of the dog since my birth. maybe there was one when i was 12 too–i just can’t remember for sure. in retrospect, every decision i made in my years of the dog were the wrong ones.
so this year
i am determined to get it right.
to be true to myself and to stay true to my path.
whatever it may be.
so with the first full moon of this lunar year…i am struggling to find the path that i have determined i should stick to….
wish me luck.
it seems i am unable
fuck things up
is my secret weapon
do you laugh
or do you cringe?
do you laugh or do you
when you left
a hole in me
for 22 years
i have worked to
claim it was never there
& cry my heart out
but i imagine
when you left
all that remained of me
maybe i am cursed
maybe i am
crazy hostile me
i am ridiculous
who does this?
who holds on like this?
what will become of me?
another 22 years
this missing part?
i guess that is it
others have hurt me
but no one else
has left me
split in two.
if i were a van gogh…or a bronte sister…or adele, maybe this would be more romantic & less disturbed.
am i disturbed? or is it just that my heart knows what it wants
despite my best efforts to make it shut up and grow up and get over it already.
but i carry my cut out heart in a stained handkerchief to hand to the one i love.
is me trying to be a better
which is hard
when half the time
i’m not sure i’m
so realizing how nice it feels to get birthday greeting and how happy my kids get when someone sends them a card, i am trying to send birthday cards–homemade birthday cards to people who are in my life.
this one is for my nephew, who is a doctor who fan.
is my own
i show it to you
make it yours
i love my
i’m not good
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.
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.
it’s probably not a good sign that i am googling things like “i just want to talk.” and looking on wordpress for blogs with “lonely” and “lost” in them. i would go on a dating site, but they give me the heeby-jeebies. i usually end up deleting my profile after a couple of hours. i end up getting way too much attention when i go on dating sites. how desperate are these people? i wonder. and i effectuate a hasty retreat.
what does it say that i find so many others when i use search words such as “lost,” “lonely,” and “just talk to me”?
maybe we are all lost & lonely & looking to talk to someone…anyone.
it’s been a long time, if ever, where i was in a relationship with a kindred spirit. someone i could open up to. someone with whom i did not feel lonely or lost. did i ever have that?
maybe. maybe once.
but i have spent a lot of my life feeling alone. i was born unconventional in a conventional small town. the quiet one. the strange one. it’s always been difficult for me to find people who understand me.
i know there are others like me.
i’ve seen the memes on facebook.
but somehow i have trouble believing they would understand me either. how can everyone be so different and strange? and how can i be so different and strange that i don’t even fit in with the different and strange?
i think i might be a different species. logical conclusion, right?
and i’ve decided that vincent van gogh is the patron saint of misfit artists. sorry. i was working on drawing while the minions made me watch doctor who. you know the episode with vincent van gogh? it makes me cry every time.
i don’t want to die alone. i mean, i know everyone essentially dies alone. born alone; die alone. all that. but i really mean, i don’t want to die alone. i want to find that one person. that one person who makes sense. and that one person who understands me.
i know that’s asking a lot.
but it could happen…right?