I don’t want to be any older, even to be wiser. Let this moment to billow out, cover us up and within we’ll be nestled in the pockets of eternity reserved for galaxies. This is my surrender. Will you take pity on a broken girl and let her have her love — forever?
As a teenager I used to be obsessed with finding my purpose in life. Fulfilling some grand destiny. It brought me a lot of pain, but also gave me hope that there was more out there…a perfect design. It’s been years since I’ve thought about anything like that…and yet today I feel it. The ache of being incomplete.
For some reason these feelings manifest as a desire to write, and not just poetry. I feel like I should be creating my own worlds, my own characters…and yet I have no idea what that would look like, be like. I have oodles of inspiration but no clear vision, no plan. Sometimes I feel like my life is so small I wouldn’t be able to draw anything out of it, even with my big imagination.
Does anyone else feel like this? A writer without a story…but more than that. A woman without a crux…
Why do I do this to myself? Risking heart and health to feed my vanity — one more plastic tragedy has me reeling, just like peeling the flesh to find it’s rotten inside.
I hear a lot about comfort zones. Specifically that you better jump out of them or else you will never grow and experience life. Well, thanks to my extreme anxiety, I live outside of comfort zones almost exclusively, and the things I do that may seem basic to you are often huge ordeals for me. I guess what I’m saying is that everyone is on their own journey, and some people are up to taking the road less traveled. But my little path and my baby steps are big accomplishments for me, so please don’t tell me that I’m not moving fast enough or working hard enough because you have no idea.
I realize that the phrase is meant to be motivational, and that as usual I am probably reading too far into things. But sometimes just showing up is what I’m capable of, and I already asked a lot of myself to do it. So please, don’t push if I don’t want to dance, or speak in front of people, or be the first to try it. I’m probably way outside of my comfort zone already.
I don’t know why this blog is so difficult to maintain. It’s like it doesn’t write itself or something.
I could hash out all the ways my life got complicated in recent weeks, but that would be boring and uninspiring…and I need a little inspiration today. But then again I have all the tools to help myself, so maybe what I really need is motivation. You know what, I don’t know what I need. It’s a weird day.
What I’m not feeling is particularly artistic or creative…which is what this blog is all about – creativity. Sure, I’ve done some paintings…but I’m not especially happy with them and I have no exciting projects on the horizon. I’m feeling a bit like a fraud, actually… Like I’m not really an artist, not really talented… I know this is all just negative self-talk, but it’s constant and all-consuming and I don’t really have the energy to battle it out today. I feel like I’ve been tired for weeks.
Anyway, enough of all that. Here is a piece I did that I’m feeling blah about.
Some medical issues have put a stop to my work for clients for the time being, so I don’t have much to report on that front. And…that’s all for now, I guess!
One time, instead of getting ready for school (8th grade, I think), I locked myself in the bathroom and tried to kill myself. I laid at the bottom of the bathtub as it filled up, not resolved but terrified. I don’t think I was scared of dying, I was scared of myself…that I could have that much hate and anger in me, to take a life. I’ve thought of suicide before and after this episode, but this was the only time I ever actually attempted it. Thankfully I screamed my intentions to my dad, who was furious and broke down the door. Strangely, I don’t remember what happened next.
This is the problem I have with writing a memoir, or any story. I have gaps in my knowledge of the events. I think it has something to do with the bipolar, but it’s very inconvenient.
I don’t know why I’m thinking about this today. Probably because I’m still trying to figure out exactly what went wrong in my novel writing last night.
Here I am, in the aching place that hypomania left behind. This one was so brief, but blazed hard and burnt me up last night. I had to take an impromptu two hour nap just to recover, and today I still don’t feel quite right. I miss having the inspiration, the excitement. Now all I have is longing. I look at my writing notes and wonder if I will ever be able to write this fucking novel. Maybe it’s just not in me. Maybe it will only happen in the short moments of manic glory.
I thought that medication would make me perfect. That the pills would carve out all the doubt and self-loathing and replace it with confidence and commitment to the things I want for myself. Today I feel like all it’s done is made it hard to cry, and instead of big episodes that sweep through the household like a windstorm, I have just these little earthquake tremors. And that must be life.
I journaled last night. Just a page or so of whining. I don’t think it helped anything but I didn’t feel like I could draw or paint and I certainly wasn’t able to write with my heart broken up over yet another failed novel attempt. And what do you do when nothing is possible? When nothing helps?
Perhaps I need to go back to reading about my condition, studying the exercises that are supposed to give clarity. I could take my doctor’s advice and run around in the sunlight for a while, but lazing about and eating sounds much more appealing…
I’ve been staring at this blinking cursor for at least ten minutes with no idea how to comment on my latest pieces:
They are called, “Pay Attention to Me” and “Butterfly Kisses.” I guess that is all.
It’s done, the pastel dust has settled…and I lost. I learned a lot. Like heavy black lines are NOT always a good idea. A light color will never cover a dark color. Bigger is not better.
Trust your instincts.
The truth is this painting died moments after I sketched it out and outlined it in sharpie. That’s when the itch to draw had been scratched and I remember thinking that the design was too weak to go on. But I spent too much money on the canvases and had no other inspiration calling, and so I plowed on, unhappily, until tonight when at sometime before 8pm I called it.
I’m frustrated still. I hit when I should have stayed and I busted, but can you blame me if I was only at a 16 with this painting?
Does that make sense to anyone else but me?
I’m not posting a picture because in a rage I shoved the pieces out of sight and I’m not ready to look at them again.
Okay, so I fixed the painting…! But seriously. Then we could make goat cheese to have with dinner every night. (And goats are so cute! I love those videos on Facebook.) And I assume that we’d make a ton of money and have a never ending supply of wine. People would visit and buy our wine then buy my paintings because they’re drunk and on vacation.