Diazepam [image page]

“Diazepam.” 8/1/13. Acrylics and ink on wood. 11½ x 11½ “.

Featured in my twelfth blog entry.

This isn’t a pleasant piece. It is not the product of sanity. Here’s the statement I wrote about it on the day it was painted:

Here is how I spent my day. I drank coffee, ate some breakfast, bullshitted around the apartment, ate some diazepam, ran some errands, dyed my hair, ate more diazepam, painted this picture, and then – without any real concern for the paints and painting adjacent to me on the couch, stretched out (lying on top of them), and took a nap for a while. And then I hung my stupid confession on the same wall that I’ve been hanging all my newest “works of art” on. My girlfriend came home (remember: silly as it may seem, since she’s my current girlfriend, I’m not using any real names on this website). From there, we mostly continued where we left off last night. Not talking to or really even acknowledging one another. I love her, she loves me. But things are not going well these last couple of days. Maybe it’s the fact that I’m FUCKING EATING DIAZEPAM. Or maybe that’s a symptom of the larger problem. Either way, I am not happy. And while I recognize that a lot of people are something less than happy a lot of the time, it’s not really something that I’m particularly great at. When I get unhappy, I sometimes begin to behave in ways that have a pretty good chance of fucking killing me. I’ve learned other ways to deal with that discontent, but my usual methods of feeling better are not working out so well for me lately. It’s not for a lack of trying. I’ve been painting like a motherfucker, I’ve seen a mental health counselor twice in the last four days, and I’ll see another on Saturday and another on Tuesday. Whatever the issue is… fuck if I know.

I am tentatively making plans to bail the fuck out of Jacksonville. I love this girl, but I don’t know if that’s enough. And maybe – just maybe – I’d be doing her a favor by leaving. It’s entirely possible that I am not cut out for sharing a life with another human being. My own mental illness is – sometimes – all that I can manage. Having to help someone else with their own… may be beyond my range of capability. It’s possible that I make a better friend than I make a boyfriend. Shit – just ask my last serious girlfriend – we’re doing great as friends! (Isn’t that right, [girl whose name I won’t use]?) It was probably selfish and fucked up of me to ever get involved in the first place. After all, she probably didn’t fully understand exactly what she would be getting herself into. And I certainly did my best, at the time, to convince her that all was well. I was healed, after all!

Say somethin'.