Monthly Archives: August 2013

Artist Statements, Current Journal, Expressive, Journals, Post-Treatment

Mowgli

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"Mowgli." 8/20/13. Watercolor, marker, pen, acrylic, collage. 9x12".
“Mowgli.” 8/20/13. Watercolor, marker, pen, acrylic, collage. 9×12″. (The last of the pieces made while on tour with Rational Anthem earlier this month).

Zack and his mom were in the front yard when we pulled up to get him. From inside the van, I heard him say my name and when we spilled out, he pointed me out and said something about “Mowgli.” I thought that was pretty funny seeing as we have pretty similar taste in attire and I’m constantly scratching at real or imagined bugs in my hair. It’s an apt comparison.

It's an apt comparison.

 

Today is Tuesday – that’s my one day of the week when I have a routine in the outside world. I meet with my counselor at 10 AM and then go to an NA meeting at noon. It’s a reason to put clothes on. The rest of the time, I tend to not be very dressed. I ride around town without shirt or shoes because my only destinations are Alex and Angie’s (to do yardwork) or the convenience store up the street from my house. Sometimes I keep a shirt or shoes in my backpack though just in case. I guess what I’m trying to say is that I’m pretty free. I do whatever I want to do. Not only do I not have to put on a uniform or a collared shirt every day, I don’t really have to put on much of anything. That’s only significant insofar as what it says about the world and life I’ve built for myself.

I made plenty of friends in the years when I was a college student, but I only made one friend in college. He’s pretty much my only non-punk rock friend. By which I just mean that he’s my only friend that didn’t at least grow up in the punk scene – he’s my only friend that’s not connected to that world at all. He’s married, he has a mortgage, an advanced degree, and he just got a promotion at work. He’s well-adjusted (relatively speaking). When we were in school together, I was always cynical and angry and just chock full o’ nihilism, gloom, and doom. As much as he enjoyed that comedy (because it was so over-the-top as to be parodical) he’d try to get me to see the bright side and not be such a miserable little shit all the time. Tonight he sent me a text to ask how I was doing. “Great! Working on a huge painting right now. How are you?” His response was a little less enthusiastic so I called him.

He’s bored with work, with life. He doesn’t get to spend his time doing the things that he likes to do. Years ago, on the occasions when he was feeling a little less cheery about the world, I couldn’t offer him anything but commiseration (and maybe some I-told-you-sos). But tonight we talked for a little over an hour and (at the risk of being presumptuous) I’d like to think that I was actually able to help him feel a little better. Together, we came up with an idea. A change he could make to free up more of his time so that he can get a little more enjoyment out of this whole “being alive” thing.  I don’t know if it’ll necessarily turn out to be the right thing, but that’s not really the point.

I’ve gone over this before but… fuck what the world wants you to do. I don’t have a job, I don’t own a home, and I run around this city looking like Mowgli from the Disney Jungle Book. He asked me what am I gonna do if something falls into my lap that I can’t handle, that I can’t afford. We went back and forth for a while over different hypotheticals, discussing different outcomes for different problems but the “what if”s kept coming. Finally, I came up with an answer that satisfied him. “I don’t know what I’d do. But none of that stuff has happened. I have everything that I need today. If something changes tomorrow, then I’ll deal with it tomorrow. I don’t live in fear or with anxiety over what might happen. I live for today and – today – I’m happy.” He liked that. Whatever it is that he needs to change, I hope he figures it out and follows through. He deserves to be happy and it’s not outside of his reach. (The same can be said of just about everyone).

Speaking of Zack (um… like, nine paragraphs ago). He told me last week that my worldview is  (are you ready?) a little immature! (Unbelievable, right?!?)

If that is at all true though, it’s at least partially his fault.

“Do what you really wanna do. Don’t fucking ‘yes, sir’ through your whole life like a fool, kid. I hope you don’t really need the lies. Don’t fucking waste your time with the world always dragging you down.”

Artist Statements, Expressive, Outpatient

Moving Boxes (and Little Else)

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"Moving Boxes (and Little Else)." 5/24/13. Tempera and pen on paper. 12x16".
“Moving Boxes (and Little Else).” 5/24/13. Tempera and pen on paper. 12×16″.

She might be scared, but that has nothing to do with me, my choices, my attitude, or my … how I’ve been.
I’m ambitious and I have confidence but moving out starts the ticking of the clock. It sets the deadline for my success or the date of my failure. Not moving out is what I’m comfortable with. But how long is it okay for me to stall intimate relationships so that I can enjoy myself (and do the things I want to without worry)?
Is it okay for me to be okay? Complacency. Fear. Priorities. GROWING UP. I understand far less than I let on. Strange that someone with all the answers in interactions has nothing but questions when alone.

That’s the text within this piece – painted in my Friday expressive art therapy group at Tranquil Shores. It was getting closer to the time Heather and I had talked about picking up and moving to Jacksonville. We were bickering a lot. I had asked her what was really going on. When she failed to come up with anything, I suggested that maybe she was scared about moving to a new city. After all, it wasn’t me. I’m itinerant! I’m punk! All we do is move. We have no roots. “I don’t live anywhere!” She, on the other hand, had never moved to a new city before so she was scared and that was making her irritable. Obviously.

But this was expressive art therapy and (in therapy) we don’t look at what’s wrong with other people, we look at ourselves. So that’s what I tried to do as I painted and – when I started writing – all of this suddenly came out of me.

God dammit. It was totally me. I was terrified. If I moved to Jacksonville with Heather, I’d suddenly be responsible for rent and utilities and who knows what else. I had been out of (inpatient) treatment for three months and thus far was doing great. I was supporting myself without having to give in to reality and get a real job. (Which – in hindsight – I realize may not have been all that impressive a feat considering that I had absolutely no bills to pay). But if I moved to Jacksonville and came up short on money for bills one month, all of a sudden, I’d have to admit that I was wrong. I’d have to get a job and acknowledge that I couldn’t support myself creatively…

Maybe I should just break it off and stay in Bradenton and live with Taylor’s family forever…? I don’t need a girlfriend or to be an adult or…

God dammit.

“Moving boxes and little else” is an acknowledgment that I had moved more times than I could count but was terrified to move forward.

But I did! And – so far – so good.

This piece is important to me because the process of creating it really was revelatory. I had spend a lot time thinking about this stuff and had gotten nowhere. After I made this piece, the bickering between Heather and I stopped completely. It’s pretty remarkable how much garbage sometimes lurks just below the surface (and how badly it can fuck me up). This piece is proof that art is essential to the maintenance of my mental health.

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Here’s the song I quoted in this entry. It’s from the new Dead Mechanical album out soon on Toxic Pop (who split released the last DM full-length with Traffic Street (that’s my label, you guys!)) When I lived in DC, I spent a lot of time in Baltimore. When I wasn’t copping or shooting heroin, I was usually at a Dead Mechanical show. (Sometimes both!) But getting to see them play all the time was definitely one of the best things about living up there.

Here’s another song from the same record. Just ’cause.

Hit the Toxic Pop website to check out the album art (by Julie Benoit!) and pre-order the LP, which starts shipping next week. (I know the site says that it starts shipping in early August, but Mike (Toxic Pop) sent out an update changing the shipping date due to delays at the pressing plant).

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This painting is currently for sale. Or – if you’re not a big spender – you can pick up a signed and framed (behind glass) print/poster that’s the same size as the original.

Artist Statements, Expressive, Outpatient, Photographs

It Smells Like Pee Because I Peed On It b/w How I Feel About My Life Right Now + Doll Garage

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“I think I should (or at least want to) eat but I feel fat so I’m gonna try not to do that. I’d eat with Adderall but don’t wanna stay up too late. Got treatment tomorrow. I’d work out but don’t want to. I should get some work done or make some art (which I sort of am) but really I think I’ll just beat off. It’s a good distraction. I wanna say I wanna use heroin at times like this but I don’t. I never will. I’m not a good addict.”

"It Smells Like Pee Because I Peed On It b/w How I Feel About My Life Right Now + Doll Garage." 3/14/13. Acrylic, watercolor, resin sand, duct tape, marker, colored pencil, fabric dye, coffee, and urine on flat-rate USPS priority mailing box. 12x16".
“It Smells Like Pee Because I Peed On It b/w How I Feel About My Life Right Now + Doll Garage.” 3/14/13. Acrylic, watercolor, resin sand, duct tape, marker, colored pencil, fabric dye, coffee, and urine on flat-rate USPS priority mailing box. 12×16″.

Yeesh. [or something]. Right? I wrote that on a discarded USPS box with no intention of it actually becoming a piece. I was just losing my mind. There’s a lot going on here but that’s how it started (bottom center, red pencil).I’m proud to say that – like the other piece in which I express an interest in masturbating – I wound up getting pulled into art instead. (If you wanna know the truth though – on other occasions, I actually have masturbated! Don’t tell anyone though – it’s a big secret).

I already covered the “feeling fat” sentiment with “Insecure and Overwhelmed” so I won’t repeat myself here.

On the edges we have two allusions to the piece I finished earlier this same night (“Titrating”). On the right it says, “If THAT wasn’t titration-related, maybe THIS isn’t either.” On the left it says, “On a scale of one to ten, are you warm and safe? Do you find colors soothing? Is there any leftover pizza? On a scale of one to ten… Leftover pizza?” (That’s me poking fun at myself for being so concerned with pizza back on February 26th). Regarding “colors,” that’s about the neon green paint splattered across the pink duct tape that coats the far right side of my “canvas.” I like colors.

I was “making a living” at this point in my life by selling weird antique dolls on eBay. Every morning (or afternoon) I’d wake up and go out to the garage (in my ex-girlfriend’s family’s house) and list the dolls for sale. The details don’t matter, but they were basically inherited and I was enlisted to sell them in exchange for 50% of whatever they brought in. The dolls were all stored in giant plastic tubs. Some of them didn’t have clothes on, but there were a bunch of clothes floating around at the bottoms of the tubs. In order to make as much money as possible, I had to research the dolls based on their attributes and the markings carved into their backs and necks. For many of them, what clothes they were wearing was “important” (by which I mean, it affected how much I’d get for them). So here I was, sitting in a dark garage, putting different outfits on these toys and photographing them. Context aside, I was twenty-seven years old and playing dress-up with dollies. When that thought occurred to me, it struck me as being so absurd that I had to snap a ridiculous picture and post it on Facebook. The caption read, “Don’t even try to pretend I’m not the funniest motherfucker on the planet.”

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Because I totally am!

When this piece was just one step away from the way it ended up, I fucking hated it. Aside from the fact that it mentions embarrassing stuff (body image issues and masturbating) I just didn’t like the way that it looked. I can’t really explain my next move. Maybe it just popped into my head and seemed characteristic of mental illness and (since that’s how I felt in this moment) I embraced it. I took the piece and I peed on it.

And – call me crazy but… that’s what did it. The slight change in color tone brought about by my urine soaking into the cardboard… really brought the whole thing together. (My phrasing is intentionally silly here, but the sentiment is 100% dead on). Suddenly, I loved this piece. I deemed it “finished” and immediately started my next piece – “Everything Works Out Exactly As It Should.”

The next day (as I always did) I brought all of my new artwork with me to Tranquil Shores to share. I wrote the name of this piece on the back of it and came up with a really funny game. I’d hand it to someone, let them look at it, and then tell them to flip it over and read the title. At which point they’d look up at me like, “seriously?” And I’d give them a big dumb grin and nod.

Urine is sterile! The piece was dry by this point! Who cares?!

I am a child, but I have fun.

 

Artist Statements, Current Journal, Intentional, Post-Treatment, Punk rock, Stories, Video

Art Intervention (in the Life of Kendra Sheetz)

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Sick of paintings? Today’s piece is a SHORT FILM. Well, it’s a video… But the video isn’t the art – it’s just how I’ve chosen to document and present the art) to anyone that wasn’t fortunate enough to witness it firsthand at Dave Strait Fest last Saturday. Enjoy!

“Art Intervention (in the Life of Kendra Sheetz).” August 17th and 25th, 2013.

Update (five hours after posting):
I’ve now been called “douchey” for this video. If anyone thinks this comes across as “frat boy bullshit,” you obviously don’t know me and haven’t taken the time to read anything else on my site. This *joke* is at Chris’s expense. I frame this as a sex thing (rather than a schoolboy crush) to belittle Chris – not Kendra. Because that’s what’s at the root of any crush developed before really getting to know a person. He didn’t come to me and say, “I wanna fuck Kendra.” He said that he had a crush.

I know where my heart’s at. I know what my intentions are. I’m not objectifying anyone. This is a funny little social experiment, inspired by a female friend’s plan to do something similar. If you think we’re sexist, let me assure you that I’m really happy for you. Congratulations on constructing a black and white world to live in as a humorless butthole.

I hate that I’m getting defensive, but I’m frustrated. Who knows? Maybe I am wrong. Maybe I did cross some line of propriety. I don’t know! I’m imperfect. Is it possible that what I thought was funny and satirical wound up being exactly what I was trying to poke fun at in the first place? (The whole enterprise of “hitting on” girls). It’s possible! Like I said – imperfect!

But I stand by this. Either as exactly what I wanted it to be – or as evidence of my own defects. It is what it is. I’m happy to say though that – thus far – all these questions were sparked by the dissent of just one person. Everyone else that’s seen it (that’s expressed an opinion anyway) has enjoyed it. I hope that continues to be the case. It was meant to be funny – to make people smile. Not to bum anyone out. Hopefully this statement will mean something to anyone that’s on the fence, not knowing what to make of it.

Artist Statements, Cartoons, Expressive, Outpatient

Everything Works Out Exactly As It Should

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My first reaction to twelve-step programs was: “Required belief in a higher power? This isn’t going to work for me.” I read “We Agnostics” and heard about the proverbial higher powers of atheists (light bulbs, door knobs, etc.) and it was all bullshit. Besides, from what I could tell, these programs weren’t talking about “a higher power of your own understanding,” they were talking about GOD. Narcotics Anonymous goes so far as to refer to God as “Him” (with a capital fucking H)! The Alcoholics Anonymous text is even worse; with exclamations like “May you find Him now!” they might as well have a crucifix on the cover. I was equally unimpressed and unswayed by the guy who told me his higher power was Spiderman. And the people who said that NA or AA was their higher power just seemed to be reaching.

It wasn’t for me. “We Agnostics?” More like you agnostics. I wasn’t an agnostic or an atheist because I’m not even acknowledging it.  If someone asked me if I believed in God, I’d look at them like they were retarded. “It’s not something that concerns me. It’s not a relevant question. Who fucking cares?”

In December of 2011, worn by desperation, my mind opened just a little bit. In my room alone, my second night in (my first) rehab, I accepted my first higher power. It was something. Literally. My first higher power was something. “Whatever it is that those addicts who recover share in common – that’s my higher power.” My thought was that I may not be able to identify or articulate exactly what that was specifically, but that only made the concept seem more in line with what I thought conceptions of God or a higher power are really all about.

As I became more well-versed in recovery speak, I would playfully throw the slogans and principles around – mock-chastising staff and peers when they’d do or say something that could be interpreted as out of step with recovery. This, of course, included statements invoking God. As it so often happens in rehabs (or kindergarten classes – or any place populated by those with the emotional maturity of children) someone made a joke that sparked a whole series of related jokes, perpetually retold, refined, and expanded. In this case, the joke was Sam’s punk god. I loved it and, somewhere along the way, actually adopted it. Accepting a higher power in spite of my awareness that it was the product of our imaginations – in a way – showed willingness. It required more than ordinary faith; it required total nonsense. And while completely irrational, it was still (as I’d love to point out) every bit as valid a conception of God as the ones presented in religious texts. Its absurdity was part of the appeal. “Punk God isn’t really concerned with sin,” I’d preach. “Except for voting. Punk God fucking hates voting. If you vote, you’re definitely going to hell.” In more earnest moments, I’d confess: “I don’t actually believe in Punk God, but as a concept – as a tool – sure.” Eventually, I’d need something that could offer me more guidance than a parodical exaggeration of myself. But for a time, the idea that Punk God was looking out for me was enough.

Something in me changed. I was building up to it over the course of more than a year but there was a moment when it really crystallized and I became a different person. [See: “No Accident”]. I’m still somewhat embarrassed to talk about it isometimes, but I got to a place (emotionally) where I could accept a real higher power.

Love.

I’m not perfect when it comes to practice but, in a tough situation, sometimes I have the peace of mind to pause and ask myself: What’s the loving thing to do? What action can I take in this moment to demonstrate love for myself as well as love for others?  If I answer it honestly – and have the discipline and willingness to honor the answer in that moment – life seems to… everything seems to work out pretty okay (better than okay: extremely well).

This might not always be the case though, were it not for the second of my (let’s call them) “spiritual principles.” When something bad happens, I don’t accept that it’s bad. It might seem bad, but it isn’t. I might feel some kind of pain in response to it (whether physical, emotional, or [whatever]) but it’s a good thing. When I struggle with something, that’s a good thing. It’s an opportunity for growth. It’s a chance to become a better, stronger person. I believe that everything happens exactly it’s supposed to or, alternately, everything happens for the best. This is not a belief that I get consequent to some other belief (for example, that there’s a god up above that’s playing chess with all of our lives). This is a choice. I choose to believe that this is true. And – on a very basic philosophical level – it is very much, absolutely true – so long as I want it to be.  Reality is reality. I can’t change it. What I can change is my perspective / attitude.

It’d be easy to conclude that terrible things happen on this planet and that we live in an awful world. Even in examining my own situation, I could conclude that I live in my ex-girlfriend’s parents’ house because I’m fresh out rehab; I went to Georgetown Law and I don’t even have a job; I sit in a dark garage all day and generate my only income by selling weird antique dolls on eBay; I’m 27 years old, spent most of the last 16 months in rehabs and mental health institutions, and can’t even get a bank account; the record label that I poured myself into for years has crumbled and my band doesn’t even really exist; I’m a fuck-up, a loser, and I have no prospects for the future.

Instead, I choose to see it more along the lines of… I was a trainwreck of a human being and behaved abominably; in spite of that, I have people in my life who not only trust me to live in their home, but allow me to do so rent-free; I got to take more than a year out of my life to study myself with the help of incredibly gifted counselors, therapists, and doctors and finally figure out why I’ve spent most of my life unhappy, and discover a new kind of happiness that I never knew existed; I also discovered visual art, something that I was once too fearful to even attempt seriously, but that I now enjoy as thoroughly as anything else in this world (even pop punk!) and that has allowed me to connect with other people (people still struggling with addiction, people in recovery, and just regular people) in a way that those people tell me has enriched their lives and, in turn, enriches my own; I have dreams and aspirations that I work toward everyday and I enjoy that work regardless of any external success that might or might never come from it; I have beautiful friendships with inspiring people whom I admire and a girlfriend with whom I am thoroughly in love; life could not possibly be better.

Only one of those two statements is true but I get to choose which one it is. This is where the old, abandoned concept of Punk God comes in – it’s all about choice. No one can prove me wrong. Things may look one way – it doesn’t matter. Everything is exactly as we believe that it is. Right and wrong don’t really exist. Not in any practical sense anyway. I choose to believe that everything works out for the best for the same reason I chose to “believe” in Punk God. Because it helps me. It makes life easier. And just as no one could prove that Punk God wasn’t real, I can’t prove that everything doesn’t work out for the best. So I believe that it does. And I’m right!

"Everything Works Out Exactly As It Should." 3/14/13. Marker on foam board scrap. 8x10".
“Everything Works Out Exactly As It Should.” 3/14/13. Marker on foam board scrap. 8×10″.

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  • Prints of this piece are now for sale in my webstore.
Artist Statements, Expressive, Outpatient

Trying to Be a Light

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The phrase trying to be a light came to me. I repeated it like a mantra (in my head) as I tried to hold on to my grip. I was sad that my plans hadn’t worked out and I was really anxious about the message I had just gotten from Heather.

An older woman and her daughter (still older than me) walked up and asked about my painting and about art school.  “No, I’m not an art student.” I told her I was fresh out of a seven month stint in rehab and that that’s where I had picked up art. We talked for a few minutes and then she asked if she could pray for me.

And I said yes.

I’m tempted to defend myself. “Why wouldn’t I say yes? What do I care if she prays for me? It can’t hurt me.” But – in that moment – I think I was actually wrecked enough that my actual rationale was closer to: “Shit. Yes. Please.” (That episode where Homer’s in trouble and he screams something like, “Help me! Jesus! Allah! Buddah! I love you all!” – that’s kind of the state I was in). In either case, I’m positive that my outward response was simply a shrug and a nonchalant (possibly dismissive) “sure.”

But what I didn’t realize was that she didn’t mean later, at home. She wanted to pray for me right there and then. Aloud. With me, at the table, outside of this grocery store, as people milled in and out around us.

I was uncomfortable. Really uncomfortable. But I didn’t want to be. So I fought the impulse to stop her and just let it happen. She might have even tried to take my hand and I might have even let her. (I think I did). And then she went inside to buy groceries.

When she came out, she said bye and wished me luck. Just as I was finishing this. So I gave it to her. I don’t know why.

(I know why. Or… I have theories as to why. Good and bad. I don’t really like either. So I’ll just leave it there).

"Trying to Be a Light." 2/26/13. Acrylic and watercolor. 10x12½”.
“Trying to Be a Light.” 2/26/13. Acrylic and watercolor. 10×12½”.
Artist Statements, Expressive, Intentional, Outpatient

Titrating

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"Titrating." 3/14/13. Acrylic, marker, and pen on canvas. 8x10".
“Titrating.” February 26th and March 14th, 2013. Acrylic, marker, and pen on canvas. 8×10″.

I’ve never shared the text in this piece with anyone until now. Shortly after I moved out of Tranquil Shores, I went down to Sarasota to see if I could sell some of my artwork by just setting up on the sidewalk. I didn’t want any trouble with police and the most trafficked spot in downtown Sarasota is outside of Whole Foods, so rather than set up in such a way as to be explicitly selling artwork, I just sat at a table outside of Whole Foods and painted, with a few finished pieces (facing outward) in the crate attached to my bike, another on the table in front of me, and another leaning against my chair. I just painted and hoped that someone would walk up and want to talk to me and then I could somehow segue into trying to sell something. Plenty of people did stop and talk to me, but I didn’t say anything to anyone about selling anything. And it was twilight, so no one could really see anything anyway. The whole thing was awkward. It wasn’t exactly my best plan.

Just before I went to Whole Foods, I had stopped by Clothesline. I had made a habit of doing that whenever I was back in Sarasota in the last year or so (in between stints in rehab), but this time it wasn’t just to say hi to the owner, Austin (my best friend from ages two to ten or so). Clothesline does gallery openings or art exhibits or [whatever you call that kind of thing] and – as of a couple months ago – I was now an artist. I figured I’d show him some of my pieces and see if there was any possibility of showing some of my stuff there. He was really supportive and sweet, but I didn’t actually ask outright and the whole thing didn’t pan out exactly as I’d have liked it to. Looking back, that makes a lot of sense.

Anyway, this was written a few hours later – after the Whole Foods attempt, after starting my ride back to Bradenton. It was colder than I could stand (to ride in) so I pulled over and wrote this on a piece of canvas that I had started to paint earlier. It says:

At first I thought it was just because she wanted to see me, but when I started writing on “Smiling With a Paintbrush in My Teeth,” I realized it might not be a good thing. When I asked her if she just wanted to see me or had something specific to talk about (and that I might not be home by ten) she said, “It’s not a big deal – it can wait ’til tomorrow.” But it’s a big enough deal that it’s not a text or a phone call. And a big enough deal that – ideally – she wanted to talk about it tonight. I’m really scared. Trying to see the good. Trying to be a light. Whole Foods today (covert street sales) was a bust. Clothesline was a bust. I might need to be in a big city to be an artist. And what keeps me from that? Heather. If she left me, I could go wherever I want. In another piece today, I had described myself as “stuck” and “trapped.” Also “smiling,” but still. My little punk rock heart’ll be broken, but I’ll be free to pursue my dream. And she’s been weird the last two days. “A dream I don’t want to wake up from.” It’s true, but maybe it’s time for me to wake up. I tried to ride the moped back. It’s too cold. The zipper on my bag keeps opening. I caved and called Lynette. There’s pizza waiting at home. I’m scared but I just need to make it another 100 minutes. Writing this killed 17. By the time I’m warm and fed, I’ll only have maybe 55 minutes to kill. Fuck. I’m smoking a cigarette now.

So – being incredibly codependent – I wanted to see Heather every night, but I was trying to be cool with it on the nights that I didn’t see her. But when she sent me a text on this evening, asking if she could come over around 10, I was excited because she had said that she had to work early and wouldn’t be coming over. And then my brain went into panic mode, as I realized that her text also implied that there was something we needed to talk about. Obviously, I jumped to the conclusion that she was going to break up with me. We had only been dating for a couple of weeks, but – shit – I didn’t really understand why she had been into seeing me in the first place. I’m a heroin addict and I just got out of rehab. She’s well-adjusted and employed. She drives a car! That she bought! With money from working!

I got picked up on the side of the rode and went “home.” (I was living with an ex-girlfriend’s family – although – I think it’s safe to say at this point (eight years in) that they’re basically my family; they’re as much family to me as anyone else in the world). Anyway, I was a ball of anxiety, I was so incredibly stressed out throughout this, but I remember that the one comforting thought in my head was there will be pizza – I will eat pizza and everything will be okay. (Yes, I am nine years old). When I got back to the house, there was not any pizza left. It was a pretty devastating blow.

I didn’t finish this piece that night because I didn’t want it to be a piece. I didn’t want anyone to see what I had written. It’s embarrassing.

Three weeks later, I found myself similarly upset though and I picked it back up. In all of that time, I had been cutting my anti-depressants all the way down to zero. For that reason, it was tough to tell when something was a legitimate issue and when I was maybe just feeling the absence of my medication. Just before I moved out of Tranquil Shores, it had been suggested that maybe I didn’t need anti-depressants after all. I started titrating down and we were monitoring my condition to see how I did with a lower dose and then with no dose. The day that I finished this piece, I was at the very end of my titration. I had no idea what was what.

I still get depressed, but I haven’t gone back on anti-depressants. After all, I still got depressed even when I was on them. And actually, I got depressed even more often because my “mental health tools” weren’t as strong back then. I don’t wanna go on a long spiel about it, but I’ll just say: I think anti-depressants are for people suffering from depression without cause. If, on the other hand, a person has plenty of legitimate reasons to be depressed, depression is the appropriate response and not something that should be treated with a pill. That strikes me as being roughly equivalent to putting a piece of duct tape over a “check engine” light and thinking the problem’s solved.

Anyway, I’m not saying that I have good reasons to be depressed, but I’ve got my little episodes and I have ways that I can manage them without a pill. Did I need it for a time? Almost definitely. I don’t think I could have started to get a grip without them. I was immeasurably miserable all the time. Words like “hopeful” and “happy” disgusted me. I wouldn’t even say them out loud. My process, getting well… it wasn’t quick and it wasn’t easy. I had a very long way to go. (And – yeah – I’m still going).

Quick aside. In writing this entry, I noticed something cool about this piece: how many other pieces it alludes to or is tied to in some sense. At least five. Maybe those will be the next ones I add to the site. (As I add those pieces, I’ll add links to them in the text of this entry, where each is referenced).

 

This painting has already been sold but hand-numbered/signed prints may still be available. Contact for availability inquiries.