All posts by Sam North

Artist Statements, Expressive, Outpatient

Maybe I Don’t Believe in God

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Originally, I was going to spend tonight working on some art for Billy Raygun, but (as excited as I am about that) I think I need to do some expressive art therapy. I’ve got a lot on my mind and a lot that I’m stressing out about, so I’m gonna try to be present, here and now, and just paint whatever comes.

maybeidontbelieveingod
“Maybe I Don’t Believe in God.” April 19th, 2013. Tempera and oil pastels on cardboard. 14×17″.

If you take the time to read this, I think you’ll appreciate it.

Statement. June 1st, 2013.

On “the inside,” my ability to express myself authentically reached incredible new heights. Out here, in the real world, sometimes I’m inclined to put my walls back up just a little bit. I had taken to talking about God for a while. When I’d talk about God, I was just referring to my ideas about love, acceptance, and [well] reality, I guess. The word “god” was part convenient shorthand and part… it just felt right. I didn’t feel the need to explain my personal brand of faith every time I used it. I speak coherently and my words have meaning that doesn’t require an exposition of my own understanding of (what I might call) God.

But back in the aforementioned real world… (outside of the contexts of twelve-step meetings and mental health treatment facilities) “God” has certain connotations that I might not want to be associated with. I don’t want people to judge me – to misunderstand me – and see me as something that I’m not, just because I feel okay terming my beliefs as “belief in God.” “Besides,” I thought to myself, “if I know that I’m only choosing to believe in the things I do – that I don’t think there’s any absolute truth to it (or to anything else for that matter) – is that even really belief?” I wasn’t really sure and I wasn’t certain that I was willing to take the risk of espousing something that could result in my being labeled as a Christian or even as some kind of new age spirituality dweeb.

This was on my mind when I showed up to expressive art therapy group back at Tranquil Shores one day in April. “Today, we’re going to make shields,” Julie told us.

And this is what came out of me. “Fucking perfect” – is how I’m compelled to describe it now. That afternoon though, as I was painting it, I was a little unsure. When I was asked to share a little bit about my piece with the others in the group (which – aside from me – is always comprised of the facility’s current inpatients) I spewed out a summary of my journey from the fiercely irreligious, non-agnostic, non-atheist to [whatever it is that I am today].

When someone finishes sharing about their artwork, the floor is open for feedback, if anyone has any. “That was better – that was more helpful than anything I’ve ever heard my counselor say”; “I want Sam to be my counselor”; “I want Sam to be my sponsor”; “that was amazing”; and “please don’t ever stop coming back for this group” were some of the things I heard. I felt incredible. I felt blessed.

This piece isn’t about my spirituality. It’s about fear. It’s about authenticity of expression. I’ve gotten pretty good at it, but I still get scared. The quotes at the end of the preceding paragraph: I’m afraid to include them lest they be perceived as indications of arrogance. But when I stand up to my fear – when I put down my shield – and express myself honestly and authentically, the rewards are beyond description.

That’s not always easy. I started this statement with the story and background that I shared that day (about my spirituality). But – as stated – this piece isn’t about spirituality. After ninety minutes spent on this, I realized that what drove me to begin this statement in that way was the same fear that I was addressing in painting the piece that I’m writing about: a fear of being judged or labeled as someone who “believes” in something. Despite the time and energy I poured into that writing tonight, to not remove it would have been antithetical to everything you’ve just read (which was, originally, the conclusion of this statement).

I’d prefer to keep this personal, but I feel a little bit of background information is necessary here. Krokodil is a synthetic opiate that, basically, has the effect of eating the flesh off of your fucking bones. It sort of turns you into a zombie… It’s bizarre and fucked up and awful. For a time though, I reveled in krokodil; I was thoroughly in love with the concept of this people-eating drug. There’s nothing to really love about something that destroys people the way that this particular drug does though. With one exception…

I don’t know how many times I’ve heard someone say to (or about) some drug addict in their life, “Why can’t [you/he/she] just stop? Just fucking stop.” Some people say addiction is a disease. I don’t know about that (and, really, I think that’s sort of a semantic argument anyway). I know this though: if addiction was a matter of control, of self-discipline, of restraint… no one would ever inject a drug that [ahem] eats the flesh off of your fucking bones. It’s only when a person is so hopelessly crippled by their misery, self-loathing, pain, addiction, and that endless cycle of the same that they would do something as devastatingly destructive as injecting krokodil. Which, I believe, makes krokodil proof positive that when we talk about addicts, we are not talking about willpower or resolve. Disease, mental disorder, a symptom of some other ill… classify it however you want, so long as you understand that we’re not talking about a simple character defect.

I used to say I loved krokodil because it was so wonderfully dark, evil, and fucked up. Now I claim to love it insofar as it’s the ultimate evidence that conquering addiction is not something that an addict can simply decide and will him or herself into. Which one is really the truth about why I love krokodil? In all honesty, I’m not sure. Certainly there’s truth to both of them, but to what degree I’m not sure. Krokodil is emblematic of my struggle to express myself authentically. And it’s something that I need to spend more time really examining.

The writing of this statement has been revelatory and – like many of my paintings – has been “painted and repainted” to the point where it bears no resemblance to what I first put on the “canvas.” At a certain point though, whether or not I feel like I’ve reached a point of denouement, I stop painting and let a piece exist for what it is – as a snapshot of myself at a certain moment in my life. I’m told (and I know) that I am not the person I once was. For longer than I can remember, I was thoroughly negative, but – today – I have a positive energy and am a welcome presence in the lives of the people whom I care about and who care about me. Nevertheless, I am still attracted to (what I can only think to describe as) darkness. Hate, pain, tragedy – these are things that I’m more than familiar with; I’m comfortable with them. I’m no longer interested in nurturing them or living in them, but… maybe they’re just part of who I am. And maybe – so long as I’m not contributing to them – maybe that’s okay.

Or maybe not. I don’t know. I don’t know a lot of things. But I’m happy today and I like who I am today. I do good things. That’s enough.

Current Journal, Expressive, Outpatient, Photographs

Insecure and Overwhelmed

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I’ve had (and still have) friends whose girlfriends are overweight. In years past, I remember meeting some of these girls and thinking things like, “Yeah, she seems nice enough, but I’m pretty sure [insert friend’s name here] can do better.”

It wasn’t until I started dating Heather that I ever had the thought, “Even if this girl were to gain weight, I’ll bet that I’d still be just as in love with her.” So it wasn’t until then that I actually had an understanding of how/why [whatever friend] was dating someone who didn’t have the “right” body type.

This morning, before she left for work, Heather was bumming out about her weight. Heather, however, is not overweight. She’s probably the most beautiful girl on the fucking planet. (Although – as I’ve just admitted – I may be somewhat biased when it comes to something like this). Still, I can relate. I feel for her.

It was January or February of 2012 and I was an inpatient at the Wellness Resource Center. Someone had accidentally smashed out the window next to my bed. Lying there, I thought about how anyone that were to walk past could see me. I remember contemplating going into the kitchen to get a knife. To slit my wrists or cut my throat or do whatever it might take to end my life. The reason: because I’d never be thin enough. I was thinking about killing myself because I was too fat.

At the time, (I’m pretty sure) I was about 150 pounds. Maybe 152 or 153. I don’t have a picture from that time, but to give you an idea of what we’re talking about, here’s a photo taken just now (at 147 pounds, which is close enough).

bddphoto

I’m way too familiar with the feeling of not liking myself – and when I add to that feelings of not even liking my body (my shell) – well, life starts to seem pretty unbearable. Everything starts to seem unbearable. And hopeless. And useless.

insecureandoverwhelmed
“Insecure and Overwhelmed.” March 26th, 2013. Acrylics, watercolor, marker, fabric dye, and knife. On a repurposed (framed) chalkboard. 16½x22”.

This painting was done one night when – though things were going well for me overall – I just couldn’t shake the negative thoughts in the moment. I didn’t really journal that night, but I did write one thing down. “I feel fat and I don’t wanna be me right now. No one will ever want to buy this.* My art is good for my mental and emotional health, but rarely anything that anyone would enjoy.” Which is to say that I let my discomfort about my body/size slime through to my feelings about my art and the new path I was trying to embark on. I was letting my body image issues infect and destroy everything. They’re that powerful.

I’m pretty great at spilling my guts and clearly I just fucking love to talk about myself… But the one thing that I don’t like to talk about is anything related to my body. You see: if I think I’m fat, but I acknowledge that I have body dysmorphic disorder (because mental health professionals have told me that I do), then that’s an acknowledgement that I’m not really fat. And then I’m a fat idiot in denial about how fat I am.

I’m doing much better with this stuff these days than I ever have in the past. And talking (or writing) about it as I am now, (I think) is an important part of that.

—–

  • * Footnote: Despite this piece having the words “no one will ever want to buy this” on it, it did – in fact – sell pretty quickly. Though 9×12″ prints are also available for purchase.
Artist Statements, Outpatient

Note to Self or: A Pile of Red Boxes Dances Along to the Raging Spiritual and Moral Conflicts That Rattle His (Presumably) Cardboard Bones

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"Note to Self (or: A Pile of Red Boxes Dances Along to the Raging Moral and Spiritual Conflicts That Rattle His (Presumably) Cardboard Bones)." 3/3/13. Acrylics and ink. 9x12".
“Note to Self (or: A Pile of Red Boxes Dances Along to the Raging Moral and Spiritual Conflicts That Rattle His (Presumably) Cardboard Bones).” 3/3/13. Acrylics and ink. 9×12″.

Statement written March 3rd, 2013.
Most treatment centers cut you loose after 28 days. That wouldn’t have done it for me. The one I went to (this time around) is a (roughly) 90-day program. I wasn’t ready to leave after 90 days. On my 115th day, I half-heartedly tried to kill myself. Two days later though, things started to fall into place after I had a bit of an epiphany that (probably) comes to other people far earlier in life. It was pretty simple: “I can be whoever I want to be.” In other words, if I want to be honest, all I have to do is tell the truth. If I want to be a good friend, I have to be compassionate and reliable (among other things). That was a huge deal for me. This piece is an extension of that. I have a hard time calling myself an artist, but if I make art, then – shit – that makes me an artist. On the other side of the coin, if I waste my life away at some minimum wage job, doing things that I don’t care about – if I spend my days behind a cash register and my nights in front of a television – that would make me something else. I don’t want to be whatever that is.
The image I drew somewhat unconsciously on an application (to sell art at a street market). I don’t usually re-draw/paint things, but I really liked how joyful that little robot or pile of boxes looks. So I wanted to make it into something more than a scrap of paper. As for the eyes, I use the two crosses for eyes a lot. I’m not a Christian, but I like the symbol of the cross as a balance to the inverted cross that I’ve pretty much always been a fan of. I need balance. For too long, I only embraced the dark side of things. So crosses for eyes are a stand-in for my internal spiritual and moral conflicts. As for the teeth – they’re mine. My teeth aren’t really that bad, but I still struggle with self-image issues so… I don’t know. This is one way that I guess I try and deal with that.
The question, “What did you do today?,” Well, I painted this. And now I’m setting up a webstore because if I really want to make a living with my artwork, I should probably take steps to make that happen.

—–

This piece is with one of my counselors from Tranquil Shores, Julie. She does the expressive art therapy group. Without her, I probably never would have started drawing or painting and I don’t know where I’d be today or who I’d be today.

The only bad part of moving to Jacksonville was moving further away from Tranquil Shores. I miss everyone.

—–

Signed, limited edition (#/50) 12×15½” prints are available in my webstore. Each print is packaged in a sealed Crystal Clear acid/lignin-free plastic archival sleeve, with a heavy backing board, and a single sheet artist’s statement on the reverse. Shipping and handling is free.

The original painting is no longer available (I gave it to my art therapy counselor). If you’d like to see it, just develop a serious substance abuse problem, check yourself into treatment at Tranquil Shores, and peek inside her office.

Current Journal, Expressive, Post-Treatment

Diazepam

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Someone made the mistake of asking me to transport a bottle of diazepam for a friend. Sounds like trouble in river city!

diazepam
“Diazepam (My Hands Still Shake).” August 1st, 2013. Acrylics and ink. 10×10″ block of wood.

Those of you that followed my progress / story / artwork may remember that back in – oh, when was it – April (probably) I made a piece that addressed how it had become more difficult to be as thoroughly transparent about my feelings as it had been back when I was still living inside the walls of a treatment facility. I believe that I addressed it specifically in my piece, “Maybe I Don’t Believe in God.”

What very few of you know is that I have been compelled for reasons (somewhat) beyond my control to be even less honest in the last month or so. You see, sometimes the choices that I make have repercussions for people that are not… um… me. And that puts a person in a little bit of a moral/spiritual grey area. On the one hand, I want (maybe even need) to be “rigorously honest” (as they say in “the rooms”). But I live in a world where things can get a little complicated and I’ve allowed myself, recently, to slip into a pattern of lying by omission. I carry many of these lies today. Some of them, some of you are aware of. I have confided in you. Others, remain totally in the dark. Today, however, I am choosing to be fully honest. 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!

So, here’s the general game plan… I have way too much stuff and whether I leave or not, I feel like it’s time to slim the fuck down. All of my records, books, etc, are now for sale. And of course ALL OF MY ART IS FOR SALE. (PLEASE BUY SOME OF IT). Ignore the prices in the store. I will cut you a god damn deal.

One last note, as I wrote on Facebook earlier this evening…

Would it be fair to say that we’ve pretty much established that I have no problems when it comes to disclosing personal details of my life to the Internet at large?
Okay, cool. Glad we’re on the same page.
NOW… if something I’ve written means something to you and you wanna tell me about it… Awesome! I appreciate that kind of shit. It’s inspiring, encouraging, and totally welcome.
Similarly, if you’d like to share something *with me* about your own life that you think might be helpful… Awesome! That kind of feedback is also great and I really appreciate it!
BUT if you reach out to me just to ask for MORE details about what’s going on with me… If you have nothing to offer me and you just want the inside scoop for your own weird selfish (probably ego or gossip related reasons) well… feel free to fuck right off with that shit.
My life is hectic enough without having to play twenty questions with every asshole that wants a piece of me.
Love, Sam

Current Journal, Expressive, Intentional, Post-Treatment

Stand Up and Say No

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It wasn’t gradual and it wasn’t an accident. I was eighteen years old and I remember saying to a friend, “Where can we get heroin and where can we get needles?” I was angry and I was miserable. The world was not fair and it wasn’t fun. Everything that everyone had told me was important was not. Shooting heroin seemed like a pretty good way to prove either that nothing mattered or – at the very least – that everything everyone else believed to be true was actually bullshit.

Six years later I was even angrier and even more miserable. I got reckless with heroin. I didn’t care anymore about whether or not I developed a physical dependence. I started shooting up every day. This would really prove a point, right? Eh, probably not. But it didn’t matter anymore. I didn’t care. It made me hurt less. That was enough.

When I started a record label in 2008, I named it “Traffic Street,” after the last song on “The Cheap Wine of Youth,” the second EP by Rivethead. It’s been my favorite record for a long time and it means even more to me today than it did back then.

The songs on that record describe life more accurately and poetically than anything I’ve ever read. There are the feelings of desperation and exhaustion, but there are also all the little moments that make life worth living. And there’s hope. When I’m feeling awful, I listen to “The Cheap Wine of Youth.” When everything’s going my way, I listen to “The Cheap Wine of Youth.” I’ve been asked for advice in the past and found myself quoting these lyrics. They come into my head every day, whether or not I’ve listened to it. It’s the most important piece of art I’ve ever been exposed to and its influenced the way that I’ve lived my life and the way that I live it today.

From “48 Doublestack”: I know it’s nothing short of terrible – the way this place seems sometimes. Still, it’s not impossible to laugh at the bullshit, drink up with the worst. Kid, I know it’s hard but try not to let the world make you the sucker all the time. These things that we’ve done, somewhat desperate and drunk, built the basis for this restless way that we live. We’ve rejected what you’ve got to show for the trade-off.

From “Traffic Street”: And now today I think I found a way to make myself go outside and laugh in the faces of the winning team, while they chase boring dreams and still live paycheck to paycheck. 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.

I don’t shoot heroin anymore and I’m not miserable anymore. People tell me I should take the bar exam and be a lawyer. I don’t want to be a lawyer. A lot of people think that’s crazy and think that they know better than I do how I ought to be living. I don’t need to shoot heroin anymore to show them just how little their ideas and opinions mean to me. Now, I’ve got a new way to laugh in the faces of the winning team. I wipe my ass with my law degree and I paint pictures of weird kids with bad teeth. Money is cool, but it’s not that cool. I’m not interested in the trade-off. I like my life the way that it is and I’m way happier living this dream than I would be chasing that other kind.

When life seems tough, I draw inspiration and encouragement from these lyrics (and a lot of others in the Rivethead / Dear Landlord catalog).  If it sounds silly to say stuff like this about a pop punk record… I don’t care. This is the kind of stuff that I think is important.

standupandsayno
“Stand Up and Say No.”July 31st, 2013. Acrylics and ink. 16×20″ stretched canvas.

Zack (who wrote the music (and sang) in Rivethead) has become one of my closest friends over the last few years.  Brad (who wrote the lyrics (and played drums) in Rivethead), on the other hand, I don’t really know outside of a couple shows and a couple fests. But he knows how much I like that band. One day last year, my counselor gave me a package that had come in the mail for me. It had Brad’s name on the return address. I opened it up to find a letter and a test pressing of “The Cheap Wine of Youth.” I’m pretty sure there are only four of these in the world. He could have easily sold it on eBay for … shit … at least a couple hundred bucks I’d guess. Probably more. But he sent it to me, as a surprise, while I was in rehab. I’m not exaggerating when I say that it’s pretty much the coolest thing anyone could have sent me. It’s on the same level as if Aaron Cometbus had sent me the original handwritten Double Duce. Or if Zack had given me the last Rivethead t-shirt and City Sound Number Five poster (which he did (because he’s awesome) (and I love him for it)).

But – yeah – this painting is my “thank you” to Brad ‘cause getting that record, from him, on that day, was… something for which I am incredibly grateful. I don’t really have the words to describe it.

The images are allusions to the lyrics of “48 Double Stack” and “Traffic Street.” If you don’t understand the caption, go pick up a copy of the record and start from the beginning.

Here it is on my wall. It’s the one record I’ve ever framed.
cheapwinetest

And here – for your listening pleasure – (by the flip of a coin) is “48 Doublestack.”

The painting featured in this entry is available as a 12×16″ print/poster. It comes signed, numbered (of 10), and framed.

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

Uncertainty

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image

That feeling when you get to the grocery store, unaware of anything that you’ve done wrong, yet the one person who’s supposed to love you, is very clearly feeling anything but love for you. So you withdraw and stop trying, only to have her take out the car keys and say she’d just rather go home. And since the idea of going back to your “home” with this person, who clearly has no degree of affection for you, sounds about as appealing/energizing as … its not an exciting prospect. So you walk back to the car with her, grab your bag, smoke a cigarette in the parking lot as she drives away, and then start wandering in the general direction that your *current* residence is. But you look down a side street and see the water. And it strikes you that maybe the best course of action is to just sit on the ledge with your feet resting on a rusted out sewer pipe just above the water’s surface.

This isn’t anything I’ve ever experienced, but it seems like something a lot of other people might be able to relate to.
[end sarcasm]
When I’m away, she’s terribly in love with me, can’t stand to be away from me, and can’t wait to see me. And once I’m back, she’s just frustrated with me almost all of the time. For no reason. Or at least not one that she’s willing to share with me or address in any way.
I meet with mental health professionals twice a week. I might not be the poster boy for wellness, but I think I’ve achieved some level of awareness and I think I do a pretty good job at expressing myself, my feelings, and my needs.
She, on the other hand, won’t talk to me about shit.
What am I doing here? Why are we a couple? Why are we living together?
Maybe it was naive to think that the first girl I got involved with at the end of my two years in and out of inpatient treatment would be the one for me.
Or maybe it can work.
I don’t know, but this is a bummer.
Did I mention that it’s raining?
uncertainty
“Uncertainty.” 7/29/31. Acrylics and Ink. 16×20″ stretched canvas.
Painted two days ago, at a time when I was feeling pretty disconnected. The only thing that I could recognize when I was painting it was the way i felt so in love with her every time I looked at her.
Cartoons, Commissioned, Inpatient, Intentional

Pop Punk Was Dead and That Wasn’t a Bad Thing

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I spent a really long time on a new painting/statement today – and I can’t take a picture of it so I can’t use any of it! Yeah!

On a more positive note, I got an excellent package in the mail today from Adam Ali! Not only did it include a bunch of awesome new 7-inches from It’s Alive, but it ALSO included a bunch of the stickers that I designed for Adam back in January!

poppunkwasdead“Pop Punk Was Dead and That Wasn’t a Bad Thing.” 1/16/13. Vinyl sticker! 2¾x4¼”.

Check it out. Frankenstein likes The Dopamines! This was the first thing I ever drew in my first (and only) sketchbook. It has a hard cover ’cause I’m a serious fucking artist. Duh. … Actually, now that I think of it, it doesn’t have ANY cover. I cut it off a month after I got it and used it as a canvas for my “I’m Also Available to Babysit” painting.

Anyway… had I not buckled to heroin, The Brokedowns / VBS split 7-inch would have been on Traffic Street, but I’m just as happy to see it out on It’s Alive. IAR was one of the five or six labels that inspired me to start my own back in 2008 and continues to release some of the best music on the planet. I’m really honored to have one of my crappy little doodles on something of theirs. And check out how clever I am – I got a stream of the record right here in my post so you can give it a listen.

You can grab a copy (and lots of other records) from It’s Alive! (Ask for a SC sticker when you checkout)!