I Only Fuck to Black Metal

November 16, 2013

Granted – I’m out of mind but, for an emotional basket case, I’m a pretty nice kid. I’m friendly. And because I isolate and know that I shouldn’t, chances are – that if you ask me – I’ll probably hang out with you. I have enough of an interest in people (and interact with them so rarely) that I’ll sit and talk with just about anyone for an hour.

I’m trying to eke out a living as an artist. That’s not the easiest thing to do and I’m not above charity. Last week, I saw some guy with his hands full and I offered to help him. It took me all of thirty seconds and I certainly didn’t expect to be compensated, but he pulled out a five dollar bill. I paused – unsure whether or not I should accept it. But I did and I thanked him. If he felt that my little bit of help was worth five dollars, I’m not gonna tell him he’s wrong. Five dollars makes a difference in my life and I was grateful for it.

I was organizing my prints at Sun Ray and some guy asked me if the art on the walls was mine. I talked to him for a while, he was friendly enough, said he collects art, said he couldn’t make it to the opening tomorrow but that he wanted to get in touch later and asked for my phone number [which isn’t something I’m protective of; I even have it listed, here, on the internet]. I wrote it on one of my cards and gave it to him. “I really wanna keep in touch,” he said. ” I can really help you out. What I’m really interested in is hearing more about your background, maybe over a meal.”

“Yeah, okay, cool…” I said somewhat warily, trying to be polite, trying to not be socially awkward. (I have a hard time knowing when it’s me that’s being weird). If I take him at his word, after all, all of that would be cool. I mean, I (CLEARLY) don’t have a problem talking about myself, I eat food, and I’m stoked as fuck to sell my artwork. So… sounds like a win? Even if his choice of words is a little strange…

And then I realized that I was falling for the same shit I’ve fallen for before. And I remembered something else he had said in our conversation that now made a lot more sense to me. How he was disappointed the last time he bought a painting because, as he put it, “I was hoping the artist would have been a lot more appreciative.”

Being put in this position sucks because it makes me feel like a prostitute. I don’t want to come right out and say, “Hey, I’d be happy to eat lunch and talk to you, and more than happy to sell you a painting, but I’m not going to have sex with you.” Because no one’s actually said anything about sex and it makes ME feel like an asshole for jumping to that conclusion. But I fucking know that’s what it’s about. And I also (unfortunately) know from experience that even if I do state all that explicitly, an attempt is going to be made to coax me into meeting up under the pretense of selling art and having a meal and then I’m still gonna get propositioned. And even if I’m not, I’m still gonna feel like a prostitute because it’s not really my art that the guy is trying to buy, it’s me (or my time or my attention or [whatever]). That doesn’t sound so bad, but I just can’t do it. Even without the bullshit art pretense. I know because I tried once.

The offer was a hundred bucks (paid up front) to meet at a Starbuck’s for a cup of coffee and sit and talk for an hour. I thought about it and – like I said – if there wasn’t money involved, I’d meet up with somebody and talk for an hour, so why not? If somebody I don’t know is asking me to sit and talk, they’re probably pretty lonely. It seems like a kind thing to do and maybe I’ll learn something. And in a case like this – where money is offered – well, I wouldn’t have asked for it, but if someone wants to give it to me, I’ll accept. It might not be as altruistic, but that doesn’t make it unkind.

So it seemed like the rational choice was to go. The only “why not” I could think of was that it made me feel uncomfortable. And when I reflected on that, it struck me as being somehow homophobic and I didn’t like what that said about me. So I went. I walked into the coffee shop and…  turned around just as quickly, went right out the door, got on my scooter, and sped the fuck away. It was too fucking weird. I felt uneasy. It felt wrong or, at the very least, it definitely didn’t feel right. No one should wanna pay me just to hang out with them. I’M COOL BUT I’M NOT THAT COOL. Besides, this asshole didn’t even know whether or not I was cool. He didn’t know me at all.

I thought about it afterward and couldn’t quite figure it out – my reaction, I mean. Was it homophobic? My gay friends don’t make me uncomfortable. Being hit on by a guy doesn’t make me uncomfortable. Somehow, I’ve only just now arrived at a satisfying conclusion. It has nothing to do with sexuality; it’s about respect. I might be a self-promoting little fuckshit but it’s not really me that I’m selling. It was Traffic Street Records, now it’s my art, and (in a sense) it’s sometimes even my personality. (There’s a component of myself in all of it). But it’s not me. No one can actually buy me. I’m not for fucking sale.

Obviously, this stuff makes me a little angry but I’m still sympathetic. After all, I don’t think anyone out there is acting with the intent of fucking with me; we’re all just trying to get by and find some kind of happiness and we all act selfishly (to whatever degree) sometimes. But I’ve decided that I’m not interested in playing this sort of game or walking this balance beam. If you wanna buy my art because you like my art, that’s fucking awesome. But if you wanna buy it ’cause you want something else from me – with all due respect – fuck off. I might be broke but I’m not that desperate. I’d rather wait ’til I find a buyer that actually appreciates it.

—–

"I Only Fuck to Black Metal." 3/12/13. Needle, thread, fabric dye, ink, and acrylic paint. Shorts.
“I Only Fuck to Black Metal.” 3/12/13. Needle, thread, fabric dye, ink, and acrylic paint. Shorts.

If I didn’t make and wear shit like this, I probably wouldn’t have these problems but… fuck that. It’s my RIGHT to be fucking hilarious.

[Joke!]

—–

28

November 8, 2013

"28" 11/5/13. Acrylic pain, food coloring, ink. 18x24" stretched canvas.
“28” 11/5/13. Acrylic paint, food coloring, ink. 18×24″ stretched canvas.

This is how bad at relationships I am: I wait until twenty-four hours after things start to get better to share my painting from when things were still fucked up – thereby risking that they get fucked up again. Actually, that’s bullshit – I don’t think this is going to fuck anything up. I’m just not comfortable sharing this ’cause I think it makes me sound petty and immature. I don’t need to write a statement for this piece because it’s got all the text it needs right on the canvas. Here’s what it says…

—–

I didn’t cry. Well, no, when it got bad, I did. But pre-addiction, if I cried, it was usually fake. To show a girl how hurt I was. It was emotional manipulation. But at my worst, I’d break down and cry. Then I went away to treatment and I watched other people cry. But I didn’t. Still “in,” a year later, I started. Like all the time. I was a mess but I was getting better. Then I “got” “better” and I stopped.

I have an idea for a cartoon. It won’t be hard to make. People will like it.  But I just wanna cry. But I don’t do that anymore. I can still force myself. I can fake it. But I don’t do it for real. I’m not holding back tears because I’m not in the kind of emotional state in which they can even begin to form.

The question of “what I wanted to do for my birthday” never came up. Maybe that’s my fault, but there were already other plans and I didn’t want to be disagreeable. Am I being crazy though to feel like I should have never been in that position? Is it unreasonable to think I should have been asked?

She’s not at all mean or selfish. She had good intent. But this gets to what was under my skin the other day. That we just might not be on the same page. We might not be right for each other. And that’s what I’m actually upset about.

On the ride home, I wanted her and told her so. She said she had to be up early for work in the morning. I guess I understand that but – at the same time – it’s my birthday and I guess I sort of thought she’d want to do whatever for me. And it makes me sad that she didn’t just want me the way that I wanted her.

I don’t think it’s supposed to be this way. I think something’s missing. She says otherwise but I can’t imagine that she gets what she needs out of me / this relationship. Which is why I feel guilty whenever I bring this stuff up. It’s not like I’m so great.

This is the story stripped of all its detail (at its vaguest). I write that way for myself. To keep the focus on my feelings. Even though I know it’ll be less satisfying for anyone else. Less “entertaining.” I enjoy an audience but I won’t cater to it. Not with this kind of work anyway.

I enjoy the sentiment of self-pity but not when its point of origin is with me. This feels like self-pity and it makes me feel embarrassed.

I wonder what I’m saying without realizing it. What I want this to say (or think it says) and what it actually says are probably wildly different. [I’m probably an asshole].

—–

So that’s the text on the canvas… Have I embarrassed myself enough for one day? Great! Here are links to the other pieces in what might as well be considered the “series” to which this one belongs.

Status Update: Halloween 2013

October 31, 2013

The pumpkin I carved in rehab last Halloween.
The pumpkin I carved in rehab last Halloween.

Aside from a couple hours of fliering, I spent all day painting. It’s still not done but I did put a small part of it online.

When I coined out at Tranquil Shores, a friend told the story of his first day. He got out of the van, stepped into the courtyard, and the first thing he saw was me: shirtless with a giant butcher knife, carving a pumpkin, smoking cigarettes, and listening to punk records on a portable turntable. I tried to hit him up today but got no response. I heard a few weeks ago that he wasn’t doing well and was probably shooting up again.

Earlier this morning, I got a call from another kid I was in treatment with (in January and February of 2012). We hadn’t talked in 18 months. He’s still shooting up but he’s still young… My heroin use didn’t become a heroin problem ’til I turned twenty-five so… The important thing was that he said he was doing well overall (and I believe him). When I get a phone call like that, it’s almost always from someone that wants to know if I’m still in [whichever city] and if I’m still clean – ’cause if I’m not could I maybe help them find some dope? He’s up in New York though and was just calling to catch up. It was really cool to hear from him.

I think I broke up with my girlfriend this morning. I’ve journaled about it a lot over the last few days but – whatever I choose to share of those – I’ll hold off on until my painting is done.

Face Thing

October 27, 2013

"Face Thing." 12/12/12. Oil pastel and watercolor. 12x34".
“Face Thing.” 12/12/12. Oil pastel and watercolor. 12×34″.

For a long time, I thought this was the most embarrassing thing I’d ever made. I was hesitant to even call it “art.”

—–

Immediately after figuring out how I felt about myself, I decided to see if I could use the same approach to figure out how I felt about the girl. With my non-dominant hand, I wrote until I had completely filled the two sheets in front of me (taped together earlier for some other purpose). My only pauses were to change colors and even that was done without real consideration – a quick swap when I felt the urge.  I tried my best to be totally blunt, perfectly honest, and entirely concentrated on my feelings. I didn’t want to rationalize, bullshit, or otherwise fuck myself up. I wanted what came out of me to be real. I’m not sure whether or not it was…

Some parts were written in such a way that they wouldn’t make sense to anyone else – and there was no punctuation in any of it – so I’ve made a few minor edits.

—–

Your first group, the buddhist monk we had coming was running late. I was manic but I caught myself and asked the group to keep me in check. I didn’t want to be a spazz on your first day even though I preemptively disliked you. (You seemed too level-headed and assembled to like me).

I didn’t like the way the other guys talked about (and sometimes to) you. We didn’t talk much but you were nicer than I’d assumed and smarter too. When I ran into you after getting kicked out, you were so sweet to me. I thought, “I’d like to have sex with her.”

I didn’t really understand friendship but ,when I came back, we became friends. It was outstanding. We were exceptional. I liked it when we’d touch but knew that was the limit. We had both made that mistake in treatment before. Our counselors said they were worried about us getting too close. We talked about it and you said, “If this were last year, we’d be in trouble.”

We respected the physical boundaries we were given (for the most part) but got carried away otherwise – we loved each other too much. I didn’t know what was real. A pretty girl, an interesting boy, codependency issues, rehab and limited options… Was it love or something like it, or just compulsion and fear?

You didn’t seem too interested when I presented my life story. (Punishment for how I acted at your first step?) It hurt. That and more. It got worse. I needed to talk. I still don’t understand that night. I  got mean enough to get rid of you when all I really wanted was for your door to open.

I couldn’t handle it. I told the truth and you denied everything but, in between, I realized that I really did care about you, contrary to what I thought and said when I first spilled our guts to everyone, while you were away. It gets worse: I think i love you. I admit, I’m still not 100% but I’m going with it – even if you hate me. And not ’cause I wanna be tragic.

I still want to have sex with you but, mostly, I want to be friends.

For real.

—–

Two months later, when I had my coin out, the staff decided that we should have an “art show” – everything I had made since arriving (more than one hundred pieces) was hung up on display in the group room. Each had a title card with a short statement. The one next to this piece said, “If this thing actually ends up on the wall at my coin-out then I am way fucking braver than I have ever suspected. And way more honest. Well, honest about disclosing my art and my thoughts from the past (as evidenced in my art). There’s very little that’s honest about this thing in and of itself.” I’m not totally sure how I feel about that. The things I said with this piece were definitely honest when I wrote them… By February though, I had convinced myself that I had been seriously deluding myself – to such an extent that “the truth” was something completely beyond my reach. Today, I think that was probably an example of my “putting walls back up” to protect myself. My feelings were real and I shouldn’t have tried to discount them just because things played out a certain way and I now (then) felt silly about them.

—–

tipjarThis piece was later cut up and merged with its title card and a related piece I’ve also thought of as “embarrassing.” It’s listed for sale in my webstore but – if anyone wants it – you can name your price. Seven dollars should cover postage and (beyond that) I don’t care about the money.

Update (a couple hours later): Wow – kinda funny. I just looked at the Storenvy listing for this piece and it has a different statement that I wrote back when I first listed it for sale (sometime in August, I think). It’s interesting how much my attitudes and perceptions shift over time.

Normal Fuck b/w Who Do You Work For?

October 22, 2013

"Normal Fuck b/w Who Do You Work For?" 10/21/13. Acrylic painting. 16x20" stretched canvas.
“Normal Fuck b/w Who Do You Work For?” 10/21/13. Acrylic painting. 16×20″ stretched canvas.

Though it had become fairly regular with my expressive art therapy pieces, it’s been three months since I last felt compelled to cover my canvas with a sprawling journal entry. My newest painting though…

I take Adderall. If I don’t, I’m unproductive. But sometimes I can’t take my Adderall. Because I haven’t yet taken my Adderall. As much as I’d like to be clever – that’s not a joke. And when I admit that, it feels kind of pathetic.

I still don’t have a job, but I work at least eight hours a day. Many days, it’s much more than that. The work that I do is probably the only work that I’m capable of doing at this point in my life. It’s good for me and (it seems to be) good for a lot of other people too. It certainly seems to have more of a positive impact on the world than my work in [let’s say] a gas station would. It’s too bad that it doesn’t pay as well.

I’m not sure what my “job” is… Do I just do what I do, or do I need to dedicate the same kind of energy to marketing myself? I don’t wanna do that any more than I wanna work in a gas station.

I think a lot about “success” lately. I don’t think it’s just freedom (from rules, bosses, schedules, orders), I think it’s also… – I want to say freedom from anxiety – comfort (internally / spiritually). Excepting my EDD freak-outs, I stress about not having enough money to 1) pay bills and 2) keep Heather in love with me.

Look at that! I finally fucking admitted it!

You know… for a second, I thought this was big. But, really, it only means that I’m just like every other normal fuck on the planet.

Oh – shit. That is big.

Growing up, my dad taught me (or at least tried to teach me) a few things. One of those is at the crux of this piece. “If you don’t make enough money, (sooner or later) she’ll leave. It doesn’t matter how much she loves you. If you can’t afford to do things like go on vacation, then – eventually – she’ll find someone that can.”

My biggest regret (or possibly just the one I think of most) is something I said to Heather when we first started seeing each other. I was still living in Tranquil Shores then, so I was very much a blank slate; no one really had any idea what the fuck my life would look like even 30 days into the future. I had recently decided that I wanted to live, essentially, as I was at Tranquil Shores: I wanted to dedicate myself to art and other creative projects, and have a little time left to do standard mental health / recovery sorta stuff. When I told Heather, she asked how that could possibly be tenable in the long-term. I assured her that I was really clever – that I’d make it work somehow. And that “shit – if all else fails, I’ve got a fucking law degree from Georgetown – I can always go get a regular job. Work seasonally (or something like that). In any case, if I ever needed money, I’d be able to come up with it.” And why not? I always had in the past.

But “why not” is that I’m not a fucking drug addict anymore. Sure, I was always able to come up with money before but that’s because I was okay with heading over to the nearest college and stealing laptops (or anything else valuable I might come across). And – in case it doesn’t go without saying – I don’t do shit like that anymore. All that aside, what I emphasized was simply that I’m really clever and that things are going to work out for me. I think I was more lacking in thoughtfulness than I was being dishonest.

When she told me she liked to go on vacations – and asked if I’d be able to afford something like that – the word probably rang that old bell in my head and sent me into panic mode. Without a second of pause, I just said “yes.”

Because of all that, I feel like I started this relationship under false pretenses – and now that I’ve already suckered her into liking me, it’s not the kind of thing I can just take back. In the end, I know it won’t make any difference (whether or not I promised to be not broke one day); if I don’t ever make money (and it is an issue for her) it’s not like she’ll be obligated to stick around just because “she knew what she was getting into.” Then again, I was a heroin addict and a mental patient so… it might be fair to say that she knew (or at least should have known) what she was getting into either way.

I selected the “most outrageous” text from this piece for the title because I want to distract from how uncomfortable I am with the real subject. ”Who Do You Work For?” would make for a far more genuine title. I like it because it implies Heather and myself, as well as (potentially) a third-party audience (with – or instead of – Heather). After all, so much of the journal reads like I’m defending myself / trying to justify my life to someone. And just mentioning anything about financial anxiety within a piece of art makes the whole thing feel like a commercial solicitation (which also makes me uncomfortable).

Although, as Heather pointed out, I’m well aware that my pieces with journal entries on them as way less salable than the others and that by using her name in the piece (rather than a generic equivalent like “my girlfriend”) I made it even less salable. Which makes me happy – to spot concrete evidence that, though I might stress out about money in relation to my art, that tension isn’t influencing me in such a way as to detract from my (or my art’s) authenticity. I don’t ever make something with salability in mind; I just fucking make it. So while I may prove to be a commercial failure – so long as I honor myself and my expression – I can still be a personal success. And maybe that’s enough…

—–

14

October 20, 2013

"14." 1/2/13. Calligraphy ink and sewing needle (tattoo). 1x2".
“14.” 1/2/13. Calligraphy ink and sewing needle (tattoo). 1×2″.

In early November, Alexis and I were “just friends” but it was obvious that something was going on. We walked into the room laughing, toward some empty chairs near Delia. “So when are you two going to get married?” she asked. “Pffft… What are you talking about? We’re just friends,” I said as we sat down. Alexis turned and whispered in my ear: “So… when are we going to get married?” I smiled. At this point, that kind of flirting was still a bit of a lapse in our usual insistence (even to one another) that this was a strictly platonic friendship. “Hmm…That’s a pretty serious commitment. I might need some time to think about it.”

A few minutes into the meeting, I motioned her in a little closer. “Okay, so here’s the deal,” I whispered in her ear, “We’re not allowed to be in relationships until we’ve had a year clean, right? So we can’t date until next August… Recovery: twelve steps, the last of which is “helping other addicts,” which is why – you know – the joke about fucking someone you meet in recovery is “the thirteenth step.” So – from that – you could say that the fourteenth step is getting married. So… 12, 13, 14: December 13th, 2014. By then, we’ll have known each other for two and a half years, in which we got our year clean, started dating, and then spent a year and a half together as a couple. 12-13-14.” I pulled back from her ear with a smile to see her reaction. She loved it. She looked giddy.

—–

In writing my statement / story for “Another Opportunity For Growth!!!,” I did some digging… I didn’t find what I was looking for, but I did find this conversation from a week after that story (and two months after the one at the start of this entry).

Texts: January 13th

Alexis: I love you. I wish we could communicate like before but I guess this is how It’s supposed to be. I’m sorry for being a shit but I’ve been working out my own demons. It isn’t easy on my own but I’m managing. Will I get to see you again?

Sam: You can see me pretty much anytime you want to.

A: That’s not true. I can’t leave the county. Have you talked to Tracy since you left [Tranquil Shores]?
[Tracy was my counselor, as well as hers]

S: I didn’t leave. I was just desperate to get you to open up. And I was hurt and angry – feeling like you had locked me out. Feeling unloved, neglected, and rejected. So I was probably trying to fuck with you a little bit. To get a reaction out of you and get you to call me back for once. I’m sorry for doing that.

A: So you didn’t leave? You LIED TO ME? Played mind games?

S: Yes. And not that there’s any excuse for it, but that’s what I felt like you were doing to me when you’d disappear for four days. Or lie to me and promise that you’d call me at a certain time and then ignore my calls and just text me a day later. But like I said, two wrongs don’t make a right. You’re going through your own shit, I’ve got my shit. So – yeah – I’m sorry. I was hurt and desperate to get you to talk to me.

A: This is what our relationship has become?

S: Lexi, I didn’t do this alone. You can’t put it all on me. You practically ended our relationship on New Year’s Eve when you disappeared all week and then refused to tell me anything about what’s going on.

A: What have you been going through?

S: There was this girl that I was totally crazy for. We met up one night and I told her how much I loved her. She told me how much she loved me and how she knew it was for real. And I was so happy. I couldn’t wait to see her again. We made plans for NYE but she never called me back. And then, when she did – days later – she wouldn’t tell me anything about what was going on. But I knew something serious was happening because she also stopped going to groups and seeing her counselor (who she had always seemed to love). I didn’t know what was up, but I was terrified for her. Because I loved her and cared about her so much. Even a week later, she was still being spotty and still wouldn’t tell me what was going on. I would have told her anything but she wouldn’t tell me even one thing. It got to be more than I could handle. It hurt too much, worrying about what this girl was going through and at the same time dealing with the pain of being locked out by someone that I had bared my soul to and opened up in a way I never had before.

S: That’s what I was going through.

A: I’m not dead, Sam.

S: I know you’re not dead. But there were a few days where I was afraid you might be. And I’m still scared that you might be mixed up in something dangerous. But I’m not letting it get to me.

A: I’m here for you. Always.

S: Kid, I love you to death, but you can’t say that. You’re NOT always there for me. You won’t ever answer my calls or call me and you only respond to my texts half the time. But that’s okay. I accept that.

A: So because you’re assuming everything, that’s how you want us to be?

S: No. I want us to be partners. But I can’t always get what I want, so I’m settling for being your friend. To whatever extent you’ll allow me to be.

S: If I could, I’d see you every day. But if all you want from me is the occasional text, I’ll take what I can get.

A: We did see each other every day. We had that. I want to hear from you daily and see  you.

S: Can I call you so we can talk for a minute?

A: Talk of what?

S: About whatever. I can just tell you about my weekend. I just like to hear your voice ’cause I miss you.

[no response]

S: If you don’t want to talk on the phone, that’s fine. You don’t have to stop texting me just to avoid it.

[no response]

S: Hey – by the way – did you see that picture of my Lexi tattoo?

A: What tattoo?

S: The ghost from the painting I made way back in October when I first started trying to figure out if I was in love with you or if I even knew what love was or if I was capable of loving someone. And – next to it – “14.” Because I did it on 1/2/13 (the same numbers in the same order as 12/13). So – you know – to complete the number: 12/13/14.

A: Where’d you tattoo it on your body? That’s seriously about me? Wow, Sammy.

S: It’s right above my right knee, in the only spot that I don’t ever patch on my jeans so that it’ll always show.

A: Where’s mine gonna be?

S: Wherever you want it to be. But you’d actually have to meet up with me to get it. Will I get to see you sometime this week?

A: Up until an hour ago, I thought you’ve been in Sarasota. I definitely crave and truly miss your energy. Why the ghost though?

S: In the painting?

A: Yeah.

S: This sound lame but (when I made it) it was because I felt possessed or haunted by doubt and uncertainty. And then (when I did the tattoo) – even though I didn’t doubt my feelings anymore and knew that I loved you – it made sense to reuse it. Not just because that was the first thing I painted about my feelings for you but also because I felt like you had disappeared. You were there one minute and gone the next. Like a ghost. Which was scary (like a ghost) because I thought you might be dead… like a ghost. And I was upset again – about something going on with us – just like i had been when I first painted it.

S: I miss you a ton, kid. I still think about you all the time. One of these days, you’ll have to let me come see you, or at least hear your voice. But it’s nice even just to text.

A: I’m laying in bed so I don’t sound cute right now. Sleepy and in pain.

S: You always sound cute but it’s okay if you don’t feel like talking. Sorry to hear you’re in pain. What hurts?

A: I pulled a muscle.

A: Think I may just be getting old.

S: Aw. I’m really sorry to hear that. I pulled a muscle in my arm that’s been hurting for a week now. Not bad though (sometimes not at all). I hope it feels better soon.

S: Yours, I mean. I hope YOURS feels better. Mine, I can manage.

A: Lol. You’re cute. We’re just linked and connected in some strange cosmic way I suppose. It feels good to talk to you. You make me feel at peace. It’s weird to explain.

S: You don’t have to explain a thing. Even if it’s just texting, you make me feel the same way. When I’m not losing my mind worried about you, you’re pretty much my favorite person on the planet.

S: And hopefully those days are done with. I’m gonna do my best to just hold it down and deal even if I can’t get in touch with you for days.

A: That’s where trust and faith come into play.

S: Yeah, you’re absolutely right.

A: Don’t lose your mind. And I couldn’t possibly be your favorite person. There are a lot more interesting people out there.

S: Well, you’ll have to introduce me to some of them then, I guess. I sure haven’t found them on my own.

A: Stop making me smile. It hurts.

S: So when I get my “vehicle” this week, you gonna let me come over and tattoo you?

A: What vehicle?

S: If I tell you, you promise not to make fun of me?

A: Yes.

S: I’m getting a scooter. I should have it by Sunday. Not exactly a car, but it’s a start. Plus, I can paint it and cover it in stickers and stuff, so it’ll be REALLY, REALLY PUNK.

A: I love it. Fucking adorable and so totally punk.

S: So does this mean I can scoot on over and draw something under your skin?

A: Yup!

A: I’m laying down now. It’s time I try to get back to a schedule of early bedtime, up early.

S: Okay, I should do the same.

A: I love you, Sammy. Sweet dreams.

S: Love you too, kid. Sleep tight.

—–

  • If you’re reading that and thinking, “Nobody writes messages like that,” you’re half right. Mine are unedited but she writes messages like a normal human being (without “proper” capitalization/punctuation, with typos, etc.); so I changed that when I typed this up for… um… uniformity? Otherwise, it’s pretty much a straight transcript.
  • When asked about this tattoo, I don’t usually mention the girl – only that the ghost is my emblem for borderline personality disorder (as it came from an expressive art piece created in the midst of an episode / incident of particularly strong “symptoms” – and used in later pieces when I was either experiencing or commenting on the same). Both explanations are equally true (and very much related).
  • The first thing about this conversation that jumps out at me is the way I was trying so hard to be okay with what was going on, when I should have just turned my back and ran. She wasn’t in a good place and I had “fallen down” with girls in situations just like this so many times.
  • Second: She says “That’s where trust and faith come into play” and I respond, “You’re absolutely right.” She was absolutely wrong insofar as she was suggesting that I should trust (and have faith in) her. And I knew that even then. But I chose to knowingly misunderstand her, which enabled me to agree with her. Because I did have trust and faith (or I was trying to have them anyway). Not in her – (she was obviously fucking up hard) – but in … everything, I guess. I was trying to believe that everything was happening exactly as it needed to (or – at the very least – the only way that it could happen). Whatever had happened so far, I was just hoping that she’d spin herself back into Tranquil Shores before shit got really bad.
  • But that didn’t happen. The night of December 30 remains the last time that I ever saw her.

Friday Afternoons Spent in Mental Health Treatment Facilities

October 17, 2013

"Friday Afternoons Spent in Mental Health Treatment Facilities." 2/16/13. Acrylics, resin sand, crow quill with gold ink, marker, and peptol-bismol on cardboard. 15½x4¼”.
“Friday Afternoons Spent in Mental Health Treatment Facilities.” 2/16/13. Acrylics, resin sand, crow quill with gold ink, marker, and peptol-bismol on cardboard. 15½x4¼”.

The sixth piece from “The Weak End” series. Says: “What you call success looks like success. It isn’t. It’s a lowering of the bar. And that’s my fucking chair.”

I’m going to try something different today. Normally, I force myself to keep the focus on myself. I force myself to not write about other people. I also force myself to look at what’s really going on when I’m upset. I think that (a lot of the time) this makes for good mental health and boring fucking reading. So, today, let’s try something different: here’s a rant’s worth of petty bullshit about total nonsense! (Followed by just a little bit of reflection).

—–

“Graduation” from Tranquil Shores (and plenty of other places like it) involves a ceremony called a “coining.” To coin out, you’ve gotta complete every item on your treatment plan. The coining is in recognition that you’ve done everything that’s been asked of you and proven your commitment to your emotional well-being and continued success. It’s a big deal.

Or so they fucking say.

I coined out last week. The number of people that came out to it and the things that they had to say [everyone in attendance at a coining speaks] left me humbled and speechless. And in all honesty, I didn’t think that I’d ever actually get there. I had been in treatment before but I had never not been kicked out. But even still – getting to coin out implies that there’s been a fundamental change from the person that you were when you checked in. It required a lot more than just not being so unbearable of an asshole that you’re actually forced to leave. Was I even capable of fundamental change? I had been a piece of shit for a long time and I had serious doubts. But something was different this time. I did change. I trudged through shit and hell long before I got here and I brought a lot of it with me so I could continue to step in shit even while I was here. It’s supposed to be a three month program but it took me seven – but that’s exactly how much time I needed; I couldn’t have gone any faster. What matters is that I did the work I was terrified to do and I got better. Actually getting to coin out meant a lot to me. It was the biggest fucking day of my life.

But this girl… They say that to coin-out you have to prove that you’re “willing to go to any lengths.” Less than a week after arriving, she decided that she wasn’t willing to do inpatient treatment. She’d stay but only if she could be an outpatient. That doesn’t sound like “any lengths” to me. And what was she here for? Her primary issue wasn’t with alcohol or drugs but with codependency. She was dating some guy that was also secretly dating other girls, telling each that she was the only one. And she had a stalking problem. So he’d lie about what he was doing, she’d spend hours following him around all day and night, find him going out with other girls and/or over to their homes, confront him, they’d have a huge blowout argument, make up, and then the same god damn thing would happen the very next day. Again and again. Even while she was in treatment! She continued to do this shit. That’s why she wanted to be outpatient, I’m sure. Throughout her time at Tranquil Shores, she was told consistently that this guy wasn’t healthy and that she couldn’t be healthy either so long as she stayed with him. Every now and again, she’d break it off but she’d always start stalking or dating him again (usually both). And now she’s getting to coin out – and today we found out that they’re a fucking couple again. Because she invited him to the fucking ceremony. That’s absolutely equivalent to if I had pulled out a needle and shot heroin at my coining. It was a giant “fuck you” to all of the counselors that have worked with her on this and even to all of us, who have sat in group after group with her, listening to her talk about how it’s destroyed her life. 

So why the fuck was this girl coining out? Because she put in three months? Big fucking deal. That’s how it works at a lot of other treatment centers but that’s not how it’s supposed to happen here. This cheapens the whole thing; it makes all the other coinings suddenly mean less. It’s like the time I spent studied like crazy for an exam that I knew we hadn’t really been prepared for. I got a 98% only to find out that since the second highest grade in the class was a 54%, everyone’s grade was getting bumped up by 46 points…. Except for mine of course – there’s no such thing as a 144%. So why the fuck did I bother to put all of that work in when these lazy dipshits that just show up and hope for the best get the same result?

And what the fuck, Matt? YOU KNOW THAT’S WHERE I ALWAYS SIT FOR ART GROUP.

—–

Okay… So I’ve struggled with how I wanted to present this piece for a long time because it is petty and it is childish and it is (in a sense) bullshit. Did I really feel that way about this situation? Yeah. Do I still have a hard time understanding why Tranquil Shores allows some people to coin out but not others? Totally. But does any of this have anything to do with me (or take away at all from my coining or my recovery)? Absolutely not.

Why did I put the work in? Because I fucking needed to to save my own life. Did we all get the same result? Of fucking course not! The coining is a ceremony to acknowledge the progress you’ve made –  just like a grade is an acknowledgement of the things you’ve learned. But the coining itself isn’t progress just as a grade isn’t itself knowledge. We may both get 100% on the test and we might both coin out; that shit (on its own) means nothing. What matters is what’s in my head, in my heart, and in my fucking guts.

As for what’s in your head, heart, and guts… well, that’s none of my fucking business. And I’m not really in a position to make any kind of estimation on the subject (tempting as it (clearly) is) anyway.

And I forgive you for sitting in my chair, Matt. I found another one.

—–

In the unlikely event that the girl who coined out after me reads this, please don’t get bummed out about it. I actually think you’re alright. This is just some eight month old shit about me being crazy.

—–

“The Weak End” paintings

Archives

© 2012-2025

Gallery · Blog · $ · Info · Contact

WordPress Di Blog Theme