Category Archives: Outpatient

Artist Statements, Expressive, Outpatient, Stories

Pregnant Baby Kimono Dragon

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"Pregnant Baby Kimono Dragon." 3/2/13. Acrylic paint. 12x16".
“Pregnant Baby Kimono Dragon.” 3/2/13. Acrylic paint. 12×16″.

In February, I successfully completed a program of inpatient treatment for the first time. It was a ninety day program that took me seven months to finish, but – hey – some are sicker than others. For the first time ever, I was able to make the transition to outpatient treatment. It was also around that time that – faced with the real world again – I knew I’d have to start earning some money to support myself. One of my counselors and one of my peers had been really encouraging when it came to my art. They said it was good. Good enough that people would want to buy it and I could maybe make a living doing what I loved. I decided to try and believe them. I chose optimism and faith (another first for me).

Living in the outside world, I was suddenly free to paint as much as I wanted, which meant I didn’t have time to store up ideas for paintings. I decided to experiment and create images for their own sake, without worrying about what was happening in my head or what I was feeling. In a sense, I still do that to a degree but… not like this.

—–

I didn’t wanna not say anything about this piece but – seeing as that shit’s super boring – here’s the story of some wacky shit I did back in January 2012 (about one month into my first stint of inpatient care at my very first facility).

Sometime right around New Year’s Eve, Hal was kicked out for using. Before he left, he gave me five letters, each addressed to a different person in our treatment center. No one was in the courtyard. I sat down and opened the one with my name on it. “There are eighteen unused syringes stashed in the bathroom trashcan across from John’s office.” Interesting… There was also a phone number. “I met Stacy at an NA meeting. That’s how I got the dope.” Fuck. I didn’t know what to do with this information. I wanted to get better but… Fuck. I decided not to call, but I didn’t throw the number away. And I retrieved and re-hid the needles inside the couch in my unit. That night, I was alone in my unit. I took a syringe out, held it in my hand, and just stared. I took the cap off and stared some more. I grabbed a cup of water from the kitchen, went into the bathroom, and shut the door. My chest felt tight, my heart raced. What was I even doing? I put the needle in the water and pulled the plunger up, letting the barrel fill about halfway. I took my belt off, wrapped it around my arm, and stuck the needle in a vein at the crook of my elbow. I drew back and watched my blood swirl into the chamber. Fuck, I’ve missed this. I let out a little breath, almost a gasp, and I pushed the plunger forward, my body frozen, until the barrel was empty and I felt a quick swell then release. I shut my eyes and felt bliss. I know it was entirely in my head but – for about two seconds – I actually felt high. Two seconds. And then I felt crazy. And confused. I smirked at myself in the mirror. So… My smirk faded and my gaze fell. What the fuck was that for? I was disappointed that my “high” was already gone, sort of glad that I hadn’t actually used, wishing I had used, and wondering if this was what my future looked like… injecting water for… – I didn’t know what for. Really, I wasn’t sure what I felt. I filled the syringe again to see if I could get another two seconds of high. It didn’t work. God dammit. I cleaned up, put my belt back on, and put the needle back in the couch with the others. Okay, I thought, What now?

—–

tipjar

  • This story is actually an excerpt from the 134th page of a much longer story. If you like it, let me know and I’ll continue tomorrow where this left off.
  • My painting, “Pregnant Baby Kimono Dragon,” is for sale.
Artist Statements, Expressive, Outpatient, Punk rock, Status Update

Shit’s Perfect

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"Shit's Perfect." 2/27/13. Acrylic paint. 12½x4”.
“Shit’s Perfect.” 2/27/13. Acrylic paint. 12½x4”.

One of the assignments given at Tranquil Shores is to make something representative of your higher power. Back in February, somebody tipped me off that there was a huge foamboard by the dumpster. I went to check it out and found it captioned (in stick-on letters), “My Higher Power.” I wouldn’t normally think anything of somebody tossing some project but – in this case… this person’s higher power was in the garbage. This person’s higher power was garbage. How great is that?

Anyway, I cut it up for “canvas” and over the course of the next couple weeks made a few new pieces by painting over the photos and other crap they had glued to it.

Aside from something I made in September 2012 that’s covered in song lyrics, this is the only thing I’ve ever made with text that  I knowingly stole from somewhere else. (It’s from the chorus of “Mobbed By the 3s” by Toys That Kill). There’s just something about the phrase “shit’s perfect” that’s – well – perfect.

‘Cause it is perfect. Everything is. Good shit, bad shit, even literal shit – it’s all exactly as it’s supposed to be. And – on the other side of the coin – it just sounds snarky as fuck. Like, “Oh yeah, of course – shit’s perfect.”

And who doesn’t love some snarky bullshit?

Artist Statements, Expressive, Outpatient, Punk rock

Ten Dollars an Hour

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"Ten Dollars an Hour." 3/3/13. Acrylic paint and ink. 11x14".
“Ten Dollars an Hour.” 3/3/13. Acrylic paint and ink. 11×14″.
You know that feeling when you’re hanging out with people in your favorite bands and you’re pretending that you’re as cool as they are (or – put another way – that you don’t secretly think they’re, like, THE COOLEST EVER [just ’cause they happen to be in a band you really like])? And you pull it off successfully?
 
If you don’t know what I’m talking about, you’re a liar. (Because we bothknow YOU’RE NOT COOL). You are exactly as much of a faker as I am.
—–
I wrote that a few minutes ago (for nothing in particular) but then decided to use it in my entry tonight. It’s not totally on point for this painting (and what it means to me today) but it’s related. You could call that little blurb a prequel of sorts to what follows…
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One of my best friends has written a ton of my favorite songs. Since we first became friends years ago, he’s known how much I liked his bands but – now that I have a website where I write about a lot of this stuff all the time – I guess the full extent of it sort of dawned on him. He called me recently to ask about our friendship. “Like, is it pretty much the same as if Dr. Frank or Ben Weasel were calling me to tell me about their problems?” My answer: “Yeah, pretty much.” He asked what that was like and I told him it had been good for me. That I had learned a lot from the experience.

Believe it or not, there are people who think that I’m cool (and/or accomplished). And the experience of becoming so close with one of my “heroes” has given me some insight into that. We’re all nerds, none of us have a handle on our lives, and we all feel like we’re faking it to some degree. And the things that we’ve each achieved: they don’t always seem like much because they’re all we know. My “measure for success” changes constantly. At one point, if I posted a picture of something I made on Facebook and it got a dozen or so “likes,” I wanted to throw a fucking parade. That kind of stuff can still mean a lot to me (especially when I’m down) but it’s not quite the big deal that it used to be.
One afternoon in January, I was sitting on the side of the road trying not to lose my mind… I found a few crayons and some scrap paper in my backpack and scribbled out some nonsense. Today, somebody gave me sixty-five dollars for that piece of scrap paper. When I take the time to stop and think about that, it’s pretty incredible (and I’m very grateful). But that’s sort of where the bar is at now. When that sort of thing doesn’t happen, I feel like a failure. Recently though, I’ve been able to examine that along with my experiences with friends in more “successful” bands (who do the kinds of shit that a lot of us have only dreamt about (and write the kinds of songs most of us will never even get close to)) and I get it; I can understand why they don’t feel like the “success stories” that others might see them as. And I can see why I am the success story that I don’t always think I am.
That’s not all either. At times, the experience has given me self-esteem. Not because “somebody cool is my friend,” but because of the tough spots that it’s put me in. It’s hard to tell anyone that you care about something you think they might not wanna hear (or that they might be insulted by). And it’s even harder when that person is a “hero” of sorts. I found myself in that position recently and it wasn’t easy. I reallywanted to keep my mouth shut, but I also didn’t wanna be a coward. I swallowed the lump in my throat, said everything I wanted to say (with as much sincerity as I could), and… it couldn’t have gone better. Not only that but – when I asked, “What’ve your other friends said?” – the response I got was, “You’re the only one that’s said anything to me about this.” I think that’s a testament to just how easy it is to keep one’s mouth shut and not say the hard thing to a friend. Which (of course) isn’t being a friend at all. I was pretty shocked when I heard that but I also felt good about it – about overcoming my fear and finding the courage to say these things. No one else had.
—–
This stuff’s all super awkward. Who wants to talk about friendship or admit to having “heroes” in the first place? (Not me!) So – seein’ as I’ve been brave enough to do that – I’m gonna cut myself a little slack and allow myself to “cut it short” right here. Cool? Cool.
Artist Statements, Expressive, Outpatient, Status Update

I Took a Picture of You While You Were Sleeping Because I Think You’re Extraordinarily Beautiful and Because I’m Kind of a Creep Insofar as My Respect For (or Maybe Just Conception of) Personal Boundaries Leaves Something to Be Desired; Also: Slumber Party!

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"I Took a Picture of You While You Were Sleeping Because I Think You're Extraordinarily Beautiful and Because I'm Kind of a Creep Insofar as My Respect For (or Maybe Just Conception of) Personal Boundaries Leaves Something to Be Desired; Also: Slumber Party!" 3/8/13. Oil pastel, tempera, pencil. 7x18".
3/8/13. Oil pastel, tempera, pencil. 7×18″.

“Gift Horse” was the best birthday present I’ve ever given to anyone. I don’t mean for the recipient – but for me. Because there’s nothing better in the world than going into the bedroom at night or waking up in the morning to find Heather fast asleep cuddled up with it in her arms. When I see that, I feel so loved. I mean – I’m not the horse but (maybe because I made it[?]) it feels like I’m getting to look at her cuddled up to me…. [or something like that…]  – that’s the best explanation I can come up with anyway. But she’s so beautiful and she hugs it (even in her sleep) with such conviction that… – it’s just really nice. It makes me really happy.

I love her a lot.

And I don’t wanna disturb her by turning on the lights just to take a picture but, luckily, I have this one from a few weeks ago.

heather pierce
9/22/13.

And – just this moment – I’ve realized that this is the perfect opportunity to share a piece that I haven’t yet… [yes – the one with the title]. “Took a Picture” was the product of one of my Friday afternoon expressive art therapy groups, back when I was in outpatient mode. Earlier that day…

I opened my eyes and looked over at Heather. “Do you know how much you laugh in your sleep?” she asked. I smiled. “Is it a sinister, maniacal laugh? Do I sound like I’m plotting evil?” She laughed. “Not at all. It’s really happy. You sound really happy.” “Hmmm, well – don’t tell anyone that… or  tell them, but say that my eyes are open at the time – my cold, dead eyes.” She rolled hers at me.

Heather didn’t have to work early that day but – when she did have an early morning shift – she’d only come sleep over the night before if I agreed to “no funny business.” Of course, I would promise. And though I don’t think I ever once actually honored that promise, she’d take my word for it every time (like a total sucker). And even once I did go to sleep, she said I’d sometimes contort and throw my body across the mattress like a maniac. What a joy it must have been to share a bed with me!

It hadn’t even been three weeks since I moved out of Tranquil Shores and back into the real world. How was my life this wonderful already? How could I possibly deserve to be waking up next to this girl each day?

This piece existed in a strange limbo for a long time because I titled it as soon as I finished it and immediately wished that I had used the title for the caption as well. Because the original caption – though based in authenticity – felt contrived. I wrote it without forethought in a “stream of consciousness”  sorta way, but I had essentially quoted myself… which I didn’t like at all. I had this “rule” though – against altering anything once I had deemed it finished. Eventually, I got over that and – now – the title and caption are one in the same and the piece finally feels right.

  • That original caption was: “She stays over even though I keep her up. (I’m a sexual terrorist). And when I sleep, I thrash. And I laugh. A lot. Not with cold, dead eyes. It’s joyful. Don’t fucking repeat that.”
  • took-a-picture-framedThis piece is available as a 14×6″ print.
  • The original drawing is also for sale but given its strange dimensions, the frame isn’t quite right. Then again, it looks kinda cool like this…
  • Check out “Gift Horse,” the catalyst for this entry.

 

Artist Statements, Intentional, Outpatient, Status Update

Ready When You Are

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"Ready When You Are." 6/7/13. Oil pastel. 9½x12”.
“Ready When You Are.” 6/7/13. Oil pastel. 9½x12”.

It was Friday so I drove up to Tranquil Shores for my session with Tracy and my weekly expressive art group with the kids that were still inpatients. Earlier that week, I had found an apartment in Jacksonville. When I told Tracy, she was really surprised. (I had been talking about moving, but it was just a few days prior that I actually started looking for a place, so it all happened really quickly). “Seriously?” she asked me. “Well, let me get the papers for your discharge.”

Somehow that hadn’t occurred to me: that moving away would mean I’d be officially discharged from Tranquil Shores. My life was about to change and it was just now registering. It made me sad. It even made me a little angry, though I’m not sure with whom. (Probably myself). It was a really great afternoon; everyone at Tranquil Shores couldn’t have been sweeter to me or more supportive. But… I didn’t wanna leave. I didn’t want it to be over and I guess I was as caught off-guard as Tracy had been.

After my session, I went into the art room for group. I felt good overall, but had that little streak of darkness in me. I got an idea in my head of a sorta vulture and I liked it. I wanted to draw something that lived off dead flesh – something sustained by failure.

But still sorta comic and fun.

—–

(Especially relevant) status update: Heather’s friends are getting married in Englewood next weekend, so I won’t be too far from Tranquil Shores. On Friday, I’m going to drive up that way and meet up with a crew of kids I went to treatment with for lunch, and then I’m gonna go in for the expressive art group just like I used to. I’ve been really excited about it but am getting more nervous as it gets closer. It’s gonna be a totally new crop of kids. I’ll still know all the staff obviously, but it seems kinda strange to go to group with a bunch of patients I’ve never met before. I hope I don’t wimp out. I hope it goes well.

—–

Artist Statements, Expressive, Outpatient

Court Dating

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"Court Dating." 4/15/13. Colored pencil, watercolor, marker, and pen. 9x12".

“Court Dating.” 4/15/13. Colored pencil, watercolor, marker, and pen. 9×12″.

Do you ever feel like every word out of your mouth is annoying? Like even your love is annoying? I feel like that almost always. And I don’t know that I’m wrong.

“We’re gonna have to wake up early and it’s all the way in Venice; are you sure you wanna take me to my court date?” Heather assured me that she didn’t mind. I told her I’d take her out to breakfast afterward, thus turning the court date into a regular date (you know – the kind that couples go on)!

When we woke up, she was grumpy. She seemed really pissed off about having to take me but she insisted that she wasn’t so I took her word for it and behaved as if I believed her. Like everything was cool. Nothing I said could make her smile though; she was mean. It was a bit of a drive so I had to give up on conversation and find a way to get okay with me regardless of her attitude.

I started drawing. It was labored. I had no idea what to draw and didn’t really think this would ever turn into a finished piece. But I had to do something to keep my mind off what was happening (lest I become irrationally upset and begin contemplating suicide or some other poorly planned major life decision). This was really expressive art therapy at its purest. I just kept adding to the page until we got to the courthouse.

Though I captioned it that day, I didn’t finish it until I pulled out my sketchbook a month later (under frighteningly similar circumstances).

—–

Every Friday at Tranquil Shores, Robin and Nancy would take us grocery shopping. On my second Friday (8/25/12), Nancy accused me of shoplifting. (I wasn’t but she had good reason to suspect otherwise). When I went to Robin to complain, she asked me if I had been. “Go fuck yourself,” I told her.

(I’m a real charmer).

But anyway – it kinda killed me to part with this piece, but I gave it to Robin as a birthday gift. She’s probably the nicest person I know. My biggest problem with living in Jacksonville is being away from my Tranquil Shores buddies. (Have I mentioned that before?)

—–

This morning (and last night) were really tough for me emotionally. Today was probably my least productive day all year. I’m gonna strive to make up for it tomorrow.

—–

This piece is available in my webstore as a 10×13″ print.

Artist Statements, Expressive, Outpatient, Status Update

Powerless Over Flexeril

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"Powerless Over Flexeril." 3/15/13. Marker. 9x12".
“Powerless Over Flexeril.” 3/15/13. Marker. 9×12″.

I wrote a statement about this piece after I finished it:

Awoken by pain at 5 AM this morning, I was given a heating pad and a Flexeril (a drug which I have not been prescribed). Lying in bed, I started this drawing and continued until the pain subsided enough that I was able to get back to sleep. I finished later that afternoon on the ride back home from my outpatient group at Tranquil Shores.

In case you’re wondering, neither my integrity nor my recovery were at all compromised by my decision to ingest a Flexeril. If you think that’s at all questionable though, let me assure you that I am totally happy for you!

I only bring it up to clarify that this title is tongue-in-cheek.

—–

—–

I’ve been insanely busy the last few days, getting all of my stuff ready for Artwalk in Jacksonville next week. I’m happy about it insofar as it’s put a fire under me and gotten me to work on editing my statements (since I’m putting printed copies in the sealed sleeves along with each print). I’m aiming to have around 50 different prints ready for sale so that means 50 statements. The less fun part is all of the tedious presentation stuff. Putting the prints in the sleeves, cutting thick backing board into the right size for each print, formatting the statements in Word to be the right size for each piece — stuff like that. It’s cool though; I’m going to feel really good about it when it’s all done. (Only four days left to go).