I relapsed today. If you feel compelled to write/call me to talk about it, please don’t. Not tonight anyway. I don’t have the energy for it.

I’m only writing this now because keeping it a secret would be even worse for my emotional/mental health.

I’m going to be fine. Probably.

Waking up sick. Walking around a city I’m only vaguely familiar with. Don’t have a working car. Charges hanging over my head. Dwindling bank account. (My bail last week was $1,025 and I don’t even know yet what my van repair will cost). This doesn’t seem all that different from relapse. I’m trying to keep my head up but this is shaping up to be a really tough month. Still, I’m down but I could definitely feel worse. I’ve definitely felt worse. I’m not suicidal but I’m definitely depressed. That’s something at least.

I didn’t eat anything today but I spent nine hours coloring. I’m walking aimlessly around Chicago and… I really hope I’m able to get my van fixed in time for my arraignment on Friday. That sentence – coming outta me – makes me sad. It’s been a tough week. I know I shouldn’t but I feel really alone right now.

It’s been longer than usual since my last update. I’m out on Michigan Ave right now, the same spot I’ve posted up with a painting and a table of prints for the last week and a half (the corner of Van Buren, I think). It’s gone phenomenally well pretty much every day that I’ve come out; I’m making way more money than someone who paints funny faces for a living should. Today is one of the few exceptions. I’m not sure of it’s the weather or something that I’m doing differently.

I’ve got a bunch of new, finished paintings that I haven’t added to the site yet ’cause I’m waiting on getting them professionally photographed. It looks like that should be happening sometime this week though. I’m really proud of them.

About a year ago, something happened. I made a painting about it. It’s the only piece of art I’ve never shared online in any way because I felt like it was too private. Something like that’s sort of / maybe happening again now. I make art for myself but I can’t pretend that a big part of that isn’t the validation I get when I share something. Knowing that I won’t want to share something if I incorporate certain details fucks up my shit. Art is very much my therapy these days. In that way, this situation reminds me of December 2012, when I was still living in Tranquil Shores and I was unwilling to tell my counselor about the shit in and out of my head that was fucking me up.

That was a little more serious because my life was on the line over it. There’s nothing happening today that’s gonna kill me but I’m noticing the ways in which I’m behaving differently. In moments, I catch myself feeling bitter. Smiling less. My humor (which I’m told is already pretty dark but doesn’t usually feel that way to me) is … striking me as pretty dark lately. My smiles are meaner. And – as always – this problem I’ve got, I know it’s not a huge deal and (honestly) I don’t even know if it really is a problem. (I might be making something out of nothing – or something out of very little). Like I said: it’s nothing that’s gonna kill me.

I guess that’s all I got for now. Traffic at my street table is slow, I knew I could use a little journaling, and -what the hell- I might as well make a fucking update out of it ’cause that’s what I do, right? (Pay attention to my every whim and thought, everyone).

And since every entry should have a photo, here’s one I forgot to share when it was first emailed to me by Jacksonville artist, Andrea Ashmead. Back in April, she painted me while I was painting “Corporations are Cool.” Pretty awesome, huh?

Yesterday was fucked up. Today was cool. It’s 2 AM and I’m on my way to St. Louis ’cause Rational Anthem are playing Dekalb, Masked Intruder are playing STL, and I’m a capitalist, opportunist, little fuck.

So – two nights ago in Lexington – my feelings were hurt by something a friend said to me and I let it fuck up my emotional well-being (which has been pretty shaky lately anyway). When I woke up in the morning, I was still a mess and I got some pretty bad ideas in my head – so bad that I was incredibly hesitant to share them with anyone even after I pulled my shit together. So – of course – like most of the thoughts I’m most afraid to share, I put it out into the world. LOUD. (I wrote it on my fuckin’ T-SHIRT). Which made a few people uncomfortable and a few more really proud of me for being so honest. Which made me feel better / less ashamed but still… Even though it’s already out there, I’m hesitant to spread it around anymore ’cause it’s embarrassing and makes me out to be way more fucked up than I (usually like to think I) am.

The new Masked Intruder record is really great.

I don’t like anything anymore.

It’s times like these I wonder why I do anything that I do and if any of this “being alive” experience is worth it. WHICH IS FUCKING INSANE because I have such a great time most of the time. Why am I so fucking prone to these ridiculous spurts of absolute hopelessness?

No matter what I do; no matter how hard I work at everything; no matter how SPECTACULAR of a life I build for myself… in the midst of all good things, I’m always gonna slip into these awful dark spots. That’s my reality. It doesn’t matter how happy I am most of the time because, when I start to feel this way, (short as these moods might be) everything goes out the window. I KNOW I’ll be okay any moment and even that doesn’t comfort me.