The Fruits of Being a Contemptuous Bag of Dicks

November 21, 2013

"The Fruits of Being a Contemptuous Bag of Dicks." 1/11/13. Tempera, oil pastel, and pen. 12" (diameter).
“The Fruits of Being a Contemptuous Bag of Dicks.” 1/11/13. Tempera, oil pastel, and pen. 12″ (diameter).

This is from the same day as This Might Be Bullshit  – the day of my first “emotional relapse.” Looking for something else yesterday, I pulled out an old composition notebook and found [what I guess I’d call] a poem. It’s also from this same week in January.

—–

Tomorrow I’ll wake up and spill my guts into the toilet and maybe clean myself up.

Tomorrow I’ll sit in group therapy and pass the time by drawing the needles I haven’t seen in 4½  months.

Tomorrow I’ll meet with my counselor and tell her how well I’m doing. I’ll probably go to an AA meeting, bring my book, write in the margins, and not pay attention.

Tomorrow I’ll stare out my window for no reason and maybe write some words I’ll never put to music. Tomorrow I won’t even notice my guitar sitting in the corner.

Tomorrow I’ll paint a painting on top of another painting and then wish that I hadn’t.

Tomorrow I’ll tell you I love you and you’ll pretend not to hear me.

Tomorrow I’ll post pictures of my art on Facebook so my friends can scroll past them. Tomorrow I won’t care enough to even see what they’re posting.

Tomorrow I’ll call my sponsor and explain things in terms he can understand. Tomorrow he’ll tell me I’m doing a great job and he’ll be just as wrong as he was today.

I won’t call my friends tomorrow and my friends won’t call me.

Tomorrow I’ll drown out the world with punk rock in my headphones instead of heroin in a syringe.

Tomorrow I’ll pace parking lots and side streets and sing along in a whisper.

Tomorrow I’ll notice another person too late and feel embarrassed.

Tomorrow I’ll think about you all day and pretend that I’m over it.

Tomorrow you’ll tell me you can’t stop thinking about shooting up but haven’t. Tomorrow you’ll be just as dishonest as you were today.

Tomorrow I’ll feel empty and insignificant and write a list of things I’m grateful for. Tomorrow I’ll recite lines like “There’s nothing wrong with my face, teeth, or body,” “I am worth time and energy,” “my art is positive, productive, and appreciated,” and “I am enough.” Tomorrow I’ll be just as dishonest as I was today.

Tomorrow I’ll sit at a bus stop waiting for something that’ll take even longer than the bus I’m not waiting on.

Tomorrow I’ll draw a self-portrait in crayon and hang it on my wall.

Tomorrow I’ll jerk off for the better part of an hour. Tomorrow I’ll meditate for three to five minutes, and feel a swell of pride.

Tomorrow I’ll dye my hair again and then wear a hat. I’ll sew something onto a shirt, rip up another, and still wear the same one I put on this morning.

Tomorrow I’ll pray because I’m supposed to. Tomorrow I’ll end my prayer with “I love you” and not know why.

Tomorrow I’ll smoke cigarettes in my room and feel bad about it, but I won’t get caught. Not tomorrow.

Tomorrow I’ll think of girls I don’t love and think of ways to make them love me.

Tomorrow I won’t have any idea what I’m doing.

Tomorrow I’ll wake up in rehab, eat a frozen waffle with nothing on it, drink half as much coffee as I pour, and smoke twice as many cigarettes as I can afford.

Tomorrow I’ll do a pretty good job of pushing my hate down into the pit of my gut. Tomorrow I won’t express the contempt I love but don’t feel. Tomorrow I’ll lack awareness.

Tomorrow I’ll have a positive attitude and a negative self-image. Tomorrow I’ll talk about how I have nothing to be upset about, criticize my own negativity, and someone will disagree with me on both points. Tomorrow I’ll shrug.

Tomorrow I’ll smile and feel peace as a song flows through me. I’ll feel evil and energized by another and smile even wider.

Tomorrow is my 143rd day here.

On Day 144, I’ll know what it means to be happy. And I will be. Just two more days.

—–

So that was about 300 days ago now. I think its significance is in how miserable it is despite the fact that I had been doing extremely well in the month leading up to it (possibly better than I ever had in my life). It’s a great example of how badly one little snag can fucking annihilate me (at least in a moment). I was already well on my way toward “know what it means to be happy” at that point and – while I may not always have it perfectly nailed down – I’d like to think that, day to day, I do a pretty okay job; I am happy.

I’ve been working on it (somewhat on and off) for the last week, but I put in a lot of time yesterday and today, and I’m confident (and happy to report) that my newest painting is this close to being finished, so I’m looking forward to sharing that tomorrow. And on Saturday I’m going to post something that really is a “fruit of being a contemptuous bag of dicks!”

I have fun; good from bad; so on and so forth. I’m gonna go eat pizza now.

——

Here’s a song I really love by a band I really love:“Monsoon” by Snuggle, off their 2005 7-inch, Tag, You’re It!

Ready When You Are

October 7, 2013

"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.

—–

You Make Me a Worse Person (I’ll Feed My Negativity and Roast in My Fucking Hate)

September 22, 2013

"You Make Me a Worse Person (I'll Feed My Negativity and Roast in My Fucking Hate)." 6/21/13. Colored pencil. 9x12".
“You Make Me a Worse Person (I’ll Feed My Negativity and Roast in My Fucking Hate).” 6/21/13. Colored pencil. 9×12″.

I had to bring my scooter with me because I was going to be in south Florida for the next month. When I loaded it into the back of her car, I accidentally scraped the bumper. She was angry.

The document verifying that I had completed my community service was due with my probation officer that afternoon. I asked if we could stop somewhere to print it out before we left town. That was also a problem.

We were in no hurry and my probation was on the line. This was important to me. Why was it an issue? I didn’t understand. I was hurt so I didn’t insist upon it; I just got in the car, dejected.

We had a four-hour drive and in that time we didn’t speak at all. Eleven days after moving in together and just two days after the explosion of sunshine and fucking rainbows that was “Out All Day,” this is what came out of me… In bits and pieces, it says:

FUCK EVERYTHING. I’m ready to be dead now. This is a drain. I failed today. Can I say “everyday?” Fuck community service. Fuck being a responsible human being. Fuck the scratches on your stupid fucking car. Fuck our apartment. You make me a worse person. I’ll feed my negativity and roast in my fucking hate.

[If you’re not familiar with borderline personality disorder, that’s what it looks like]. Here’s what I wrote about this piece when I was done with it:

I don’t wanna share this ’cause I don’t wanna give people the impression that I’m unhappy. But fuck that. Real life isn’t a simple narrative on a straight trajectory in one direction. My art can say, “I couldn’t be happier,” one day, and “fuck everything, I’m ready to be dead now” on the next. That’s reality and I’m not into painting a picture of my life that’s any less honest than I’m capable of being.

This scribble isn’t exactly “art fully realized” but I held on to it like I would a photograph. It’s a document, an artifact, or a memory – and not a bad one. This was cathartic and it was an opportunity…

I didn’t have my website yet but I was already regularly sharing my artwork and (sometimes) related writings through my Facebook page. To that extent, my day-to-day and my emotional process had become a public spectacle of sorts. I always feel awkward acknowledging this but my art has come to mean something to people (friends, fans of my old record label, even total strangers). I’ve received more than a few emails and messages from people telling me how powerfully they’ve been affected by something I made or wrote. I’ve been regularly called “an inspiration.” [I feel especially awkward acknowledging that]. But it’s been amazing, encouraging, and – in turn – has truly inspired me. One consequence, however, is that I feel like I have a responsibility now. With this piece, I had a choice: Did I want to be some icon of hope or did I want to be honest about what my life, in recovery, is really like? In sharing it, I opted for the latter, and I’ve done my best to honor that decision every day since.

——

When I first added this piece to the website, there was a journal entry from that day (9/22/13) along with it.  I later decided to make that a separate entry.

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