It happened! I allowed myself to NOT post something new. (And for two days!)My phone wasn’t working properly and it seemed crazy to leave friends (some of whom I haven’t seen in years) just so I could go find a computer to sate my neurotic compulsion to add new content every day.
I had a really good time in Gainesville for The Fest this year. I got to town around 10 on Saturday night. Initially, every thing reminded me of drugs; I kept thinking about the last few times I was there: spent shooting up in vans, bathrooms, and crouching behind dumpsters or in alleys. Which wasn’t necessarily bad (it doesn’t freak me out or make me wanna use) but there are better thoughts that I’d rather occupy my mind.
In some of the quieter moments on Sunday morning, I started stressing out a little bit [basic social anxiety] and considered flipping right back to Jacksonville. I hid for about an hour, journaled a little bit, and then met up with some friends though and – from there – everything stayed on track right through to the end.
I think that arriving/starting on Saturday night (instead of Thursday, or even Tuesday, as a lot of people did) was a really good idea for me. I don’t need that much Fest time. It’s true that there were a lot of people I would have really loved to see that I didn’t get a chance to meet up with so much as once (and plenty of others I could have used a lot more time with) but – in all – everything played out well.
And I was extremely lucky to have a lot of great people still around this morning for a dual Sam/Alec birthday breakfast. Birthdays aren’t a huge deal to me, but what better way to start one off than a few hours with friends from all over the map (just before they scatter back out across it)?
I’m gonna continue my little celebration by not being a nerd glued to the computer and just wait ’til tomorrow to get back into the regular swing of things. Here are two of the most endearing things I heard over the weekend though.
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“Go pee before you go to bed. Then you won’t piss in your sleep. That’s how it works.” The way you say that, it sounds like this is a recurring problem…
“About four nights a week.”
No way… Is he really drinking that much, that often so as to be pissing himself on a regular basis?
[sad voice] “Dude, don’t tell Sam that. I don’t want Sam to know that.”
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What hoodie is that?
“Um… I’m not sure. Night of the Living Dead, I think.”
[laugh] Oh yeah – you get that at the mall?
“It’s not mine. – Hey, where’d you get this hoodie?”
“Hot Topic.”
[laughs] Serious? I was just kidding around.
“They’ve got cool stuff there.”
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Outstanding. Hopefully, these work on some level even without knowing the identities of the speakers. Either way, they both made me smile.
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Here’s a cartoon about my buddy, Avi (one of the kids in the photo). [I was gonna link to a bunch of art/posts about kids in the photo, but Heather just got home from work and I haven’t seen her since Saturday morning]. More (legit stuff) tomorrow!
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.
While in rehab last year, I drew a cartoon for a Christmas card to send my friends. It’s me and Santa hanging out with The Devil, Borderline Personality Disorder, an undefined higher power, a Disney-fied syringe full of heroin, myself at age four, an identity issue monster, and two girls that I’m either in love with, trying to fuck, or just looking to get some kind of self-esteem bump out of.
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We didn’t have a community event that week so I had Saturday almost entirely to myself. After trying and failing to create something a little more self-serving, I decided to do something nice. I drew this – my most detailed piece up to that point – for a card I could send to all the people I care about. My list had 110 names on it. That wouldn’t have been all that difficult had I not made it into the most emotionally intensive project ever. If these were people I cared about, I decided, then I should write each of them a letter letting them know why I cared about them, just how much I appreciated them, or [you get the idea]. It was more than I could handle. In the end, I got around 60 cards written (and about 55 actually mailed out). The people that have meant the most to me over the years: their cards were the hardest to write. I forced myself to scratch a few of those out early in, but others I kept putting off ’til I could find what I needed to give it the focus and honesty it deserved. Since I had about 50 names left to cross out when I threw in the towel though, some of those people never got any card at all.
As a whole, this was one of the toughest things I ever tried my hand at. Though I ultimately fell short, I’m still really glad that I did it. The 50 or so people that did receive cards – well, that’s still something.
For the backs of the cards, I traced the Traffic Street logo (with one modification) and the barcode from a box of Cap’n Crunch.
As for the content of the image, sitting around me are physical manifestations of all of my “issues.” From the bottom-right, we’ve got Satan as my dark, sarcastic, attention-seeking behavior; the mask I made in our expressive art group on identity [it’s not up on the site yet and won’t be ’til I can summon some bravery]; a syringe filled with heroin; the ghost that I used in this period as a symbol for borderline personality disorder; Santa’s just hangin’ out ’cause it’s like, Christmas, yo; the girl represents different issues with sex, love, and codependency; the empty chair is for my [then] undefined higher power; the little kid is me at four years old, an age that came up a lot in the course of my treatment and that a lot of my core beliefs can be traced back to; and the second girl is for sex, love, and codependency. Yeah – two chairs for that set of issues. They come up a lot.
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Status update (10/30/13): This isn’t exactly my strongest entry but I don’t have much in me tonight. I feel pretty hollow right now. [More on that later, I suppose]. Earlier today I was extremely productive though and got a lot of writing and editing done. I’m really happy about that. While most of that work isn’t anything I want to share here yet, I did completely overhaul the statement for one piece, edit the fuck out of another, and add a good amount to a third.
I don’t have the slightest idea what’s happening in Syria. Something about weapons or genocide or… [who the fuck knows?] (Not me!). I am intentionally ignorant of it. I don’t give a shit. Not because I have some sort of bigoted animosity toward people in that part of the world, but because it’s not good for my mental health to be concerned with it. I don’t stress about it for the same reason I don’t stress about whether my friends in other parts of the country are consumed by drugs and at risk of dying. Because I can’t control it, I can’t change it, and worrying about it isn’t going to bring about anything positive for anyone.
I have a memory from when I was twenty years old. I was reading constantly and the things I was reading were consuming my thoughts. I remember walking through a grocery store and I started to cry (just a little bit) because I was thinking about water privatization in South America. I’m not interested in living that way anymore.
I saw some stuff on Facebook this week, criticizing our culture at large for being so consumed by the spectacle of MTV’s video music awards. I don’t give a shit about that either, but I actually saw some of it. (I went over to Angie and Alex’s house last night with Heather because Andrew and Claire came into town. They wanted to see some parts of the VMAs so Alex pulled it up on their magical internet television). I didn’t think it was awesome and I didn’t think it was the worst thing to ever happen. But it was really fucking boring. But [whatever]. It’s not important because – like Syria – things like that don’t need to be a part of my life at all.
Is it sad that bad things happen every day, whether or not we know about them? Absolutely. Is it frustrating that people obsess over (what I think is) vapid garbage “entertainment?” Sometimes, I guess. But none of it matters. Nothing matters. Not inherently. Things only have the significance that I assign to them. I don’t know if you’d call it a sort of nihilism or a “personal relativism” or what, but I get to choose my own truths and I get to create my own world.
As the only text on this painting (that isn’t in the title) says, “I like colors and contrast, bad teeth, crooked smiles, and nonsense. Things are better than they’ve ever been.”
“Bright Side Nihilism: (Syria +/= Video Music Awards) < The Dog Peed on the Futon.” 9/1/13. Mixed media. 30×40″.
This was the biggest fresh canvas I’ve ever worked with. I started on Thursday (8/29) and finished last night. It is acrylic, watercolor, pen, marker, carbon, and oil pastel.
Aside from “colors and contrast,” here’s something else that matters to me. Last night, when I was trying to figure out how to get a high-resolution photograph of something this big (and getting a little bit annoyed with how poorly my efforts were going) I realized that I was sitting alone in my kitchen, bouncing around in my seat, and singing along to this song. It made it a little tougher to feel at all annoyed or frustrated.
Edit(!): I can’t get the song to embed! Just go here and absorb everything: thebrokedowns.com
The original painting is sold. Prints are available in the webstore. Buy one and help me sleep indoors another night!
In 2011, I was still turning up to shows and fests but, each time, it would be more obvious that I was deteriorating into heroin shit. At that year’s Fest in Gainesville, I remember standing with a big crowd of friends outside Durty Nelly’s. I forget the context, but I declared myself to be “the coolest kid in the world.” Servo corrected me: “No. You used to be.”
While in rehab for the first time, he sent me an email and reminded me of that moment. “What I forgot to add,” he wrote, “is that you will be again.”
A few months back, I was asked to help out with some stuff for Rational Anthem’s new record. One of my tasks was to get the high-res logos for each record label and forward them to Bill Pinkel, who was doing the album art. One of the labels was Servo’s. When I asked for his logo, he asked me if I’d draw him a new one.
Here’s one of many great songs (“So Happy For You” by Lipstick Homicide) off of one of Bloated Kat’s many great releases (LH’s new full-length, “Out Utero.”)
“Titrating.” February 26th and March 14th, 2013. Acrylic, marker, and pen on canvas. 8×10″.
I’ve never shared the text in this piece with anyone until now. Shortly after I moved out of Tranquil Shores, I went down to Sarasota to see if I could sell some of my artwork by just setting up on the sidewalk. I didn’t want any trouble with police and the most trafficked spot in downtown Sarasota is outside of Whole Foods, so rather than set up in such a way as to be explicitly selling artwork, I just sat at a table outside of Whole Foods and painted, with a few finished pieces (facing outward) in the crate attached to my bike, another on the table in front of me, and another leaning against my chair. I just painted and hoped that someone would walk up and want to talk to me and then I could somehow segue into trying to sell something. Plenty of people did stop and talk to me, but I didn’t say anything to anyone about selling anything. And it was twilight, so no one could really see anything anyway. The whole thing was awkward. It wasn’t exactly my best plan.
Just before I went to Whole Foods, I had stopped by Clothesline. I had made a habit of doing that whenever I was back in Sarasota in the last year or so (in between stints in rehab), but this time it wasn’t just to say hi to the owner, Austin (my best friend from ages two to ten or so). Clothesline does gallery openings or art exhibits or [whatever you call that kind of thing] and – as of a couple months ago – I was now an artist. I figured I’d show him some of my pieces and see if there was any possibility of showing some of my stuff there. He was really supportive and sweet, but I didn’t actually ask outright and the whole thing didn’t pan out exactly as I’d have liked it to. Looking back, that makes a lot of sense.
Anyway, this was written a few hours later – after the Whole Foods attempt, after starting my ride back to Bradenton. It was colder than I could stand (to ride in) so I pulled over and wrote this on a piece of canvas that I had started to paint earlier. It says:
At first I thought it was just because she wanted to see me, but when I started writing on “Smiling With a Paintbrush in My Teeth,” I realized it might not be a good thing. When I asked her if she just wanted to see me or had something specific to talk about (and that I might not be home by ten) she said, “It’s not a big deal – it can wait ’til tomorrow.” But it’s a big enough deal that it’s not a text or a phone call. And a big enough deal that – ideally – she wanted to talk about it tonight. I’m really scared. Trying to see the good. Trying to be a light. Whole Foods today (covert street sales) was a bust. Clothesline was a bust. I might need to be in a big city to be an artist. And what keeps me from that? Heather. If she left me, I could go wherever I want. In another piece today, I had described myself as “stuck” and “trapped.” Also “smiling,” but still. My little punk rock heart’ll be broken, but I’ll be free to pursue my dream. And she’s been weird the last two days. “A dream I don’t want to wake up from.” It’s true, but maybe it’s time for me to wake up. I tried to ride the moped back. It’s too cold. The zipper on my bag keeps opening. I caved and called Lynette. There’s pizza waiting at home. I’m scared but I just need to make it another 100 minutes. Writing this killed 17. By the time I’m warm and fed, I’ll only have maybe 55 minutes to kill. Fuck. I’m smoking a cigarette now.
So – being incredibly codependent – I wanted to see Heather every night, but I was trying to be cool with it on the nights that I didn’t see her. But when she sent me a text on this evening, asking if she could come over around 10, I was excited because she had said that she had to work early and wouldn’t be coming over. And then my brain went into panic mode, as I realized that her text also implied that there was something we needed to talk about. Obviously, I jumped to the conclusion that she was going to break up with me. We had only been dating for a couple of weeks, but – shit – I didn’t really understand why she had been into seeing me in the first place. I’m a heroin addict and I just got out of rehab. She’s well-adjusted and employed. She drives a car! That she bought! With money from working!
I got picked up on the side of the rode and went “home.” (I was living with an ex-girlfriend’s family – although – I think it’s safe to say at this point (eight years in) that they’re basically my family; they’re as much family to me as anyone else in the world). Anyway, I was a ball of anxiety, I was so incredibly stressed out throughout this, but I remember that the one comforting thought in my head was there will be pizza – I will eat pizza and everything will be okay. (Yes, I am nine years old). When I got back to the house, there was not any pizza left. It was a pretty devastating blow.
I didn’t finish this piece that night because I didn’t want it to be a piece. I didn’t want anyone to see what I had written. It’s embarrassing.
Three weeks later, I found myself similarly upset though and I picked it back up. In all of that time, I had been cutting my anti-depressants all the way down to zero. For that reason, it was tough to tell when something was a legitimate issue and when I was maybe just feeling the absence of my medication. Just before I moved out of Tranquil Shores, it had been suggested that maybe I didn’t need anti-depressants after all. I started titrating down and we were monitoring my condition to see how I did with a lower dose and then with no dose. The day that I finished this piece, I was at the very end of my titration. I had no idea what was what.
I still get depressed, but I haven’t gone back on anti-depressants. After all, I still got depressed even when I was on them. And actually, I got depressed even more often because my “mental health tools” weren’t as strong back then. I don’t wanna go on a long spiel about it, but I’ll just say: I think anti-depressants are for people suffering from depression without cause. If, on the other hand, a person has plenty of legitimate reasons to be depressed, depression is the appropriate response and not something that should be treated with a pill. That strikes me as being roughly equivalent to putting a piece of duct tape over a “check engine” light and thinking the problem’s solved.
Anyway, I’m not saying that I have good reasons to be depressed, but I’ve got my little episodes and I have ways that I can manage them without a pill. Did I need it for a time? Almost definitely. I don’t think I could have started to get a grip without them. I was immeasurably miserable all the time. Words like “hopeful” and “happy” disgusted me. I wouldn’t even say them out loud. My process, getting well… it wasn’t quick and it wasn’t easy. I had a very long way to go. (And – yeah – I’m still going).
Quick aside. In writing this entry, I noticed something cool about this piece: how many other pieces it alludes to or is tied to in some sense. At least five. Maybe those will be the next ones I add to the site. (As I add those pieces, I’ll add links to them in the text of this entry, where each is referenced).
“Spotlight on Mental Illness b/w Drink Bleach + The Barney Generation.” 4/27/13. Acrylics and ink. 12×12″.
I made this piece on the least successful of my four art-fair-days back in St. Pete. The text on the left says, “Nobody likes me, everybody hates me, guess I’ll go drink bleach.” From the top, it’s a little more sincere.
Embarrassingly so, actually. It says, “I think I’m special and that my artwork is really different and really great. I think my story is really interesting. I don’t know how much of that is self-esteem, how much is pride, and how much can be chalked up to my being a member of the Barney generation. I get really impatient though. I suffer from the same sense of entitlement as the other brats my age.”
Went to the Hexagon last night for the first Dave Strait Fest show. It was cool and it was fun and it was really great getting to see a lot of the people I haven’t seen in the last two years. Everyone was really sweet and supportive and – though it shouldn’t have – it made me a little uncomfortable at times. Not because of anything that anyone said or did, but my own response to it. It’s still hard sometimes for me to receive that kind of support/encouragement/love. I wanna say “thank you” because that’s how I feel – I feel grateful. But at the same time, I still struggle with whether or not I really deserve that kind of love and support so I get kind of awkward and sometimes sort of dismiss it with a shrug and a little self-deprecation. I need to be more cognizant of my behavior in those situations and force myself to respond authentically and gratefully.
I saw Ryan, one of my best friends from when I was living in DC. He invited me to come hang out with him at Extreme Noise today, but we’re staying on the outskirts of the city so I’m not able to get over that way until we all head out for the show tonight. We talked a good deal last night though and, at some point, he mentioned the “Diazepam” painting/blog entry. No one said anything when that went online, but it made me realize that more people probably saw it and were affected by it then I thought. I think I might have alienated some people with that. I think people were/are disappointed in me for that slip. But it happened and I’m glad that I was able to be honest about it, even if it is damaging to people’s impressions of me. I’m not proud of my behavior that day but I’m not upset that it happened either. It is. It’s real. I’m not perfect and while I’d like to be the shining-star-success-story that everyone can be proud of… this is real life. It’s not a narrative in three acts with simple conflict and resolution. Sometimes the path winds, sometimes things get messy.
None of this is to suggest that Ryan made me feel this way. It was just in his bringing it up that I got to thinking about it. Sometimes I’m so caught up in each new day that I forget that I have a past and that certain impressions from different days will last longer than the time between each post to my website. And – let’s be real – I’m talking about something that happened two weeks ago. It may feel like a lifetime to me, but – really, in some ways, it might as well have been two days ago.
I don’t want to take my focus off of myself, but there were two people I saw last night that … sparked different sorts of thought or concern. (A luxury for someone like me, I know). One, a close friend; the other, an acquaintance. I journaled a lot about it last night, but I don’t think there’s any way to share any of that without compromising somebody else’s privacy.
I know I’m not the champion of mental health, but I’ve got a little something and it makes me sad when I can’t give that to someone I care about. I wish there was more that I could do to help. Maybe there is, but I don’t know what it looks like. I might have to risk hurting some feelings for the sake of honesty. That’s being a better friend than keeping my mouth shut and letting someone fall apart without so much as a word. I’m not talking about “calling anyone out” but just genuinely expressing real concern. I need to tell the people that I care about that I care about them.
Anyway, I’m doing well and I’m looking forward to the rest of my day, which has already been nice so far. Andrea, Mike, and I went to the grocery store and brought back a feast of a breakfast, which Pete, Luke, and I then cooked up. Right now, everyone’s just resting up for tonight or doing their own thing. We’re staying at Natalie’s house with Servo and the Lipstick Homicide kids and it’s really nice and relaxed. It’s pleasant. Sometimes, on tour, in someone else’s home, it’s easy (for me anyway) to feel like an imposition or intruder, but Natalie does a great job of making everyone feel welcome and at ease.
Hit me up if you wanna buy this painting (assuming no one else has yet) or a 12×12″ print.
