“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.
—–
This 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.
This was an assignment at the end of group one day. I forget the specifics, but I think it pretty much amounted to “here’s the outline of your brain – fill it in.”
While everything here is rooted in truth, there’s obviously a self-deprecating humor underlying it all.
I started to write up a statement but so much felt redundant when taken in conjunction with a lot of my other writing that’s already online here. Since it’s really sort of an index of my brain anyway though, I decided to use this entry as a sort of directory. In the course of compiling it, however, I came to realize a few things…
First, I’m great at pointing out those weaknesses of mine that make me sympathetic (lovable), but am significantly less inclined to open up and and shine a spotlight on my more deplorable faults and flaws. Especially when it comes to dishonesty, manipulation, or anytime I’ve caused another person harm.
Second, when it comes to the things that have really hurt me: same problem. Hurts that I’ve conquered, I’ll talk about all day long because it feels like victory – but the things that really left a scar: not so much. I’m embarrassed by them and they make me feel weak. (This is especially true of events from childhood that now seem petty or trivial).
Third, for a recovering heroin addict that still thinks about heroin on a daily (if not hourly) basis, I don’t seem to ever write about heroin, except in the past tense, like when I’m telling a story.
Fourth, while I’ve shared more of my thoughts on it than a lot of people ever will, I’m still pretty meek when it comes to writing about sex – at least relative to my approach to lots of other socially taboo subjects.
Anyway, here’s the little directory I put together with regard to each “segment” of my brain, as depicted in this drawing from December, although a few are either curiously thin or entirely absent…
Lovesickness (girls, relationships, and associated consequences)
This… what you’re reading right now… the fact that I’m still making this fucking list when I know that I really ought to stop, elaborate on the things that warrant elaboration and not just keep thinking up pieces that fall under each of these headings. But I’ve made it this far and I don’t want to feel like this was all for nothing….
—–
It was at this point that I paused and rewrote the introduction to this entry so as to include the things I learned about myself in the course of “curating” this directory. Although, remember – you can always use the search box at the bottom of every page to find content related to whatever you might be interested in. The tags just below the title of each entry can be useful too, although I haven’t always done a great job of using them as well as I really should. (I know of at least one tag that’s never been misapplied to an unrelated entry though)…
—–
This entry is TOTALLY two to three hours past due but I was locked out of the site for a few hours on account of all the super 1337 h4x0r5 that have been fucking up my shit (and my webhost’s server) these last few days. I’m just glad they weren’t able to do any serious damage, so I’m not gonna bum out over the little stuff.
“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.
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 feelsright.
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.”
This 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.
“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 thisso 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.
“Perfect love” (to me) isn’t just unconditional love; it’s bigger than that and it’s greater (or wider) than any kind of romantic love. It’s a total respect for the entirety of another human being. It doesn’t have any room for jealousy or anything like that.
I really like the word “cupidity.” Technically, it’s an excessive desire to possess something (like money or materials things). Given the connotations of “cupid” though, I like to think of it as more of an excessive desire to possess someone. It’s sort of the opposite of perfect love. When I meet a girl, I have a tendency to go from one extreme to the other. One minute, I might be totally enamored or infatuated with her and then – the second I fear that she might not reciprocate (if she’s paying more attention to someone else, for example) – I’ll totally shut off absolutely all feeling and cease to care about her in any way at all. And then – the moment my fear is somehow allayed – a switch flips and I’m one-hundred percent invested in her again.
I’ve never been what you’d call a jealous or possessive boyfriend. I’m not bothered by my girlfriend going out without me, having male friends, or anything like that, but I think that’s because – once she’s “officially” my girlfriend – my cupidity is sated. That’s all the “possession” I need to feel okay, but that’s still a problem. It’s still not okay with me that I (feel like I) need that at all.
Last October, I was in treatment and I liked a girl but I knew it was a bad idea for me to get involved. So I was trying to have a genuine friendship with her. I was trying to practice this concept of “perfect love” that I had in my head. I was trying to be real and authentic and honest, and to value and respect her as an independent human being. It was a totally different dynamic (and experience) than my usual approach of (still trying to be honest but primarily) trying to get her to like me (or want to be my girlfriend or want to sleep with me). I wanted my behavior to reflect perfect love, which meant acting without any expectation, desire, or even hope of receivinganything in return.
On Halloween, she was having a problem and – after coming to me for help – she went to someone else. “What – I’m not enough? My help wasn’t good enough? What’s happening!?”–I thought. I didn’t show any of this outwardly, but the switch flipped and I immediately ceased to have any interest in this girl. My feelings were hurt so I was going to stop caring. …Because I wasn’t the only person that she shared her problem with…
And it’s worse than that even. In these situations, I don’t usually stop caring about the girl alone – more often than not, I also stop caring about myself. Suddenly, I’m a worthless unlovable piece of shit and there’s no reason for me to be alive. (My attempt at perfect love was an abysmal failure).
This all happened just before expressive art therapy group. An “exit bag” is a homemade suicide device. To make one, you need a helium tank, an oven bag, a piece of string, some tape, and a tube. I felt like I wanted to die, but I knew that I didn’t really and I wasn’t ready to talk about my feelings because I probably wasn’t ready to feel better. I needed to punish myself by stewing in misery for a little bit longer. Writing “helium, bag, string, tape, and tube” here was my way of saying “I WANT TO DIE” without having to deal with anyone’s response to a statement like that.
Because so much of what I was experiencing as I made this piece so perfectly exemplifies (/is symptomatic of) borderline personality disorder, I came to see the ghost that I drew here as sort of a stand-in for BPD. He’s in at least five of my pieces (including a tattoo). Once I have more of those online, I’ll probably do a special post just to feature him in all his different forms. (That sounds like fun to me). : )
My first reaction to twelve-step programs was: “Required belief in a higher power? This isn’t going to work for me.” I read “We Agnostics” and heard about the proverbial higher powers of atheists (light bulbs, door knobs, etc.) and it was all bullshit. Besides, from what I could tell, these programs weren’t talking about “a higher power of your own understanding,” they were talking about GOD. Narcotics Anonymous goes so far as to refer to God as “Him” (with a capital fucking H)! The Alcoholics Anonymous text is even worse; with exclamations like “May you find Him now!” they might as well have a crucifix on the cover. I was equally unimpressed and unswayed by the guy who told me his higher power was Spiderman. And the people who said that NA or AA was their higher power just seemed to be reaching.
It wasn’t for me. “We Agnostics?” More like you agnostics. I wasn’t an agnostic or an atheist because I’m not even acknowledging it. If someone asked me if I believed in God, I’d look at them like they were retarded. “It’s not something that concerns me. It’s not a relevant question. Who fucking cares?”
In December of 2011, worn by desperation, my mind opened just a little bit. In my room alone, my second night in (my first) rehab, I accepted my first higher power. It was something. Literally. My first higher power was something. “Whatever it is that those addicts who recover share in common – that’s my higher power.” My thought was that I may not be able to identify or articulate exactly what that was specifically, but that only made the concept seem more in line with what I thought conceptions of God or a higher power are really all about.
As I became more well-versed in recovery speak, I would playfully throw the slogans and principles around – mock-chastising staff and peers when they’d do or say something that could be interpreted as out of step with recovery. This, of course, included statements invoking God. As it so often happens in rehabs (or kindergarten classes – or any place populated by those with the emotional maturity of children) someone made a joke that sparked a whole series of related jokes, perpetually retold, refined, and expanded. In this case, the joke was Sam’s punk god. I loved it and, somewhere along the way, actually adopted it. Accepting a higher power in spite of my awareness that it was the product of our imaginations – in a way – showed willingness. It required more than ordinary faith; it required total nonsense. And while completely irrational, it was still (as I’d love to point out) every bit as valid a conception of God as the ones presented in religious texts. Its absurdity was part of the appeal. “Punk God isn’t really concerned with sin,” I’d preach. “Except for voting. Punk God fucking hates voting. If you vote, you’re definitely going to hell.” In more earnest moments, I’d confess: “I don’t actually believe in Punk God, but as a concept – as a tool – sure.” Eventually, I’d need something that could offer me more guidance than a parodical exaggeration of myself. But for a time, the idea that Punk God was looking out for me was enough.
Something in me changed. I was building up to it over the course of more than a year but there was a moment when it really crystallized and I became a different person. [See: “No Accident”]. I’m still somewhat embarrassed to talk about it isometimes, but I got to a place (emotionally) where I could accept a real higher power.
Love.
I’m not perfect when it comes to practice but, in a tough situation, sometimes I have the peace of mind to pause and ask myself: What’s the loving thing to do? What action can I take in this moment to demonstrate love for myself as well as love for others? If I answer it honestly – and have the discipline and willingness to honor the answer in that moment – life seems to… everything seems to work out pretty okay (better than okay: extremely well).
This might not always be the case though, were it not for the second of my (let’s call them) “spiritual principles.” When something bad happens, I don’t accept that it’s bad. It might seem bad, but it isn’t. I might feel some kind of pain in response to it (whether physical, emotional, or [whatever]) but it’s a good thing. When I struggle with something, that’s a good thing. It’s an opportunity for growth. It’s a chance to become a better, stronger person. I believe that everything happens exactly it’s supposed to or, alternately, everything happens for the best. This is not a belief that I get consequent to some other belief (for example, that there’s a god up above that’s playing chess with all of our lives). This is a choice. I choose to believe that this is true. And – on a very basic philosophical level – it is very much, absolutely true – so long as I want it to be. Reality is reality. I can’t change it. What I can change is my perspective / attitude.
It’d be easy to conclude that terrible things happen on this planet and that we live in an awful world. Even in examining my own situation, I could conclude that I live in my ex-girlfriend’s parents’ house because I’m fresh out rehab; I went to Georgetown Law and I don’t even have a job; I sit in a dark garage all day and generate my only income by selling weird antique dolls on eBay; I’m 27 years old, spent most of the last 16 months in rehabs and mental health institutions, and can’t even get a bank account; the record label that I poured myself into for years has crumbled and my band doesn’t even really exist; I’m a fuck-up, a loser, and I have no prospects for the future.
Instead, I choose to see it more along the lines of… I was a trainwreck of a human being and behaved abominably; in spite of that, I have people in my life who not only trust me to live in their home, but allow me to do so rent-free; I got to take more than a year out of my life to study myself with the help of incredibly gifted counselors, therapists, and doctors and finally figure out why I’ve spent most of my life unhappy, and discover a new kind of happiness that I never knew existed; I also discovered visual art, something that I was once too fearful to even attempt seriously, but that I now enjoy as thoroughly as anything else in this world (even pop punk!) and that has allowed me to connect with other people (people still struggling with addiction, people in recovery, and just regular people) in a way that those people tell me has enriched their lives and, in turn, enriches my own; I have dreams and aspirations that I work toward everyday and I enjoy that work regardless of any external success that might or might never come from it; I have beautiful friendships with inspiring people whom I admire and a girlfriend with whom I am thoroughly in love; life could not possibly be better.
Only one of those two statements is true but I get to choose which one it is. This is where the old, abandoned concept of Punk God comes in – it’s all about choice. No one can prove me wrong. Things may look one way – it doesn’t matter. Everything is exactly as we believe that it is. Right and wrong don’t really exist. Not in any practical sense anyway. I choose to believe that everything works out for the best for the same reason I chose to “believe” in Punk God. Because it helps me. It makes life easier. And just as no one could prove that Punk God wasn’t real, I can’t prove that everything doesn’t work out for the best. So I believe that it does. And I’m right!
“Everything Works Out Exactly As It Should.” 3/14/13. Marker on foam board scrap. 8×10″.
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Prints of this piece are now for sale in my webstore.
“Beachtown Graffiti.” February 14th, 2013. Mixed media. 33×13”.
On Sundays, we have a twelve-step meeting here on rehab property that’s only open to current patients and alumni. When I walked in, two of the kids told me they had a great money making scheme that I was gonna want to get in on and that they’d tell me about after the meeting. “Sam, I have a friend who makes two thousand dollars a week, beating off in front of a webcam.” “I thought you were gonna pitch some kind of business plan that you wanted my help with. But – what – you guys are gonna do this and figured you’d just give me a heads up in case I wanted to do it too?” “Oh – no. WE’RE not gonna do it, but we figured you’d be into it.” So – obviously – nobody’s making two thousand dollars a week just to masturbate. But they had a point. I could probably make SOME money by jerking off or putting things in my butt or – you know – doing whatever somebody asked me to do. I think. I mean – these sites still exist so far as I know. I did some research and found a company that seemed legit. I filled out the paperwork, sent in some pictures, and got approved. But my counselor says that I’m not allowed to be a prostitute – even if it is just on the internet. Not while I’m a patient here anyway. She wants me to get a real “job.” So if I understand correctly… if I give someone an hour of my time for three hundred dollars or one hundred dollars or – you know – whatever… If I’m touching my genitals during that hour, I’m a prostitute. But if I give someone an hour of my time for EIGHT DOLLARS an hour… I’m not a prostitute? So long as I don’t have to show anyone my penis? This doesn’t make sense to me. If I were to do the webcam thing, I could make a decent amount of money and still have lots of time to do the things that are important to me. If, on the other hand, I wanted to make the same amount of money by – let’s say – washing dishes or bagging groceries, I’d have to sacrifice virtually ALL of my free time. Leaving myself with no opportunity to do the things that make my life worth living. Now THAT sounds a lot more like “selling myself.” Right now, I feel more free than I’ve felt in my entire life. Six months ago, I was enslaved by heroin. Everything I did… none of it was by choice. It was all directed at shooting heroin, getting heroin, getting money for heroin, or getting shit that I could sell to get money for heroin. I’ve struggled and I’ve cried and I’ve done a ton of work to get to a point where I don’t have to live like that anymore. To get my freedom back. And to use that freedom to discover those things in this world that are meaningful for me. And now I’m supposed to just give it up and go get some shit job? What was all of this for? If I’m gonna be a slave, does it matter whether it’s to a drug or to some assistant manager at Publix? And – so far as taking the bar and becoming a lawyer is concerned – all that shit, it’s all the same to me. Work I don’t enjoy is work I don’t enjoy. It’s all just washing dishes. Why am I suddenly concerned about money anyway? Because I want to be financially independent outside of a treatment center. Why do I want that? Basically? A girl. (Not that any girl has ASKED me to do any of this). And REALLY, it’s for me. But a girl factors into it. And it’s not a bad thing. In fact, it’s kind of THE BEST thing. But – you know – it’s suddenly a salient issue, where it very recently was not. Whatever. SO…. do I wanna pull it together and be a grown-up… or do I wanna move to a real city and sleep on the street with a backpack full of paints? These are just thoughts that I have. They’re not beliefs. They’re fleeting thoughts. They’re a reflection of where I was at in different moments as I painted this. No one needs to read into this, get any ideas, or “point anything out” to me. I’m striving to be honest, but I’m probably mostly still full of shit. It’s not a big deal.
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That’s all for my “artist’s statement.” Here’s what’s going on today (August 8th):
There was a point in time not so long ago (June) when I’d go back and forth between joy and misery. But it felt right and it felt okay. There were reasons. I was grateful that I was capable of experiencing those highs and those lows. Things are different today. Heather was right that I’m more critical of myself lately, but I think that’s because there’s more to criticize. I just feel off.
But I’m still hopeful. I think I can get back to where I was. I’m missing the confidence I had December through June though and feel like I could crumble under the wrong set of circumstances.
The morning was great. I went and did yardwork for three hours. It’s tedious, I always seem to hurt myself, and (when I stop to think about it) – really – I’m getting paid less than minimum wage. But – I don’t know – on the ride home, I always feel pretty great. Especially when the right song comes into my headphones. And today – as noted this morning – it was definitely Dead North and it definitely made life seem perfect.
But thirty minutes later, I felt overwhelmed, inadequate, and destined to fail. It took me almost all night to work through it – but I was still productive so I’m grateful for that. Mental health really is a chore. And a choice – though not always one that’s easy to make. [Whatever]. It’s a struggle. That much, I know.
Here’s a piece from February, shortly before I left treatment. The statement was written on the same day the piece was finished. While I still think the general idea/sentiment is right on, I can say now that I don’t think I would have ever gone through with this “employment” lead. What makes me think that, you say? Oh,have I got a story for you…
But it’s late, so I’m off to bed with a prayer that I find the courage to tell that story here tomorrow. Thanks for reading. Drop me a line if you give a shit.
This 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.
