A friend made a joke that hurt my feelings. I put my response in a drawing.
If you wanna make me angry, suggest that I’m lazy or somehow less than self-sufficient. My job is emotionally fucking taxing. Every day that I’m not getting more famous feels like some kind of a failure. I’m in the business of trying to convince strangers that I’m extraordinary. It’s a fragile position to be in.
It’d be easy to say that your desk job is an easy, coward’s way out but I’m not gonna ’cause I couldn’t do that shit. But don’t tell me that I have it easier on the streets, selling my story and my essence to people that – 9 times outta 10 – don’t even wanna make eye contact with me.
You don’t got it any harder or any better than me; it’s just different. I don’t shit on your desk; don’t act like you’re better than me. You’re just more stable. If you think my job is easier then – by all means – there’s plenty of room in the marketplace.
This was one in a series of four drawings that I made two months ago. I realized last week that I’m angry. And that I have been for some time now. Back when I was still on heroin (and all throughout my life even before that) I had a really terrible temper. By the time I got out of Tranquil Shores though, I had learned to control it. And – honestly – I don’t even really think I needed to control it at that point. It’d flare up occasionally but, for the most part, I was happy enough that things didn’t get to me the way that they always had in the past. I’m realizing that that’s no longer the case and this drawing is evidence that it’s been that way since (at least) mid-summer. I’m hyper-sensitive and it’s fucking up my life. I think I need regular counseling again and (as much as I hate the idea) I’m even considering new medication.
On another note, my legal situation remains unresolved and I am (consequently) still accepting online orders to help with my legal expenses. Check out my GoFundMe page for more info.
“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.
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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.
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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.
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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!
I’m in the middle of a silent temper tantrum, by which I mean I’m not talking and have dedicated myself to staying miserable until I exhaust myself. I used to do this almost every day, but they’ve been pretty few and far between since the day that I consider my “emotional sobriety date.” So – of course – I’m angry and now I’m even angrier with myself for this than I am about the stupid incident that sparked this episode.
Here’s the other of my two 9×12″ learning to draw with charcoal sketches from January.
“Pulp.” 1/17/13. Charcoal. 9×12″.
In February 2012, I was kicked out of my second rehab in as many months. I found myself running around Delray Beach with the girl I had been kicked out with. I’m not going to try and diagnose her state back then but – if I did something that bothered her – she could flip a switch and go from being totally in love with me to telling me what an ugly, worthless, pathetic, despicable piece of shit I was. On one occasion in our first week out on our own, we were staying in some little shitbox motel. (If you’re familiar with Delray, I’m sure you know it). I don’t remember exactly what went wrong, but it had something to do with heroin or getting more heroin. And – in case I didn’t already hate myself enough (I did) – she was really piling on as much hatred and vitriol as she could manage, to ensure that there wasn’t so much as a shred of self-esteem left in me.
I went into the bathroom. I was crying. I looked at myself in the mirror and couldn’t fucking stand the sight. It made me angry that I was the person looking back at me. So I started punching myself in the face. I don’t remember how many times. Enough that, for a good while after, I looked like someone had kicked the shit out of me pretty well.
Which I’ve always been good at. I’ve always been good at beating myself up. But that was the one time when it was most literal.
I’ve had thoughts like these today. I have had these impulses today.
