If you plan on being anything less than you are capable of being, you will probably be unhappy all the days of your life.
Abraham Maslow (via nathanielstuart)
Took my grandfather my whole university career in a psych degree to admit to me that he worked with Abraham Maslow for a time. Loser waits that long… grumble, grumble
You are allowed to grieve the years you lost to mental illness. You’re allowed to be mad that it happened to you. You’re allowed to pine after the person you might have been had it been different. But don’t let that get in the way of your growing into your new self and following a wholly new path for your life.
I left this blog shortly after a boy fell in love with me.
I guess it’s fitting that I return to it after he left me.
I refer to the years I was managing this blog as the golden years of my early twenties, and as his abandonment deeply wounds me, it is merely another example of life shoving me down into a dark place. 2014 has broken my heart. I almost committed suicide earlier in the year because almost inexplicably, despite all of the incredibly life-giving work I did to combat my clinical depression, my brain decided it wanted to be miserable anyway (suffering a major severance of a friendship with a toxic person that I put on a pedestal probably contributed to this, and though I don’t want to admit it, perhaps problems in my relationship played a part). After trudging through that, and the mandatory weekly women’s group therapy meetings, my father was diagnosed with cancer, and I had to be the one to tell him when he woke up, because the doctor who diagnosed it entered a surgery before my dad woke up. I spent the next months being a somewhat helpful, mostly helpless caretaker, and the inevitable scapegoat and rag doll for my dad’s misfired anger at his own situation. For the rest of my time in those same months, I tried to repair my relationship with the boy who holds the superlative of “most love I’ve ever poured into a person” thus far, only to find out he had kept the secret of him accepting a job in his home state from me for nearly all the time we attended couple’s counseling together. When I confronted him about this, he said, “I wanted to make a decision for myself that had nothing to do with you; that didn’t include you in the decision making process or the actual consideration of my future whatsoever. I don’t regret not including you at all. I am not changing my mind even though we’ve been making progress. But don’t worry, I still want to date you and love you. Me leaving doesn’t mean I’m leaving this relationship.” I shouldn’t have believed him. Cut to him having me help him pack all of his belongings, and then giving me back the things I’d made for him or given him, and me asking him outright, “Are you breaking up with me?” to hear back, “Damn it. Please don’t doubt my love for you. It hurts when you do that. I haven’t said I’m breaking up with you so please don’t think I am.” and then he broke up with me hours later. Drove off to California while I sobbed in bed after telling him I didn’t want him to do this to us. I didn’t understand. I still don’t understand.
Also in this, my brother retreated/returned to Oregon because his own heart was broken, and his reaction to it was suicidal ideation. My dad decided to force us to move to his dream home merely two weeks before his giant tumor removal surgery. Relatives came to help out, but also to berate me and put me down, even though I’d like them to just try and show me how they are certain they’ve provided much more for my dad’s stability than I have. I was required to stop working on my art show, put that all on the back burner for moving to this precious house that is so new my dad wants it to remain a mausoleum of his belongings rather than an actual home. If my dog so much as sneezes on the carpet, the world is ending.
And the world does feel like it’s ending, because now a 5,500+ acre man-caused forest fire is burning 8 miles from my dad’s business, where my new art studio and all of my pieces are located, as well as the same distance (or less) from this new house, which has no homeowner’s insurance, because in order to get the house, my dad had to outbid several offers and provide cash to please the sellers (cash from family loans).
In the midst of this… after two weeks since being dumped; two weeks of bouncing between apathy and longing and staring at a wall and staring at a screen… I guess I feel the very edge of my psyche beginning to knit itself in its tiny effort to heal… and so I begin to realize I need to stop sobbing into pillows and screaming at my god… instead to get out of bed. Take my depression meds. See the therapist. See a friend or two. Try to pray. Try to ignore the pain that calls everything meaningless. Try to become my own beloved.
But I’m in pain.
I’m in pain.
I am more interested in your fruit than I am your theology. If your knowledge doesn’t better equip you to love, it’s worthless.
…i honestly feel like i’ve reached the point where i have nothing of substance to offer anyone.
i have no trust; it was broken back in spring in a white-washed apartment on a chilly day; somewhere on the 5 between oregon and california; in the back corner of an oldtown cafe, as i reigned in bitterness and pain and resentment while outstretching the quivering heartstrings in my hands toward a woman who broke her promises. i don’t want to let others in. i don’t want to be nice to my lover’s friends; i don’t want to share myself with them. i don’t want to be seen because i’m tired of being told how ugly i am by those i bare myself to the most.
i have no hope; it was taken by this cancerous depression of mine; by darkest nights with the only response to my cries for my savior’s nearness being the echoes of my sobs, reverberating off the empty caverns of myself that once housed a holy spirit; by the overwhelming conviction that my presence on the earth is a mistake god wishes he could take back. i’ve dug my shelter deep within an identity that is wholly defined by brokenness.
i have no faith; it was crushed by this feeling that everything i felt called to pursue has been ripped out from under me. and even the artwork i developed in a time of security has rotted in its meaning, and my pieces taunt me with the reminder of a god who once felt so interconnected to my daily life and so invested in all of my endeavors. now it all feels empty. i touch the clay and it is lifeless, but really, how could i expect it to absorb any ounce of vibrancy from my fingertips when i barely want to breathe every morning?
i have no wisdom, no positivity, no endearing qualities, no talents, no gifts. no insight, no answers, no intelligent questions. no conversation topics, no compliments. no interest, no positive regard for others, no desire to move toward people, no love that takes such energy and patience. no creativity, no inspiration, no passion. no direction, no meaning, no worth.
i am tired.
i just want to disappear.
all the things I could be doing instead of procrastinating, being lazy, or falling into a deep depression and not wanting to live anymore
- kiss Nick
- MY SENIOR SHOW PIECES
- read Rilke’s poetry, Van Gogh’s letters, Anais Nin’s biographies, Henri Nouwen’s spiritual ideas
- make watercolor bookmarks to sell (maybe at Pulp & Circumstance?)
- bookmarks as my business cards?
- pen and watercolor designs on the vintage organ scrolls I got
- learning amateur videography/cinematography—editing skills primarily, not really shooting the footage, but putting it together in an artistic and effective way
- learn piano
- throwing pottery better
- volunteering at Friendsview or Chehalem Cultural Center
- teach an art class at Chehalem Cultural Center
- film photography for the heck of it
- playing with my dog
- hosting parties for people
- doing a shit ton of diy projects
- research grad schools, internship, or off-beat creative job opportunities
- start an etsy site for wedding guestbook illustrations and other artwork-related commissions; maybe for pottery, too (maybe Nick could do it with me—sell his pottery and all)
- draw in my sketchbook
- draw every day in my sketchbook until I accomplish 365 straight days of it
- pray even though I’m fighting with god right now
- move toward people even though I’m fucking terrified of having my heart ripped out again
- hang out with my brother (he’s back in 18 days fucking finally)
- hang out with my mom (always a struggle, but it will probably be all worth it, someday, maybe)
- hang out with my daddy
- hang out with my roommate
- try to like Nick’s friends
- try to stop being jealous
- learn to cook foodie things
- then when that’s gross, learn to cook actually good things
- package gifts in a cool way instead of waiting until the last minute
- try to be a kinfolk douche where I have to make everything in my life super artsy as shit, creative, handmade, organic, all that nonsense
- watch more documentaries
- simultaneously incorporate intelligent vocabulary as well as the modern gangster’s slang into my daily speech and interactions
- try to smile more
- try to still open up to people
- try to speak my mind from now on instead of being passive aggressive
- try to stop living so apologetically and walking on this earth like I feel like I’m burdening it instead of improving it
The purpose of life is to be defeated by greater and greater things.
Rainer Maria Rilke
(I am depressed. I’m back on Celexa.)