im here to be silly

In my formative years, I drew gore all the time. Blood, agony, pain, suffering, grief, deep wounds, shallow wounds—I had a wide range of such pieces that depicted these. Maybe it was a sign that something wasn’t quite right with me, or maybe it was the fact that I grew up seeing art like this on the internet. I wanted to follow in those artist’s footsteps, so I did.

However, I was young. Extremely young. I didn’t quite understand what I was doing and what I was putting out in the world—nor did I completely understand why I was creating such things. The only thing I knew is that I wasn’t happy and surrounding myself with such art made me feel something. I am still not sure to this day if it was a good or bad thing for me.

It wasn't until years later that I slowly stopped drawing pieces like that.

I was getting better (mentally and artistically), yet I was swallowing a big part of my expression down. Don’t get me wrong, I love the majority of the work I’ve made since then. It’s not everything I am capable of doing though. I felt like I had to push down other factors of my art—especially the art that had made me the artist I am today to be seen as more palatable. Acceptable. Emotions that I felt like I couldn’t fully express until now.

I’m in pain constantly—physically. My chronic pain has only gotten worse and I feel ill all the time. I want to tear it out of me, rip it apart with my hands and finally feel free of this sickness that has plagued me. I am tired of feeling weakened and I am tired of being tired. Unfortunately for me and many others, this is something we cannot control.

Maybe this is bad of me, but there are times I wish there was something inside of me that I can point to and say “there’s the problem”. That’s what’s causing this. I want to tell and show people so that they can believe in the pain that I am feeling—as it often leaves me defeated in bed. As of now, they are looking. Searching inside my very body in a way that makes me feel more like a doll than a person sometimes.

I am afraid that one of these days my hands will finally give out on me and I will be unable to create. Art has formed me more than anything else. If I cannot create, I don’t know what I will be.

There’s a desperation to me and it’s beginning to make me feel more hollow. Clingy. Needy. It’s those feelings that make me feel desolated. A constant insecurity that one day when I am unable to give, the people around me will be irritated with me. Stuck with having to carry a dead weight. I do not know how to fully comprehend or accept care—and it is not the fault of the people around me.

One day, maybe, I will comprehend the fact that these people do love me. Even if I do not give. As of now, today is not that day.