that's all she drew

sweet caffeinated release

i keep trying to find 'highs' in things. life coffee: i drink hoping to feel a zing but all i get is my nervous system vibrating under my skin while still feeling tired. lacking creativity.

i haven't drawn in a millennia. i think i forgot how. i've also got this 30" tall being at home that won't let me pull out a book without wanting to destroy the pages.

but that's not an excuse. what is? maybe because i'm not fueled by the cynicism anymore, the self loathing, the drugs (let's be frank) and i feel like i needed all those things to be creative

i think about what anne lamott said in her interview with duncan trussel during the midnight gospel:

"I felt terror that if i stopped drinking, I would never write again because I needed the misery. Because I needed that edge. And I needed the shame and I needed the raging sick ego. And I felt that without those, I wouldn’t be sufficiently crazy enough to even be funny anymore. But that’s one of the lies of the disease and of the ego, that if you’re well, if you’re happy, the jig’s up."

one of the lies of the disease. yeah, makes sense. it's strong, it's still a voice that creeps around your brain, even after all these years, saying 'you need this'. you fight it every day. even old heads with 20 years under their belt will never not say they're addicts.

asdkllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllxgfga just resting my head on the keyboard

was supposed to have bariatric surgery monday, had to reschedule. not before i was reminded that i'm an 'addict looking for a quick fix' and that 'i'll just fail and regain all the weight'. 'cause i'm an addict.

i don't understand how knowing that fact about me becomes the umbrella that all opinions form under. not what i've been through. not my mom dying before i had my first period, the abuse that prefaced it, my dad abandoning me and taking my brother, the totalitarian rule i grew up under, the situations i found myself in because of the tumultuous way i was raised, making life choices on my own at 18 onward, finding places to go until my first renting at 23 after finishing art school, somehow keeping myself afloat since then the people that label me just an addict don't know me, they just knew i restarted life after the pills and booze. voluntarily. i'm open about my past life, surprisingly a lot of people relate. i got myself in and then got myself out. not with hiccups and speed bumps along the way. each time i pick myself up and go forward regardless. to all you who are struggling, recovering, bouncing back, moving forward, coming out reborn

you're not just some 'addict'. you're a person made up of all the experiences you've been through. don't let that word define you, you're a beautiful thing made up of stardust and dreams.

i'm always glad my husband and i never met before our thirties. he would have hated 19-30 year old me. i'd hate me

i was unmedicated, bipolar, depressed, self loathing, self deprecating and vicious when i was angry

i've got to be the crazy ex-girlfriend in all of my relationships' war stories to their new significant others. i deserve that.

i think a lot about amends. i know amends are made for yourself, for you to let go when apologizing for how you hurt others in your addiction. you've no control over how the other person will take it and whatever the result is what you have to live with.

i think about sending out those emails/letters/messages. in life, i've proceeded with two; no response. just as well, i guess, it's fair to assume they wouldn't want to hear from me.

that's what stops me now; who wants to hear my stupid ass apologizing for something that happened nearly two decades ago? will they just go 'what the fuck, i have a life, fuck off'? or 'do you really still think about that shit all these years later?' brother, i think about awkward times in fifth grade english, that time i faked a british accent for two weeks at tennis camp when i was 11, the time i accidentally went into the men's restroom when i was 6 ... i love hanging on to that shit /s

all the more to let it go

i'm beyond a wonder, thoughts asunder, taking time to fine-line my mind onto width-less pages, feeling courageous before the burnout comes

i'm talking staples of foundation, mindless stagnation, on the tip of my tongue, stainless and ageless; proceed to receding back into torrid dysfunction and assumption of the mind's due gumption; i'm taking turns with myself

another desire slumped down in the mire, conspired; acquired through endless endeavor, swaying forever between what's meant to be severed and that which is heaven

mind is racing, thoughts are casing the scene; gentle and clean, the bio-machine on automation and sedation, feels the way it should

ramble ramble ramble

i took offense to this; who tells people in recovery they're going to fail?

guess he was right.

sobriety's not a linear path. no sense getting down about it. just for today, i'm going to keep my head up. just for today, i'm going to ...

give into temptation.

tomorrow's another day.

it's not all it's cracked up to be

sweet, delicious, life-saving coffee

having a place to live

this job that keeps me providing for my family

sober art is hard

the drugs and drinking gave you the inspiration, the drive, the ego. without those, are you still talented? funny?

i'm afraid that without the insane drive of uppers, my art's not what it used to be. i can't see. like, i can't form the imagery clearly in my mind. the hand stops and wavers; erases.

the tortured artist mindset is a mindset; breaking past it is the real fucking issue. even when trying to keep it to simple doodling do i find myself hitting a wall

to all you creatives out there sober, medicated, struggling: we are still made of art. join me in not giving up on a core part of myself.

it's crazy how a song comes on at 6 in the morning that brings you way back to when you were a dumb teenager

and it reminds you that at one point in your 17-year-old form you thought to yourself "this is it. this is what matters"

who knew that none of it mattered in the least. that twenty years later you'd be sitting in a life you couldn't begin to describe to your rebellious self. if you'd told me i'd end up sober, married, and with a toddler, i'd have told you to go fuck off.

and that's another thing; rejecting positive futures. don't reject the chance at a better you because you believe it impossible

from trash can junkie to married mom

they said sobriety would bring you to 'a world beyond your wildest dreams'. i never would have thought a normal life was something i couldn't picture for myself. waking up with control of my mind. a family. a home.

sometimes i still find myself 'mourning' the old life

i lived gypsy-esque; always from one place to another without a lot of root to take. i never lived somewhere more than a year and some change, always melted into the next scenario, always took life in stride. it was unpredictable but so was i

a little more unpredictability came into my life but instead of ebbs and flows there's waves and ripcurrents

no one prepares you for having a kid, not even you prepare yourself even until the day it falls from your body in a gooey screaming mess

and suddenly a new life is here.

new beautiful life

though i mourn the old way of living, i wake up anticipatory of what that new settled down feeling brings.