#stuggling

lonely, dark, and heavy. hopeless humanity is all i can see through tear-filled vision, with no hope of ever living for me fully.

claustrophobic, agoraphobic and getting worse with every joke or post i see that’s homo/transphobic.

i’m scared to go to pride for mass shootings or bombings, so i think i’ll push myself past it but as i tell my parent i love them to get ready to go i’m suddenly overcome with the fear of everything. i swallow down my tears for moments more - turning back from the door, give excuses as to why that don’t force forth the cry. so i don’t sound dramatic when i say i was just afraid id die.

but i see it in their eyes too, i feel it in the tension of the room and the forced positivity for the rainbow under such clouds of gloom. they were just as scared, they just want me to be safe. Like any parent should want, right? their baby not to be scared to walk, day or night, that they don’t have to hide and could go outside the house as themselves without landing them in a life-or-death fight.

but the world is a scary place. but what they don’t get, see, or feel for me is, one less chance turns into yet another year of fear. another year of me, alone, crying in the very bedroom of my childhood home that i learned it all in. every single piece of me that i turned over in my tiny hands. the very ones i clasped every night praying it away, along with any people showing kindness of saying that who i was was okay.

the very bed sheets i muffled those cries into. the ones i bunched up to feel like i knew what it felt like holding someone in the night, too.

i wish sometimes to wring them thin, i have but not like this - i want to drain them of every tear. i want each and every one of them back. every drop of heartache, silent shatters for others hearts sake, every ounce of blood sweet and tears that it has come to collect.

i’m not sure why, or what i’d do with it.

perhaps, i could bottle it, and then see - see all those years of pain in silence, wasted, behind me.

maybe that’s it, maybe then i could move on from what haunts me. if i could just see it, make all of that hurt something physical to show me, validate me in all of it so i could let go of any of this.

i keep thinking i have and then im right back.. here. i still dress certain ways and am afraid of my natural ways. don’t be too loud, don’t draw attention, deepen you voice, talk proper non of that girly shit, walk straight, talk straight.

to be hyperaware of every aspect of myself even for the only thing i really leave the house for, walking my dog, is tearing away any bit of mental health i build. i thought- god, i don't know what i thought.

i guess i thought i’d never be back here. that by now, i would be in a place, at least of mind, where i was free to be me. but still i look in the mirror and so rarely just see me. rather, accompanying, always it seems, is every glare, every passing remark, every lonely day at school choosing that over getting made fun of or letting someone close enough, every time i averted my eyes, instead, looking to the ground when passing anyone in this god forsaken town. --------------

(sort of separate/i wrote this portion below, first, then once i started crying at the end of this i went back up and wrote all that.. so.. yeah. i feel a bit better now though) 

every time this month comes along all i can see are the thumbs downs out weighing the likes of articles for us

 i feel like a whale strung through with a harpoon they cruelly tie weights to once i’ve enough blows to fashion rope around.

i try, i really try, every year, if i’m honest, almost every second of the day to embrace myself and let go of all their hate. i try to focus on the love and the ones out there that accept us... but at the end, i always end up feeling that crushing feeling of hates weight, pulling down on me.

i want to be proud of who i am and exactly as i was made. how i am when i let go of the hateful, close-minded people out there and focus on only the peace i come to make in here. but i end up hunched over even alone, it comes infectious, seeping into my home. and again, i find myself hating who i am because even if i love me and they hate me, and i’m fine with that, but what gets me every time is the hate that others receive greater than mine, because i hide away. i’m a quiet gay, you could say.

i can go around and be just fine for the most part, but on those off days that i come to feel so comfortable in myself exactly as i’m made and i want to dare to wear something fashionable in a more fun way, i instantly wonder if i will be okay. if i’ll make it home or if someone will hit me, kill me, abduct me and release all their hate unto me rather than just through the violently, hateful words.

i don’t get it, i never will. i’ve been on both sides, explored so many faiths and philosophies to see everything from every angle, but i still will never understand why some people choose to hate, to hate another human that is merely loving, loving another human or themselves.

to love this self that you say is created in gods image, and whom this god loves so dearly that he killed his only son for. just like you, he loves us in our sin. if you must call our love this.

but, let me just say this. as much as it hurts, i gladly will die and i cry in my sin of true love. i just hope you one day can see that you will die in your sin of hate if you don’t reflect and change your ways.

my heart, overcome with love for all humans exactly as they are in their good and bad, makes me weep, it always has. and i don’t pray, least not in that way, but i do pray that i keep hold of this, this heart, as soft as a baby birds despite all the hate it gets. and i pray that yours too may soften, and actually hear the truth that sings throughout all of time and space; that, above all we should love, and as challenging as it may be, everyone from you to me, that is the whole human race should love no matter what they face. it’s terribly hard but i am grateful for all that i’ve gone through thus far for it has made my heart grow, my mind too, in order to love all humans the way in which i do. i only pray, or wish whatever suits you, that you receive this grace too.

I can see a thread of continuity in my work (even if the thread is just like, ‘ew gross, I drew that, alright’). But there isn’t only way for me to tackle a project. I’m not sure if that’s good or bad? Tbh?

Probably bad for recognizability.

Probably makes it harder to compound upon each skill in any sort of distinct or meaningful way. Who knows maybe this all part of the process.

I’ve always liked exploring new styles, trying new techniques; I guess there’s no wrong way to draw a Silco.