I’m in a pretty poor state when it comes to my health, both physical and mental. I feel shattered at times and stretched thin by symptoms I struggle to name. I’m the true definition of a schizophrenic, or so it seems to me; nobody around me really seems to understand the experience the way I live it. I changed into new pants today — a small, quiet victory. My old trackies were completely covered in paint; there was no fabric left to be seen, just crusted color and memories of work. I showered because the people close to me encouraged it, and I brushed my teeth, but I didn’t feel any lighter for the effort. My medication is scattered around my room, more than the occasional pill — it’s a daily, visible reminder of dependence I both resent and need. I hate taking medication, yet I know I can’t function or fit into this society without it. I sometimes fixate on things and chase them to the bitter end, losing sleep and perspective along the way. Art has always been high on that list of fixations, but if you read my recent posts you’ll see how it’s becoming problematic. By the harsh standards I set for my work I am not a true artist — I’m someone nursing a distant dream of making it big in the art world, but feeling like time is running out. I need to learn to paint for myself again and to block out external suggestions and opinions that warp my process. As I’ve said before, I’ve taken what I expect will be a long vacation from painting on canvas with hundreds of dollars’ worth of materials; it was taking over and doing my head in, so I stepped back to protect whatever sanity I have left.
My bedroom, the only sanctuary I have on this shithole planet, is strewn with empty energy drink cans, half‑used tubes of paint, half‑started canvases and partially read books; an expensive bedsheet and quilt lie covered in splatters of color. I have old motocross trophies from when life still felt exciting. The floor needs to be vacuumed and fresh paint stains on the carpet should have been dealt with yesterday. I haven’t eaten a proper meal in some time; I probably should be anemic, yet I’m an overweight slob who struggles with self‑loathing.
Despite that, I am taking steps to improve my life. I haven’t had a drink in 125 days. I don’t smoke cigarettes or use drugs anymore. Something I wrestled with for so many years has become, surprisingly, a breeze — I haven’t even had a craving and I’ve developed a real disgust for the stuff. Sobriety is something I’m learning to enjoy. Now all I need to do is give up the vape, which feels like it’s going to be brutally hard. To me, they’re tougher to quit than cigarettes. I don’t know how I’m going to manage it. Four months ago I became very sick and nearly died, and I spent that time confined to bed without thinking about smoking; the moment I was discharged I walked straight to the tobacconist. Such are the pull of those evil things.
I don’t have friends. I don’t want friends! I have a person I occasionally see, and I think we do friend-type things like buy lunch, walk the dog and chat, but as awful as it sounds, I don’t need this arrangement. I just want to be left to myself; I’m very comfortable with my own company. What a negative blog! I’m not always like this — I have my days. Today just hasn’t been a good one. Maybe I should become a raging alcoholic again. That sometimes made me happy, not often but occasionally, which is more than I can say about the truckloads of pharmaceuticals that are pushed down my throat. There is a friend I do have and it’s called sleep. We will meet up tonight for a short date. I only see sleep for a few hours each night; I wish our dates lasted longer. Tomorrow will hopefully be a better day. I have the comments turned on for this post. I’ve been blogging for close to a decade and I have never received a comment or a thumbs up. That’s how much the world seems to care for me. Good night!!!