Category: Mental Illness
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Abstract mixed-media piece -
I’m tired, I can’t be bothered to hide my art behind filters anymore. Here it is, with apologises to @fkatwigs who inspired it. I did you no justice, and I truly wanted to make something great inspired by you.
The truth is that I am a “fair” artist at best. That was the assessment I was given by my York college art tutor when he looked at my laughable portfolio for the first time. I grew as an artist, but not enough, and that clearly frustrated my tutors (I had four for different aspects of creativity. Photography, sadly, was not one of them. I doubt I would’ve appreciated it at the time if it had been).
Why? I don’t know. Mostly because it was the only decent course I could qualify for that was highly unlikely to contain any of the horrible sociopaths who had made secondary school an utter living nightmare. And I was okay at it. Back then, you had to make as much GCSEs with Cs or above to make certain courses. I wanted to go for the holy grail: A Levels. Specifically English Language, English Literature. The other two would be Politics and Psychology.
After failing to achieve the desired grades (I was one C off), I took a year off trying to figure out what I wanted to do. I read through the entire Tolkien trilogy. Re-watched the whole series’ of Only Fools and Horses on TV Gold. I did basically everything I could to avoid thinking about The Future.
Then came the inevitable day.
I was given two options: get a job or work towards getting a career. Refuse either, and I had to leave altogether.p
I choose art. I came to like it.
But I love it more than I’ll ever have the talent to prove it. To prove my love.
And that’s that.
The artwork being discussed in this post. -
When is an Impossible Dream a Dead Dream
I spent a good portion of this evening typing up my entry for the Impossible Dream collaboration. I will eventually post it, if only because I made the effort to write it up on Cheetah Corona (my Corona electric typewriter), to I feel I shouldn’t waste it. A lot of ideas of mine get abandoned and wasted, which brings me to what inspired me to write this.
While it is nice to vent my feelings on all that seems impossible to achieve in my life as an artist and as a person, I also found myself excavating some unpleasant thoughts that I try to ignore a lot of the time.
It was not a pleasant excavation.
The biggest discovery? As a creator (writer, artist,delusional buffoon, whatever you would like to call me), I feel my window of opportunity is, at best, nothing but a tiny crack lit by sunlight on occasion. I’m nearing 40, I have little money, no connections to open any doors in life, and my struggles with mental illness and – more recently – epilepsy mean even finishing a project is difficult. Depression tells me I can’t do it, that no one will like it, why bother because I am useless. Anxiety is the sane tune played in Paralysing Fear of Mockery. Epilepsy is often triggered by stress, which all of the above bring on.
The best I can often manage are a few mediocre drawings of people I admire and abstract vent pieces. Writing happens in dribs and drabs. Most of it remains hidden.
I create so little of value, and I feel my dreams are dying along with whatever skill I may have posessed once. But I have nothing to move on to. I already know ordinary jobs are like being trapped in a cage to me, a cage that drives me slowly mad. No matter how good my coworkers and boss are, it feels the same.
I’m stuck here in a hole I dug for myself. I often ask what will happen to my work after I die. And the truth, save the few that are better than average, is they’ll be heading to a landfill one day. And that will be when I am truly dead. -
I’m going to be honest, I’m struggling another with creating due to mental health and money problems, so any help you can give me would be incredibly appreciated.
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I’m having a tough time with everything right now. My health problems have been numerous, I made a suicide attempt in the summer (which She Who Shall Not Be Named claimed I faked, then just huffed when I posted proof of my hospital admission which explicitly stated I had attempted suicide. And she still claims I’m a liar. Fucking christ) and I’m still using drugs.
In all honesty, they do make my life more bearable, I can do things on them and not feel so useless. Presses are the exception – I had 100 a week or so back, and they were gone after a few days and I couldn’t figure out how the hell they all disappeared…until I realised I blacked out and probably took the lot. Thank god these didn’t have fentynal in. I fell out with that plug anyway, the other guys charge more, but it’s the real stuff and that’s important in an age where fentynal is goddamn everywhere.
I know they are no good for me. But then what future do I have that’s worth fighting for here? I accept I’m a loser. I don’t accept I’m a bad person, as some people like to claim. I’ve done and said regrettable things, I own that completely.
I find myself thinking about death a lot again. I have no money for presents. I’m useless.
I’m writing this because my family just ignores me these days. I’m a junkie they tolerate. I do appreciate their frustration and anger about it, and my mum doesn’t have to provide me with housing. I’m not ungrateful, but it hurts that she can hear me cry at times and says nothing.
Bloody Roses 