“You Can Always Call”

1 06 2016

It’s hard to feel accomplished when everything seems to be falling apart in a week’s worth of the wake of graduation. 3 1/2 year relationship over, in a way that one might expect a month or maybe six month relationship would be over.

I’m exhausted. and kinda glad right now to be alone. He wants or needs to be alone so bad, fine, good for him, but it’s very shitty to like essentially say good bye to the person you still profess to love as if you’ll see them next week. He claims it isn’t that far. Yet when….Oh I don’t care right now.


My head hurts.

Stale champagne

30 05 2016

On the occasion that you find yourself in a mostly packed and emptied house with nearly all of your possessions sitting in a parked u-haul van while your (ex?)(current?)(significant other)boyfriend? (former[or current] Partner) is away working over time trying to finish up a project because his boss’s brother in-law just OD’d on heroin and died. And his boss’s debut solo show is happening in four days with at least a week’s worth of work to do and so said former or current boyfriend is going to work through the night to dutifully figure out how to mount/frame the photos of the aforementioned boss in the complicated way that even the incompetent yet some how talented boss doesn’t know how to do. ON this occasion, where not knowing the actual state of the three and a half year relationship, that you did not realize had meant as much to you as you thought. Or perhaps that good ol’ patriarchal Christian monogamy still some how haunts you more than you realize. It is on this occasion that drinking the stale champagne that was meant for celebration mimosas, which ended up being merely sad lonely mimosa that you didn’t even finish because you have shown a recent self harming impulse when drinking too much.

This occasion in which you find yourself, baby-sitting the beloved elderly dog of said former or current boyfriend in the mostly empty house surrounded by said former or current boyfriend’s things, because you both deeply love the elderly dog, and some how are still not quite ready to face what your life has become. Sure you finished graduated school, and yes that is awesome. But when you have a meager amount of sanity left, and the relationship that now you realize you are willing to work on is probably ending, but definitely feels like limbo. And you’re having to strongly consider going into some kind of intensive therapy program, oh and you’re broke, while so many around you seem to have their dreams being come true….

It is this occasion in which drinking that stale celebration champagne is acceptable. Check your bank account and order some fucking indian food for yourself and try to not be so fucking sad. Salty stale champagne is just too pathetic, even for you.

Where will I land after graduate school…McLean?

4 05 2016

Sooo, my therapist is worried about me again. Worried that I don’t have the support system that I need in order to do the things that I need to do to get better. I’m starting to feel like perhaps he is right.

He said that I might fall on the BPD spectrum. I feel like a failure. I feel like I will always be broken. That I am a terrible person. I know that isn’t what that diagnosis means, and that he wasn’t diagnosing me exactly. He said that he was trying to give me a heads up for when I checked out the McLean website.

I think I’m going to give up drinking. Well, I think I’ll start with giving up gin, vodka, rum, tequila, sweet red wine, and PBR. I’m going to limit myself to two drinks. Currently I am too depressed and stressed to drink. I get to a really dark place really quickly. And then apparently I do things like: send sexually charged texts to people other than my partner, and slash my arm. It’s already scarring over. And as far as the sexually charged texts….there’s a kind of mutual understanding that nothing will ever happen beyond that sort of thing, as we live super far apart, and other reasons.

Ugh… I wish I could take back so many things. I wish I could take back cutting my arm. Take back sending a photo of it to my best friend and thinking in my psychotic state that I had to share something beautiful with her. For thinking it was beautiful. For being honest with any fucking psychological professional ever.

I probably have C-PTSD not BPD, Borderline is such a grasp at straws of the mind.

I am tired of my bullshit getting in the way of my life. I wish I could figure out a way to at least make money off of it like the Bloggress. That is not shade. I think she is amazing. I have no idea how she has managed to stay in Texas. Seriously they have some seriously fucked up mental health practices down there. Or maybe that’s primarily Abilene.

I want to be better. I know I need patience with myself. But come on! I’m about to finish graduate school and I am barely hanging on.  Like I can get an MFA, but I can’t not sabotage my life? No. That’s bullshit. I’m sick of my own bullshit. I don’t stand for other people’s so why should I listen to my bullshit. I’m done with it.

No more. Starting right now I will do the things that I KNOW help me better myself. I will exercise more, dance, yoga, ride my bike, and swim. I WILL write every day even if it’s one fucking sentence. Every fucking day. I will draw every single day. I will paint every single day. I will cook for myself. I will clean myself daily. I will not be smelly. I will not over shop. I will not pick at my skin. (I just stopped myself when I realized I was doing it! That’s a new thing for me. Usually it takes at least 10 min or more of scoring my body before I notice.) And I will FUCKING kill it at THESIS.

Cuz if I don’t I may end up in a residential institution. I mean I guess I could pick up Yayoi Kusama’s torch. But Ii’d prefer to travel.



Why I’m cool with GRRM taking his time; today at least.

23 04 2016

I can’t kill myself until I read the last A Song of Ice and Fire books. That will probably give me another….20 years at least.

No More Apologies.

2 11 2012

You know what I’m tired of? I’m tired of looking to other people to tell me things about myself.

I’m tired of looking outward and hoping to find “the right way” to look in. And I’m sure as fuck tired of explaining and apologizing for being who I am.

Because you know what? I’m amazing. I am. If I look at my life and stop and think about what it is that I HAVE done, what it is that I’m working on, and where I’ve been, I’m glad I’m alive.  And I’m tired of being afraid of being myself.

I’m pushy, nosey, borderline know it all, who’s smart, and funny (mostly unintentionally), who can laugh at herself,  can discuss the beauty of language, art, music, and has ideas that don’t stop coming. And I’m a painter. Its taken me a while to really and truly admit and identify myself as a painter, but you know what? I’m a goddamned painter, and I need to get to it. Because the biggest obstacle has been myself, and fighting to be something that I’m not, because I was too boughed down with what I saw as a limiting thing.

When in reality what I painter does and is, is vast. Maybe I don’t always take brush to my paint, and then to canvas, maybe I do weld, and make paper, sculpture, video, and a photo here and there, but goddamnit, its all painting to me.

Maybe I have a fragile, and sometimes raw emotional state. Maybe I’m impulsive, and don’t always think things through, maybe some times all I want to do is hurt myself. Maybe I’m sloppy, and could have better hygiene  maybe I drink too much, and am a bad vegetarian and crave lamb and sausage and make myself sick sometimes, because I want a giant meat load in my mouth and I don’t care about the way my body will reject it in 20 minutes. Maybe I’m not very good with money. Maybe I’m claustrophobic, and people stress me out. Maybe I’m not very good at being a daughter or a sister.

Maybe I’m too sexual. Maybe I like sex too much. Maybe I’m not as wise as some people think. Maybe I have trouble recognizing myself in the mirror.

But I’m intuitive, brave, creative, and free.

And I will not apologize. ANY. MORE.

I do not have to defend, explain, and nor do I owe you anything. I am not an object, I am not yours to touch, follow, or have in any way.

I will never give you my heart and I won’t ask for yours, because I think my heart belongs to me and yours belongs to yours. I do not believe in a savior, outside of myself. It is me that will pull myself out of the mire, and I am done, done, DONE, I tell you with being fixed.


That being said, I do have a lot to process, because lets face the facts dear, which are:

In the last five years of my life I Have:

1. Married my high school sweetheart when I was going to be a junior in college, he a sophomore, we were virgins

2. relationship became abusive

3. Went from considering doing mission work, believing in spiritual warfare, to not believing in God at all and questioning whether or not it was ethical to even be studying theology.

4. Won some big award, for the small town I was in, for a painting.

5. First solo show

6. Went to Italy

7. Separation from emotionally abusive husband, sparked by being raped by said husband for three days(and blacked it all out forgetting/burying it and not dealing)

8. Divorced

9. Graduated two weeks later with a BA in theology

10. Stranger Raped, but didn’t understand (see number seven)

11. Beloved father like mentor dies suddenly, (barely deals with death)

12. Graduated with BFA in painting and drawing

13. Have a major PTSD episode “psychotic break” end up in hospital, after a month of suddenly remembering rapes. Given lots of psyche meds that make everything like tar.

14. Finally start coping with the shit that happened. Have to change phone number and delete beloved email account/blog because fear of being stalked by rapist ex husband

15. Live out of my car, essentially for six months

16. Crash said car

17. End up living with painting professor


19. Got a bike

20. Find good counselors

21. Complete a rigorous nonsensical program

22. Got hit by a motorcycle, concussed

23. Got the brief shit kicked out of me by love

24. Kept biking, swimming, and being active, learning my body’s capabilities.

25. Finally learning to love myself. For Who I AM, not what other people say I am.


That my friends, is a lot to process. In fact, its kinda exhausting.  But “the worst things in the world” have happened, and I’ve come through. Not unscathed, no I have scars, but I’m here. I’m a survivor. And I’m learning how to live.  And learning that I am beautiful.


Special thanks to a few inspiring folks.







15 10 2012



I got some weird news on Friday. It’s not really bad news, but just triggering. My best friend found an article about a French African native that was convicted of raping and stalking women from 2007-2010. The article had a photo. She had no idea that I was actually on my way out of work to head to my counselor, but I’m very glad that I was. As I rode over, I tried to remain as calm as possible, but my breathing was heavy, and I’m unsure how fast I was pedaling  and I know I did some maneuvers that weren’t that wise.  By the time I got down to meet my counselor I could barely breathe, let alone talk, but after taking off all my outer layers I was able to tell him what was going on.

I told him I had to know, that there was a photo in the article, and I needed to know. It was him.  I dropped my phone, and I knew it was him. I became 80% sure it was him. The stranger that raped me in June 2010. The one that I didn’t understand, the one where I started disassociating before it even was happening. As soon as he touched me, taking my hand, I started to fade, and become a shell.

I completely lost it for a few minutes. I felt as though it was happening all over only this time I knew what was going on and I didn’t see the mountain top. I didn’t know what to do but my therapist was able to remind me that I was safe, that it wasn’t happening now.  He was able to help me calm down, and call a friend to meet me after counseling.

He’s in prison. For twenty years. 19 now. But I’m not going to count that down. I’ve read several articles about the whole thing, and I’m now 90-95% sure that it is him. Nothing mentioned how tall he is. That’s the only detail that I feel like I need to really confirm it with myself. I know that there’s no tacking on to his sentence. But I recognize the shape of his mouth, the shape of his head, and he made this one face, when some one was talking during the world cup. The things that he said in the article, and the description of the actions. If its not him, there is a strong uncanny resemblance. I don’t know what this means for me. I don’t really know if this will bring closure really. My dad said that I should celebrate. But so far its just made everything present again.

To me this just tells me even more, that you don’t really get over being raped, you just learn how to carry it, and eventually the strength you gain makes it seem small and far away. One day I will be able to carry this again in such a way that it won’t be so painful.

“We must imagine Sisyphus, happy.”

I’ve contacted two reporters, the associated press, and the NYC DA office, I’m trying not to obsess, but I feel like if I know either way then I’ll be able to go on and bo back to not being a raw ptsd nerve.

I have work today so that will help. I wish I could listen to music in my head phones at work, I feel like I’m going to be hearing his voice all day with out that. I haven’t started with the nightmares or hallucinations, so I’m not going to worry too much.

I’m just going to listen to some angry/sad girl music, and I’ll be okay. I’ll probably watch Pride and Prejudice a million times, too.

Carry it With me

8 04 2012

“You look really sad.”

That’s never something you want to hear some one say… much less the majority of people who speak to you that weekend.

But my counselor did, and so did a couple of my friends.

“Thanks.” I said to my therapist. He then started asking me if I was having suicidal thoughts again, or thinking about death. And unfortunately for me, I had just that very morning. In the waiting room, at breakfast. But it was decided that I could not because of the fact that I owed Micah paper, we had a trade and I hadn’t held up my end yet. So, yea, no drowning myself or making my wrist split open.

That was one of the weird things was it wasn’t that I actually thought about cutting up myself, just that all of a sudden my wrist just bursts open. And blood goes every where.

My counselor then asks if I would ever consider going into a hospital again. And well that didn’t go over very well. He then asked if I would consider partial hospitalization.  I don’t think that I’m that bad off… but obviously if I don’t snap out of this shit then that’s exactly where I’ll be headed. “Not every hospital is like the one you ended up in”

You won’t always feel this way, your depression and all these things won’t always rule your life.

Maybe when school is over.

I have decided to make a list or reasons I can’t kill myself.

1. I would force Allison to learn the dark Arts so she could murder me for being so stupid.

2. Allison  (aforementioned),Robyn, Victoria, Tiffany, Mary, Rebecca, Saybra, Cindy, Aaron, Linda, Dr. Stiver, The Maddoxes, Taylor,  Mom, Dad, Nicki, Chris, Everett.

3. I have not started the artist residency I want to start.

4, Haven’t built a house out of recycled materials yet.

5. Haven’t learned to scuba dived/see if I can really become a commercial diver or oceanographer

6. I haven’t learned to play that one Beethoven song that I started right before I quit my lessons. I think it was Sonitina in D.

7. I  haven’t learned seven languages, and gotten to use them

8. I’ve never been to Bali, South America, Cambodia, India, Nepal, Tibet, or Everest.

9. I haven’t learned to mountain climb

10. I don’t have my mfa, or a doctorate yet (which I could totally live with out, but I do still want)

11. I haven’t canoed down every major river on each continent

12. I haven’t been to Antartica

13. I haven’t met my healthy self yet

14. I’ve never seen the permanent collection of the MOMA

15. I’ve only been to the met once

16. Never lived in NYC yet

17. Never lived any where but USA so far

18. Haven’t seen Gogol Bordello, The Mountain Goats, the Raincoats, or some other awesome punk/gypsy/lo-fi band in concert.

19. I haven’t been in any Biennial yet.

20. I’ve never been to the Congo

Well there’s more I’m sure, and I’ll add it when I think of it. But for now I have plenty of reason’s to live.  I will be sure to continue to add to the list. Write it down in my small notebook, and carry with me the reasons to live, and try to put down my sadness.


20 03 2012

Light dances on the windowsill, waking me. Sleep does not leave me quietly.  Laying there the silent battle in my head debating the day, the life, the work, causes my head to throb.  My jaw aches from my anxious grinding. Opening my mouth I hear, but don’t really feel the light click of my mandible popping back into place.  I’ve turned my alarm off perhaps ten times, and wondered why I woke up at least eight. I can’t tell whether an hour or five minutes has passed.  Finally I find myself standing before my coffee grinder not remembering getting out of bed.

I’m on the T and people surround me, I look at the clock on my phone and realize I’m going to be late, I can barely breathe.  I’m at home standing at the doorway holding the knob in my hand. How long have I been standing here? What time is it? My stomach, aches, lurches, and I shake.  My backpack feels as if I had filled it with bricks. I sit it down, look through the veil of the white curtain out onto the road, I need to be on, and try to turn the doorknob. My fingers flow gently over the cool brass warming it, and I try to turn, but can’t seem to remember how. Suddenly the heat of the knob is scorching, my hand flees the knob as to avoid being burned.  I check the dead bolt, then go lay back down.

The studio calls me, and my head screams at me to move, get up, get out, go do, go make, but my heart reminds me of the endless talk, that takes and beats the life out of what I love, and some one hands me the stake, “We’re merely deconstructing what it means to paint, what it means to make art, what it means to be an artist,” Some how deconstruction got confused with destruction, and I can not participate in the naive massacre.

When I do make it up to the studio, its like staring at an empty mirror, not recognizing who or where I am. I try grounding techniques, but that only seems to send me flying further away, or deeper down. My shell walks above me, and I am trapped below looking up through murky waters, reaching, reaching, reaching, for the surface but never making it up for air.

I was not always this way? I cannot honestly affirm yes or no. I know myself as a disconnected thing searching for the self and knowing the outside other. For most it seems that they know the other exists because of the self, but for me it is reversed, my greatest other is myself.

When I am fully present I remember everything and feel everything that was. Those horrible moments that lead me to this state of fractured self. I try to make work about it, because that’s what I want to do more than anything. But when the reflection is empty, how can the hero kill the gorgon?

Pills oh the pills, the hope filled oblongs of promises: sanity, clarity, and health.  But only one will work, only one is the right match, and thousands of suitors sit before me and shout, “Eat Me!”. Like Alice I reach and take, with the trust or sheer curiosity that this one, this one will work, this one will help. I sit on the couch and spew out and the back and forth helps relieve some pressure, but mostly I still feel as though I treading water waiting to remember how to swim.

In the fall it was attack, attack, attack, always on the offense, but with the winter I grew weary and weak. Sick with exhaustion from the battle and trying to cull the screaming wellspring of anger that was inside of me, and missing my target every time.  Reviewing and seeing all my work together was helpful, made me realize how being up on the rack for too, long can weaken one’s muscles. The words I used were filled with uncertainty and confusion, and spoken with a quietness coming from insecurity and doubt rather than humility. I did not want to speak so much as I wanted to listen to what those I respected had to say about what they saw, what they were experiencing.

The monsters inside of me battle. One: the monster creator. The other: the monster unnamed. The creator had been loosing this winter, tired from the constant thrashing and hunting of the unnamed. But now, now, new light has come and I see, the monster creator sees, that hunting for that which is unnamed has no reward, there is too much to do, too much to make.  That which is unnamed does not need me nor a creator to name it, let that monster find its own name, let it be, let it be unknown.

Dear Therapist,

16 03 2012

I’m sorry if I was unpleasant last session. You see I’m just terribly unhappy and upset. You know why. Or I’m guessing you do, since you seem to pay pretty good attention.

When I was talking about language… you asked me, “Where did you get the idea that you have this kind of power?”

I think I miss spoke, because its not so much that I think I have power to truly hurt people, its that I find that words have weight, words have power. And I guess I have said some things that are powerful. Sometimes mean things, and mean things hurt.

But maybe they weren’t really mean per-say, since they were how I felt, and I wasn’t really trying to destroy, more relieve the pain that was inside of me. But seeing people’s faces fall is something I a well familiar with. I watched it in school how a prof would show a student how their world view was illogical, or wasn’t quite the thing that maybe they thought. The expression that would come over their faces. So beautiful, seeing an epiphany happen.

I know the power of words. I’ve seen them, felt them.

I continually feel their weight.

The word abuse.


Being used to describe my family.

Gotta be careful with that shit.


5 03 2012

There was a time in my life where I had goals and they mattered to me. I was looking at my friend’s 25 before 26 blog and I thought…that’s a great idea, maybe I should do that.

Then I realized I don’t care.

All I want to do is make bullshit food. Paint bullshit pictures, and make bullshit objects.

And even then, not that much. Every time I make food I have to clean it up. And I know that’s a dumb complaint. I do. What a first world problem. Fuck I’m an asshole.

When did I become such an asshole?

I had to shave all my pubes to do this body caste tomorrow. I look like an alien.

Not taking the medication helped some.

But my stomach ache is back. And I still don’t give a fuck. I never want to leave the house.

Having roommates makes me want to leave the house, but he’s gone till…maybe when I’m gonna be leaving.

All I think about is sex and death. Did I mention that already? I don’t remember. And Mad Men.

In many ways I hate television. But I really love this show. Its a great story. I relate to so many different aspects of it.

I suppose I could have a goal to leave the house each day.

A goal to shower twice a week.

To always be honest with my counselor. Who may not be my counselor after May.

Am I too sensitive? Some people have said that I should develop a thicker skin. Other people have said, “Oh you should really get over that guy, doesn’t sound too bright”

I know that they have no clue. I know that they mean nothing but encouragement by it.  But the thing is.

They have no clue.

No fucking clue how hard it is for me to sit in some classroom every day. I hate everything. And when people tell me things like that… I want to ask them how they would feel if…

I once clung to god and Jesus when I was wanting them to exist.

Now I feel as if I’m clinging in the same manner to meaning. Life as meaningful.

I don’t think that’s true.

Maybe meaning is the last god for me to kill.