August 16, 2015 § Leave a comment
There was this urgency to write something. I haven’t in a while. I should be more dedicated to this, to be honest, but I start getting crazy perfectionistic before I actually post anything, editing and editing away. I remember one night in university, trying to write this essay on Mao II and literally writing introductions over and over again, crazed and broken backed, bent over my laptop, not realizing the time gone by until the light started coming through my window in the morning again. I had all these intros, no essay. That’s one of various similar incidents of me getting obsessive and sleepless trying to stay afloat.
I used to get anxious and tell my first year friends that I looked like a reptile. I barely slept and was stressed all the time for a good few years before I really went off the deep end. When I was still hanging on with my fingernails, I was just paranoid about how ugly it was making me. I spent hours in front of the residence hall mirrors staring at my face. It wasn’t vanity at all, but wondering if I was a human still. Transparent skin and not having eaten or slept for a few days, takes its toll.
The fucked up part is that I kind of enjoyed it. I wanted to be sick and broken. I still feel like I have to really fucking SUFFER for anything I’ve done to be worth it, to be good. I was greening at the gills, pulling my hair back around my temples, where the veins would be surfacing, my entire hairline just looked blue/grey to me.
The next year I wrote a series of stories, surreal and increasingly disturbed, about a woman transforming or finding herself chipping, breaking away into pieces, crumbling. There were various incarnations.
I am supposed to be getting better but I still want to be the sick, dying artist. Why am I so ill inclined?