I am laying awake in bed tonight – I’ve been laying here for two hours now. I want to sleep so I can start another day, but I don’t know that another day will make any difference. I feel grey tonight. I feel exhausted and a lot sad because I am not sure that I’m the kind of guy that gets to end life feeling happy.
I recently went through a very intense experience where I was administered pharmaceutical psylocibin to see if it would help with my depression. I don’t know how much I’m allowed to say about it, so the post describing my experience is password protected – I’ll keep it that way. It’s just for me I guess.
The day after, I felt exhausted. I felt like my consciousness had run a race and it was pulsing in that comfortable exhaustion that accompanies any really good workout. My therapist at the clinic talked to me a bit about my experience, and I started to wonder if maybe I would creep out of the shadows of this mind fuck that is depression and find my way to laugh again.
I drew people that I saw in restaurants.
I googled “people in the park” and tried to draw some of them.
I worked a lot.
My brothers and my friend Don came over and we played games. That was fun.
I felt optimistic… maybe I was actually going to get better. Maybe this was working. Maybe I am good enough… maybe it was going to be ok.
I actually started researching watercolor contests, thinking maybe I would try to enter one. Maybe I am good enough to try letting someone who knows what they are talking about critique my work.
I wrote more about the watercolor class I took, I have two more posts I need to finish about the class.
I started to actually think it didn’t matter if my art is shit. I felt a little more free to do whatever I wanted instead of feeling pressured to improve at all costs. I started to actually think it doesn’t matter how things turn out – I can’t change things, so why bother getting so down about it?
Today, I was home alone all day.
I did the dishes.
I sharpened my chef’s knife.
I tried to paint a feather.
I failed miserably at the feather.
I started a loaf of sour dough.
I laid on the couch and tried to watch the Cowboys/Giants game, but I couldn’t stay awake. I gave up trying to stay awake, and I fell asleep (along with the Giants it seems.)
When Rachel and the girls came home, I went to bed. That was three hours ago. It’s 11:00 now. Rachel and the dog are asleep to my left, and I’m laying here sad and awake. I have to be up at 5:30 to take Winnie to the high school for a field trip. I’m supposed to pick up one of her classmates – and I just remembered that all of the ceiling fabric in my car is hanging. A seal must be busted somewhere, because rain gets in… so my car stinks like damp mold. I’m embarrassed by it, and tomorrow I get to meet Winnie’s classmate for the first time by welcoming her into my stinky beat down car. I’m embarrassed… but I don’t have the money to fix it yet.
I hope I fall asleep soon so I can just get this over with.
After a few days of feeling cautiously optimistic, after a few days of being surprised that I don’t seem let down by everything all the time… tonight, I feel lonely again. I feel empty. I feel grey and drab. Maybe it was naive to be optimistic.
The UI that I’m building at work is probably all wrong.
My art is ugly and skilless.
I don’t even know if skilless is a word.
I am still too fat.
I am still too short.
I am still too not enough all the time.
A sprinkling pain runs down my leg every fifteen minutes off so because a pinched nerve reminds me there’s nothing I can do about it.
I feel like I’ve been slapped in the face with a fish.
I drew a girl there other day, and I liked it. So what. Who cares.
I like this painting by Oleg Kozak:
I tried to copy it.
My version lacks the saturated tones that make Oleg’s version sing. Mine is constricted by my insecurity.
I painted this picture of Hopper from Stranger Things. I traced the outlines in pencil before I started painting. That’s lazy.
I painted this tree.
A couple of weeks ago, I drew this bird.