semi-rant? I'd like not to think that. (not quite exactly the same as on devART journal. close)
Okay. So last night I fought with my mother and father. Yesterday morning, I fought with my mother -- the one that ended with a comment about my "inaccurate body image" (yes, mother, I'm fat, I know it, but I'm not as fat as you and you don't need to say I am). The night before, I fought with both. All three started out as 'discussions'.... they didn't stay that way. I want to go to Ireland for the summer to be with Joe. They think I'm being immature and that it would be a "waste" of my time. They say that if I want to be treated as an adult, I should act like one. It's sort of funny that they've been saying I'm more mature than my age since I was about three or four years old. I think "mature" was one of my first 'fancy words'.
So this morning, my mother calls me while she's at work. She asks me to take my Lamictal -- I'm somewhat bipolar by nature, and for a couple of years now, I've taken mood stabilizers and anti-depressants, in various combinations. Now. This gets me to thinking. I've had bad times, I can't and won't deny that; in those bad times, I have needed the medicines (without them, I'd likely be dead, or at least not as well off as I am now). But... while I'm on these medication regimes, I don't care. I don't feel. I don't draw or paint unless told to, and even then it's rarely 'inspired' as some call it. I don't lose all my technical ability-- I still know how to draw and paint, but I just .. don't. I feel like a computer or a robot.
You have to be a bit mad to be genius.
And I'm not very crazy. I have a tendency towards the depressive, the mixed, the hypomanic and the confused. I mean, I'm not a genius. I'm pretty good at art, not amazing; I recognize that, and I don't want to lose it. I don't want to be 'manageable', as my mother puts it. I don't want to be a tabla rasa for her to draw upon while I can't draw for the life of me. I don't want to not be me.
And I understand that to her, me being 'manageable' is probably a good deal more desirable than me being 'myself'. She actually said that last night. I told her that I couldn't imagine spending the summer here, that I would be absolutely miserable, a ghost, and doesn't she want me happy more than she wants me sad? She said that I "can't bully [her] like that". So it doesn't matter if I'm happy? "No, that's not the point." (And she didn't even look up from her magazine while saying this -- if you thought maybe she was engaged and cared about the matter, the answer is 'no').
But to me. To me, as I've come to understand it, the purpose of life as a creature on this planet is to be happy. It's important to consider long-term happiness and plan for that, too. But "that's not the point".
Whatever. I'll ignore that for now-- upsetting myself isn't going to do anything.
....
It's spring here. I'm glad.
... and a dress I made:
(the top is okay-- still needs work, but it's getting there. The bottom... well, it needs more work).
So this morning, my mother calls me while she's at work. She asks me to take my Lamictal -- I'm somewhat bipolar by nature, and for a couple of years now, I've taken mood stabilizers and anti-depressants, in various combinations. Now. This gets me to thinking. I've had bad times, I can't and won't deny that; in those bad times, I have needed the medicines (without them, I'd likely be dead, or at least not as well off as I am now). But... while I'm on these medication regimes, I don't care. I don't feel. I don't draw or paint unless told to, and even then it's rarely 'inspired' as some call it. I don't lose all my technical ability-- I still know how to draw and paint, but I just .. don't. I feel like a computer or a robot.
You have to be a bit mad to be genius.
And I'm not very crazy. I have a tendency towards the depressive, the mixed, the hypomanic and the confused. I mean, I'm not a genius. I'm pretty good at art, not amazing; I recognize that, and I don't want to lose it. I don't want to be 'manageable', as my mother puts it. I don't want to be a tabla rasa for her to draw upon while I can't draw for the life of me. I don't want to not be me.
And I understand that to her, me being 'manageable' is probably a good deal more desirable than me being 'myself'. She actually said that last night. I told her that I couldn't imagine spending the summer here, that I would be absolutely miserable, a ghost, and doesn't she want me happy more than she wants me sad? She said that I "can't bully [her] like that". So it doesn't matter if I'm happy? "No, that's not the point." (And she didn't even look up from her magazine while saying this -- if you thought maybe she was engaged and cared about the matter, the answer is 'no').
But to me. To me, as I've come to understand it, the purpose of life as a creature on this planet is to be happy. It's important to consider long-term happiness and plan for that, too. But "that's not the point".
Whatever. I'll ignore that for now-- upsetting myself isn't going to do anything.
....
It's spring here. I'm glad.
... and a dress I made:
(the top is okay-- still needs work, but it's getting there. The bottom... well, it needs more work).