Some Art

Here are a few things that I've been working on in school (one of the big reasons I haven't posted of late). These two pieces are just practice. I didn't use any guidelines on these, but will pencil in what I'm going to draw before I do the final. First up is the line drawing.

And here is a pointillism portrait of the good Doctor. Doctor Who? Exactly. The 10th to be exact (and one of my faves). The actual piece will have the TARDIS behind him and I'll fix his eyes. They're wonky, but I used pen (the old nib kind) only and was just testing to see if I could get something viable. Last time I did pointillism was in 3rd grade and it looked nothing like...... well anything. I'm glad I've improved.

That's it for now and may be it for awhile except for the occasional short story. I don't think we're slotted to do any other art work besides making a color wheel. Exciting, I know. Have to go shoo a cat off my counter now.

Deep is the Night

Pain. Emotional pain. The kind that makes the air thick until it's hard to breathe, all the while your chest is squeezing in on itself in order to keep your heart from exploding. My soul. Is it still in there? Or did it die so many years ago there on the floor as tears flowed like a waterfall, sobs bursting forth as my throat constricted to forcibly hold them in, body wracked with shaking and pain....... pain so bad I'm sure I died. It must still be there or would I feel any emotion? If anything I'm more emotional than I was in my childhood. A part of me broken and unable to keep the tears from flowing when they threaten. Broken. I feel broken. Must be my soul. First there was the numbing blackness. When I was alone I would think about everything and the numbing blackness would take over my mind. At least that's all I can remember. No emotion, only the numbing backness. My body trying to protect itself from the pain. I would tell them I was fine and hide it behind a smile and sense of humor. Thank God I have a sense of humor because nothing about any of it was really funny. Thick air creeping in on me. Throat clamping down. Trying to stop the emotion. Stop the cries. I want to scream. I want everyone to know what I'm feeling and what I've been through. My mind thinks of all the other people and how they have their own problems to deal with. Some of which are much, much worse. I have no right to complain. No right to hurt as much as I do. Suck it up and keep going. Most are not able to understand. No one can help. Alone. Just as alone as that little girl on the couch waiting for an ambulance. Waiting for death to come. Waiting for change that she's not ready for. Scared and alone as if in outer space and there's a malfunction. No one's coming to help. No one can come and help. They can't hear her scream. She never opens her mouth. She sits silently and waits in the dark. Too young to know how to help. Too scared to think beyond the moment. It's dark, but quiet. Peaceful yet chaotic. In the silence of the night there is no sound to indicate she's even aware on the outside. Darkness is the worst. Must stay awake and alert. Won't catch me off guard.

The Funeral

Numb. I can't feel anything. Or I don't know how I feel. Or I feel too much. I don't know. I just can't tell anymore. I want to scream and cry, but I find myself sitting in the back of the church calmer than anyone else. At the front there are two containers, two pictures, one parent. I can't bring myself to join him at the front. Can't bring myself to believe........ He's standing now to say his last words. Last words to my children..... our children. They were so young. My hands are shaking and my chest hurts. It's crawling up into my throat and my vision is beginning to blur. They were everything to me. I remember bringing her home from the hospital. My first child. My daughter. So headstrong even at birth. She wasn't going to wait for her due date and because of that Daddy wasn't there. It was just my mom and myself, breathing through contractions, waiting for her arrival. The first week was cloud nine. I had never been so happy, had never felt so peaceful. We ate, we slept, we stared at each other. I did nothing else. At one and a half she wanted to do everything her self, so I let her. She loved experiencing life and people. She taught herself to write at three and was reading fluently soon after. She spent most of her time in her room reading or learning all that she could. And a temper! Ohhhh what a temper at times. She would try to argue us into the ground. She wanted to travel and help people. I remember his face. His smile. He took his time coming to us and was a week late. After Daddy left for the night I held him in the dark room with only one small light to see his face by. I said his name and he smiled at me as if he suddenly realized I was the face that went with the voice he had been hearing all that time and it made him happy. He cried all the time and never seemed full. He had trouble sleeping and would only sleep for about 20 minutes at a time. I thought I would never sleep again. He had trouble gaining weight and the doctor blamed me for not feeding him enough even though he ate all the time. A second opinion said he looked just fine. His sleep problems continued into his childhood. Night terrors and hospital stays because of asthma and pneumonia. But he was so full of life. When he wasn't sick he would jump all over the place, saving the world everyday, always with a smile. He would sit with me and hug his blankie...... hug me. He was shy when people would first meet him, but once he warmed up to you he was the sweetest boy. He defended his friends, protected those smaller than him even though he was so small himself. He wanted to be a Jedi. There was a car accident. An SUV hit us broad side. I saw it coming as I went through the intersection. Our light was green, but there it was steaming towards us as if lights didn't matter. It was too late to floor it, too late to stop, too late for anything. It was like it chose us. They said I was flung from the car, but I was wearing my seatbelt. The car caught fire. There were people standing around and no one pulled them from the car. They just let them burn. They said there was no one inside that they could see, just me on the ground unconscious but unhurt. I think I remember seeing the car on fire. I feel like I'm forgetting something whenever I try to remember it properly. People look back at me as he walks to the pulpit. I see blame in several eyes. They blame me. It was late and they blame me for being out that late. The driver of the SUV ran off leaving us there and there weren't many other people out and it was my fault because I was such a night owl and I had them out that late. He's breaking inside. Everyone is. Why can I not feel anything? Why can I not believe they are gone? Wouldn't I know if they were really gone? Wouldn't I have felt them leave this earth just as I felt it when they came to be in it. I always knew I was pregnant before the tests could show it. I knew she would be a girl and that he would be a boy. Shouldn't I know that they were gone? It doesn't feel like they are gone. They are not here with me, but I feel as if someone has taken them and I need to get them back. I had a dream two nights ago of my son. He was screaming for me and I couldn't get to him, but I told him I was coming for him, that I would find him. They keep telling me they're gone and that they're not coming back. They've gone to be with the Lord. Then why was he scared? They tell me I'm in shock and that it's the first stage of grief. Everyone has moved into the other stages while I'm stuck in shock. A therapist said it was survivor's guilt and next week he'll try to get me to move past it. Finally I feel it. A tear falls and slides down my cheek. They're not here with me and I need to get them back, but everyone says they're not coming back. No one will help me. I'm shaking more and more tears fall and then a sob rips my throat. They were everything to me. My mind breaks open and it's screaming their names, searching the blackness for them, willing them to answer. I can't sit there anymore and I'm running out of the church, through the double doors, into the parking lot, mind screaming. I want to run that way, but a hand grabs my shoulder before I can move. My mom asking me if I'm okay. ' Mom' my mind says, but it's not my voice. I hear her calling me. My daughter is calling me. My eyes go wide. My mom says nothing, but her eyes seem to know. She hugs me and I begin to cry because she knows.

Coming Home.......is difficult

Welcome. I have another blog here on blogger, but I feel a need to start fresh. Over the past year, actually the past few months, I've learned a great deal about myself as a person and who I am going to be as an adult. Confidence. If you have it in yourself don't ever let it go. I've never had much. I grew up in difficult circumstances, but I also was always aware that they could be much, much worse and I was grateful. Those difficult circumstances led to a difficulty in not feeling like an adult, feeling stagnant in my life and in who I am, and a lot of fear keeping me from moving forward. I spent almost 16 years stuck in a...... dark place. I don't know how else to explain it. I know now that I was depressed and that I was suffering from some PTSD. It didn't click for years because after I got married. I felt like I didn't have any reason to be depressed or anxious because my life was so much better, but I still couldn't seem to do anything with myself. I stayed awake nights worrying..... I still do. I still have things that I've acknowledged, but that are going to take time to correct. One is the fear. My mom was chronically ill and a single mom. My dad created a new family, but he visited, sent presents on my birthday and paid child support. I wish there had been more visits, but people are human and it didn't work out that way. There were times when I couldn't see him because of work or family issues and times when I felt like I wasn't important enough. There were things that I could have harped on and been bitter about, but when I was with him I just wanted that time and to enjoy it and so I never brought it up. As we've all gotten older my dad has stepped up more and I hear from him more frequently and he's admitted past regrets. I feel strongly that people can change and sometimes all you can do until that time is love them and appreciate the relationship you do have. With my mom being a single mother we lived below the poverty line. She remarried twice, but it didn't turn out good either times. From the time I was a preteen to the day I moved out she remained single. She focused her energy on raising me while I focused mine on taking care of her. When I was seven we had to move in with some family and I was molested. We moved from there once I told my mom and not long after she got sick. I don't ever remember her being that sick before this time. It really started becoming a constant threat to my mind at this time. I woke one morning to my Grandpa telling me they had to take her to the hospital. She had surgery and they sent her home with Xanax for the pain. I don't know why they did this. I also kind of wonder if it was Xanax or just a different type of pain medicine from the kind she'd had in the hospital following her surgery. Either way I was woken in the middle of the night to the words "I'm dying". It was said softly but I remember she was crying. I bolted out of bed and ran to the phone. I didn't know who I was going to call I just knew I needed to call someone, but she said that she had called my dad and I went and sat on the couch feeling that he wouldn't leave me hanging in that situation and so I should just wait for the ambulance. I remember sitting there, but not much else until they arrived. One paramedic asked me some questions and told me I had been brave and smart for asking who it was before letting them in. I would look back later and think "yea, great." They took her in the bathroom and were trying to get her to throw up and one of them said "You have a little girl out there that wants you to live. Don't you want to live for her?". I had peeked around the corner and saw her shake her head no to that question. When I got older my mom and I talked about it. She took one pill because she was in pain.....it didn't work so she took another...... she didn't recall anything else until she looked and realized she had taken most of the bottle. She called poison control and called my dad, but she was pretty out of it by then. I don't know if she even remembers waking me and she says she never remembered them asking her that. I understand as an adult that drugs are crazy things and will make you say things you wouldn't normally say. I'm sure between the drugs and the pain she probably didn't want to keep going, but it was something only her unconscious mind would acknowledge and say. This was where my PTSD took root. It was a small, nagging, constant companion that got stronger with every emergency, every hospital stay, every medical problem. It just snowballed so slowly it became a monster without me even realizing. Ten surgeries and five times she almost died (that I knew of until I got older). She has Crohn's and it never goes away. She also happened to have one of the worst cases (frequent flares) her doctor had ever seen and the medication for it when I was growing up was spotty at keeping it at bay. Anyone who has ever cared for someone with cancer or any other long term disease will understand the things I experienced. As I've said before, drugs are crazy things. Steroids and pain pills can make a person act different, but when you're in the thick of it you don't always know not to take it so personally. I have a lot of good memories of the in between times that I held onto during the not so good times. A part of me knew that wasn't my mom, it was the drugs and the pain and the stress. When I turned 17 I went to visit my grandparents (my dad's parents) as I often did when my mom had to have surgery. I was ready to start my senior year of high school and I had aspirations to be a doctor. By the time I came home it had been a week since her surgery and she still wasn't able to come home. I commented to my grandpa (her dad) that something else must be wrong while he was driving me back home. I arrived at the hospital alone to find I was right. She wasn't in her room and they had taken her in for emergency surgery. I waited what felt like an eternity for a doctor to come and talk to me. In the ICU everything was burned into my memory. He told me what had happened and what they had to do while I watched them wheel her in. I walked in and tried to give her a smile, but she looked at me and mouthed the words "Go home." Her eyes said that she was sure she was going to die and she didn't want me there to watch. I left. I didn't want to cry in front of her. I didn't want to be sad in front of her. I wanted to be strong. I cried all the way home. I was terrified. I was alone. I don't think I even called anyone. I just waited all night for them to call me and tell me my mom had died. I can't express how much guilt I have from that single action of running. I've told her I was sorry for leaving, but she maintains that it was what she wanted because she did think she was going to die and she didn't want me to witness it. I don't care how many times she tells me that, I think I will always feel guilty for that. These are all the things that I had to open the wounds on and spend hours crying buckets of tears. I'm still crying buckets every time I write about it or talk about it. About a month ago I had gotten pretty low and my mom expressed concern and stated that I might have PTSD. I scoffed at the idea thinking you had to have flashbacks and intense anxiety attacks. I figured I should have been having panic attacks every time I had to visit a hospital and I wasn't so I was okay. The more I sat and thought about it the more I realized. I lost my will to become a doctor. I was sick of hospitals and try to avoid them at all costs. I fast forward through certain kid movies where a parents dies and in fact the only reason I will re-watch any movie in which a parent passes is if it's a kid movie because I have kids that wish to watch it. I still leave the room during those scenes or direct my thoughts elsewhere if I'm forced to watch them. I can't sleep at night. I feel unsafe doing so. I feel like I have to be on guard in case something happens. Going to sleep once the sun comes up is easy and comfortable while trying to go to sleep while it's dark is difficult (impossible) and very uncomfortable. In fact I'm writing this at seven in the morning after not having slept all night. I have great anxiety about letting my son go anywhere or do anything. It's a constant struggle not to be to restrictive on him. He's had minor health problems since he was a baby, but I've always worried it was signs of something more. I'm so happy with who and what I have in my life, but at the same time I'm so scared it's going to be taken away if I make the wrong step so I've done little to nothing in the way of my personal dreams. I made a resolution that night that I was going to work through these things. I had let it drag me down to the point that I wasn't really living life anymore. There are still days when I think I should just go back to bed until things get better, but I'm trying day by day to be a better person for myself and my kids. I had mood swings that I couldn't understand and just a general feeling of being in a dark hole. Smothering. I know my faults. I have little self confidence. I constantly seek my dad's approval and am afraid that he'll never be proud of me. I feel guilt for things that I shouldn't feel guilty for. I don't always stand up for myself. But I know my strengths too. I'm smart and I can learn to do anything I set my mind to learning and most of the time am self taught. I see that everyone has their demons and that sometimes someone who acts like a jerk really just needs someone to listen to them. I believe that people can change and I'm very forgiving. If someone's toxic to my life I still love them from afar and believe that they can change if they want to and wait for the day when they realize it themselves. I'm waiting with open arms when they're ready even if I'm not willing to be a doormat for them. Moments are precious. People are precious. Relationships are precious. I've told this long story so that you will know where I'm coming from, what some of my art and stories are about and where I'm going. I'm breaking free. I'm coming full circle. This year I hope I can learn to value my talents. I want to promote myself and be successful and then in turn be able to help others. I want to make a difference in my life, my family's life and the world...... little by little. Small steps. One foot in front of the other. Keep moving forward. That's the purpose of this blog. This is going to be dedicated to my journey. This will be a place for my stories and my art. This will be a place where I start being me even with all the skeletons in my closet, all the deep, dark feelings I've hidden for so long, being brought out into the light, aired out for the world to see so that they can fade away as they should have long ago. I hope this makes me a better person. I hope this helps someone else step forward and keep stepping forward even if it's just one person. I hope someone enjoys it all. Welcome to 72nd St.