I believe my sole is an artist: starving, unsettled, slashing out at all corners of the canvas to scrape out life. I am driven by my soul to create this art of life and maybe it is madness but maybe not? I did not choose to be an artist but my soul did and therefore it was never mine to make. I thought in this art called life it was love I needed; to be loved. Though, it turns out love is as rare as the hope diamond and you do not choose your time for love; love chooses you. It is a gift that you must be worthy of and I do not think I’m quite there yet.
I remember when I was a child I had many friends and was living in a la-la land of bliss. Then what seemed to be overnight my thoughts and emotions decided to change. My thoughts became empty and my emotions would overrun me and one question irked me to the core: Did I belong here? In this very place? With these people that surrounded me? Do I fit here? I would cry every night tormented with these constant thoughts in my mind. I would lash out at my parents in there attempt to calm me from crying. The pain was so intense it coiled around me like a snake suffocating its prey; simple reassurance was not going to stop it. I was confused with these feelings, as I was so happy months before. I was the child who would first welcome anyone new, I was the child who was friends with everyone. Then overnight that child was gone and a new one emerged.
My parents were so unsettled they took me to a shrink which started me on celexa (I may have spelled that wrong). I was only 10. The drug made the thoughts stop but I felt them behind a door banging to come out. Lurking phantoms hiding in the buried dark corners of my mind. It was an uneasy feeling, a feeling that I was being stalked by nightmares that seemed to be in the corner of my eye. Celexa also made me feel depleted, melancholic, and empty. The drug did its purpose but in the extreme way. The drug scraped out every emotion I had, every feeling, and every hope and dream. Making me feel blank, sanitized of everything I had even the good that I was clinging to like a security blanket. The blanket of good was ripped away from my arms and the darkness started to win and the hell started to begin.
I wanted the good back and I felt like a prisoner taking these drugs every morning with breakfast. My mother uncapping the orange bottle and saying “Take your medicine sweety”. My medicine? Was I sick? I didn’t feel sick? It felt un-natural to me. I took this drug for months, everyday trying to remember myself and what had made me, me. It was as if trying to remember a dream; it was near to impossible.
Although, the darkness as of then was suppressed, it had erased me in the process. It was unfair I thought so very unfair. I then made a choice, a choice that seemed to be the only one I had. I would stop taking the drug that suppressed the darkness behind the door. I thought this darkness is mine and it is still me; I just wanted to be me again. So I accepted the dark for a chance to have the good back. Every morning like clockwork the pill would be laid out next to a glass of juice.I would take it pop it into my mouth and slide it under my tongue. Excuse myself a minute or two later and toss it in the toilet.
I reassured myself saying, “My parents were confused and they didn’t know what it was like to be erased”. I knew the drug was in some way bad and unnatural but I didn’t know just how horrible it truly was.
It has come to my attention that my people skills are out of order.
When I was younger I was a bull in a china shop so-to-speak. Clumsy with life and all the details of the future. I would keep crashing into things seeking out truth and solidarity. Confirmation in life that I was there and real and living it. As a child I would sometimes wake up and think am I real? Or am I still dreaming and how do I know if I’ve really awoken from my dreams?
I never felt like I could ask questions. Feeling that whenever I did lay out my dreams they were quickly rebutted with “Are you sure you think you can do that?”, my parents would sing in unison. I told them I could but they kept questioning me and so then I stopped asking and questioned myself… worst mistake of my life.
But what was I suppose to do? I was young and they were the only mentors I had on life. I felt they were so tightly wound and kept inward that it made me even hesitant to tell them anything and I so badly wanted to share without being judged and given looks of disappointment or rejection.
I am a dweeb by nature and spend countless hours at the library. Scanning the titles, hunting, with a secure thirst for a story with spine. Lately I’ve decided to replace “the box” itself with different books. Can anyone join me on this?
The Gargoyle by Andrew Davidson
This book is delicious!
”It starts when the main character a cynic, physically beautiful and sexually adept, who dwells in the moral vacuum that is modern life. It begins when the man is driving down a dark road and crashes into a ravine and suffers severe burns over much of his body. As he starts to recover he plans the perfect suicide— for he is now a monster in appearance as well as in soul. A beautiful compelling, but clearly unhinged, sculptress appears and insist that they were once lovers in medieval Germany.”
What I think so far…
I am in love with story! Mr. Davidson you have me captivated with every dark and seductive corner of this man’s world. Hats off to you Mr. Davidson ;)
The Girls of Murder City by Douglas Perry
"The most beautiful women in the city were murderers…" as the prologue begins.
This book is where beauty gets away with murder. Femme Fatale at its best. Sounds like a steamy weekend full sails ahead… beautiful crazy women always make for an interesting read haha.