I have a tub full of hot water waiting for me.

When I was in New Orleans, Shawna described me as a poet. I write a mean haiku, but I don’t consider myself a poet. Poetry takes discipline. I think of poets as the ninjas of the writing world, and the only place I have mad ninja skills are with healing. And maybe sex…maybe. lol

I am a fan of poetry. Poems were what I memorized before I started with the Bible, and what remains after Titus has faded away from memory. Mary Oliver and Rumi have sustained me when food would not stay down. Nikki Giovanni and Ani DiFranco fuel my soul. Words are marble, and these people are Michelangelo.

While not a poet, per say, I do consider myself an artist. Since my mom gave me that SARK print when I was 12, I’ve known I was an artist. I paint and I write, but I am a creative type as well. I’m spacey and weird, eclectic and excitable. While I never picked up cigarettes, I do imbibe pot on a level that Hemingway would approve, if it were liquor. I wear earrings that don’t match and have made my own bell bottoms. I protest and have personal demons. I am an artist.

I love being an artist. I love writing. It is the easiest way for me to breathe.

Not making money from my love, from my degree, from what I am, is shitty. I think very few people in the world get to do what they love while being paid for it. Most people I know endure a job for the reasons we all endure whatever we endure: because we must. A few folks I know like what they do, and even fewer feel fulfilled, but they all keep going and keep pushing. That is an art I never mastered. I feel like it’s the healthy version of lying, maybe. I mean, if they didn’t pay you, you wouldn’t go, right? But you are willingly going, consent and whatnot, so it’s not false. I don’t know.

As a kid, I basically decided when I was and was not going to attend school.  I know that sounds cocky as all fuck, but it’s true. After about age 10, I called most of the shots for my life. I didn’t go to school much. In high school, my favorite teacher told me that I couldn’t miss two days a week of his class and expect to pass. It was a foreign concept that I wouldn’t pass with minimal attendance. Of course I would. I always had. And I did, but I struggled. Not with class, but with keeping life together. My friends who attend their 9-5s struggle as well, but differently than I did/do. Maybe it’s the trauma. lol Of course it is. It always is.

Last night I flashed worse than I have in a very long time. I was on the ceiling, watching myself freak out, watching Matt try and talk me down, thinking that I should’ve kept shears nearby, even if I’ll endure trauma to avoid cutting my precious new jute. I was so distant from what was happening. I feel distant now.

My kitchen is clean and I made split pea soup from scratch last night until 4am. I have to treat Matt’s leather before we get another snow. I’m gonna pick back up on Darina’s Crown from where I left off; the reboot isn’t working for me. I have to work at some point. Rent is due soon.

The swing between “coping and feeling successful” and “on the brink of panic attack” is closer than it looks.

I wish I could infuse logic and rational thinking into my mind, but all my efforts fall short.

It’s beautiful outside, and I’m gonna lock myself in the bathroom a while. I just can’t think straight with all that freedom floating loose out there, looking achievable and being the exact opposite. When I get out the sun will have set. I feel better in the dark.

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