the inevitability of public breakdowns

hi.

sorry i don’t use this blog much anymore. but i think i will start now. i started this blog because i was healing, then i transferred a lot of that heavy lifting to my art, but now i am in need of serious healing and thus i need this blog back. everything hurts all the time. my brain feels like it’s suffocating and all i can think of lately is how i’ve always known – ever since i was a little girl – that my death would be suicide. do you know what that’s like, to live with that knowledge? death is supposed to be one of those things, those very few things in life actually, that’s supposed to be a surprise. that’s half the fun of it. not knowing when it’ll hit! but to know that you’ll likely be responsible for your own end? there’s a sense of control that’s oddly tantalizing, but also a sense of dread knowing it might be on a rainy tuesday morning when you’re upset because you ran out of english muffins and that’s the straw that breaks the camels back.

i don’t really know what it is i’m trying to say. i feel as though i’m a concise writer. i might meander, but even my meandering leads to a point eventually i like to think. either way, i guess my point is that this place was the only place i ever really felt hurt or understood, even without ever getting feedback or recognition. i just sort of like to believe someone is out there reading this and relating to it, and that that somehow connects us in ways it never would with others. i’m not okay. my health is aggressively bad. the kind of bad that wears a leather jacket and rides a motorcycle. the kind of bad that cuts you in a bar fight. not the cool kind of bad that jumps sharks on old sitcoms. my mental health is steadily declining, i’m mentally regressing, my teeth are falling apart and i have no say over any of it. i guess i’m used to that though, i’ve never had much control over anything in my life, so why start now right? i know i’ve spoken about it elsewhere at length, but have i ever told you guys (you know, the people i like to think read this stuff) that i’m developmentally disabled? a number of factors go into this, but a major one is that when i was born, my umbilical cord was wrapped around my neck and i couldn’t breath for a few minutes, thus granting me brain damage.

i can’t hold a regular job, i can’t make a regular income, i don’t have friends really and i am bad at relationships. i cry almost nonstop, and i have to entertain myself all day every day lest i have a thought of any kind because all my thoughts send me spiraling. i used to like to sing to myself to alleviate anxiety, but i am afraid to speak out loud thanks to my interactions with others throughout my life, so i no longer even do that. i have never had a real home, and i never will, so this blog space has felt like the only pseudo home i’ll get for my otherwise permanently nomadic soul to rest in even momentarily. i eat 5 things, i don’t shower for weeks and i have to heavily medicate myself with sleep aides in order to sleep. i talk to an open empty void that never talks back. a lot of people don’t believe i am mentally challenged because i speak well, but that’s the only real skill i have honestly. my parents forced me into endless therapy as a young girl and even into my teenage years rather than even attempt to try and deal with me themselves, all the people i thought were my friends in school told me to my face independently of one another that they hated me and only pitied me and my stepsister committed bodily assaults against me repeatedly early on in life. i don’t have much to remember so i make up memories. at night i lay in bed and while other people dream, i make up memories. memories of a childhood i didn’t have, with friends i never got, with parents who actually wanted me.

it helps, but everything that helps is only temporary before i’m once again reminded of that inevitability. that one that looms forever nearby behind me, waiting to rear its head and take me. i’ve fought it off this long, i’ll continue to do so, if only because i’m the kind of person who doesn’t like to ruin the surprise. but it’s still uncomfortable to deal with regardless. but as uncomfortable as it may be, in some odd sick way, that inevitability has also become my closest companion. it’s always there, always with me, ready to help in the only way it knows how. i’m the one resisting. i’m the one who’ll continue not to go to my own surprise party.

i guess that’s all. i’m not doing well.

how are you doing?

3am

It’s 3am, and I cannot quell this sadness that rises in my chest, I cannot rest, though my bed is inviting it is empty, and that’s for the best. Your loss lingers like a word I cannot think of, and I fear I will never not grieve, for you, for myself, for what you made me believe.

Without you I’m speechless, but learned how to breath, my anger towards you is a sword I will sheath. I will hide it so it will not cut me, I refuse to give you that power, I gave you so much, hour upon hours, and you used it against me, like weed killer on flowers. A love that has soured.

It’s 3am, and I cannot quash this sadness that rises in my heart, how do I start, when you’ve reached the end then get pulled apart when you thought you had it together. When you thought there’d be a forever. I know it’s good that you’re gone. I know it’s good I’m alone. Though my house without you is not a home, it is better that I learn to love myself in the ways you couldn’t love me.

I devoted years to you, and what did you do? You wasted my time, fed me line after line of what I wanted to hear, and it sounded divine; but you were afraid, afraid to walk free, to learnt o be you and to let me be me, and I understand that, I do, which is why it hurts to say goodbye to you when the only thing we agreed on was how much we didn’t want to be alone.

It’s 3am, and I cannot quarantine my emotions that rise in my cries, as I toss and I turn, recalling your lies. You were the lighthouse that was meant to guide, but instead you let my ship crash on the tides, sink below waters below treacherous skies. I looked to you for direction, and you told me to get lost.

I would’ve given my all. I would’ve given myself to ensure you don’t fall. Like an architect I would’ve built you strong, built you tall, reinforced your structure and been proud. But you chose to break. You chose to collapse. To take with you everyone inside, regardless of who they were to you, and that’s something I cannot forgive.

It’s 3am, and I am asleep.

That One Time I Was Almost Hit By A Truck

This post originally appeared on Medium. You can read it here if you’d like to support my work on there.

If I could recall all the various times in my life I’ve almost been killed, we’d be here all day, so instead let’s just recall a few brief near death moments that almost made me meet my maker.

How about when I was a very small child, I got extremely sick and had to spend months in the hospital because I became so dehydrated I couldn’t even walk anymore? All the played on the televisions on repeat 24/7 was The Lion King, and frankly, dying might’ve actually been more preferable in hindsight. Then there was when I was a teenager, and I got bit in the face by a very large great dance. Granted, it was our families dog, and granted she’s dead now so she got hers I guess, but the fact remains that I almost lost an eye and possibly more all because I wanted to pet a dog.

But there’s one that really sticks out, because this one, unlike the others, really was a near death accident. My family used to go places for the holidays, especially winter and summer. Sometimes we’d simply go cross country, sometimes we’d go to Disneyland and sometimes we’d wind up in a forest somewhere, either camping, or, in the case of winter trips, in a cabin or lodge. During these winter trips, we often had to find things to pass the time. There was myself, and my two stepsiblings, one of whom was a year younger and the other a year older. When you have that many kids, all of nearly the same age, it can be hard to find ways to keep them entertained. One of the ways my folks came up with was to take us sledding. We’d recently gotten a new red plastic toboggan, and this was the first time we’d get the chance to try it out.

Needless to say, children likely shouldn’t ride in toboggans alone.

---

My stepbrother and I liked doing stupid things outside. I am a girl, but I was always up for ridiculous outdoor hijinks, and so we constantly were thinking up new ways to send ourselves to the emergency room. This winter provided us with a very easy way to put ourselves directly in line for bodily harm; a red, plastic toboggan. When we got to the top of a hill in the woods, a very steep hill at that, we decided to climb into the toboggan together and ride down it. This went fine, we even went down a few times because it was so much fun and nothing went wrong.

Then, during one of our runs, the toboggan hit a rock and flipped over. Suddenly we were stuck underneath it, still sledding quickly, snow flying into our faces, and even though we managed to come out of that relatively unscathed, it should’ve been a warning sign.

After a while, it seemed everyone had had enough fun for the day, but I still wanted to keep riding, so I decided to take the toboggan down myself. I climbed inside, held on tight and let gravity do the rest. As I rocketed towards the bottom of the hill, I never would’ve expected what I was about to endure. See, at the bottom of this hill was a road. A lone road, curving through the trees of the snow blanketed forests, which was where we’d parked. I hit the bottom of the hill and flew into the road just as a semitruck was barreling towards me, and nobody, not even myself, seemed to notice until after the fact. Thankfully, or not depending on who you ask, the truck and I did not collide. Or rather, the truck did not make me into a child pancake, and instead my ride was brought to an abrupt stop by a tree I ran into on the other side of the road a few seconds later.

At the time, and even for a while after, it was a kind of funny story for me to tell people. A sort of “you’ll never believe what almost happened to me” kind of thing. But, after a while, I started to realize just how close I came to actually biting it…

…and how angry I was that I didn’t.

---

I’ve suffered with suicidal tendencies for as long as I can remember.

Ever since I was a very little girl, from the moment I could comprehend the concept of death (which unfortunately was much younger than it should’ve been) I always said, “if I’m gonna die, it’s gonna be me that makes it happen.” I wasn’t going to let anyone or anything else decide when my life ends. This is not as powerful as it sounds, I assure you. And even with a few attempts under my belt by my late teens, I still, even to this day at 31 years of age, want to die constantly. Sometimes it’s for absolutely no reason, because depression will do that to you, and sometimes it’s for the weirdest of reasons, like dropping a piece of buttered toast on the floor. Sometimes it’s for absolutely legitimate reasons, like societal burnout and realizing that nobody my age will ever own a home or have a family or likely live to see 60.

But at the same time, I’ve also started to come to a different realization, and that is that I don’t want to kill myself. I just want to die. I’m mad that I wasn’t hit by a truck. Now, instead of an imagined life of possible “what could have beens”, I’m simply a “what didn’t become”. I went from being full of possibilities to being a series of poor decisions. When you die suddenly, unexpectedly, and especially young, your life becomes filled in for you. Oh, you could’ve achieved so much, you could’ve become so great, and all you’ve left behind are stories about the wonderful youngster that you were. But when you reach my age, you’ve lived long enough to let others see your squandered potential. I yearn for the truck, now. Hell, I yearn for any kind of release that isn’t by my own hand.

At least, if I don’t do it myself, I’m not responsible for it, and nobody can be mad at me for simply wanting to end a pain so deep they could never understand it lest they felt it themselves.

Please don’t get me wrong; I’m not by any means advocating for death. This is just a personal thing that I myself deal with. I’m nothing if not ecstatic when others I care about get better, fix themselves, find happiness or, if not that, at least moderate comfort in their lives. The last thing I want to see is someone hurt as much as I do. I’m also not saying that my pain is the end all be all to pain, and that nobody can understand how I feel. I’m simply saying that this is something I deal with, and have dealt with, for years now, and I’m trying to explain it in a way that maybe others who haven’t can understand, or those who have can relate to.

I’m mad I wasn’t hit by a truck, especially since my life went nowhere. Had my life gone somewhere, had I actually achieved something with it, then I’d likely feel the opposite, I’d feel thankful. But I also don’t think what my life turned out to be is the reason I want to die, because I wanted to die long before I wasted my life. So here’s the simplest thing I can come up with:

I’m mad I didn’t get hit by a truck as a little girl, and I don’t even really know why.

---

I think a lot about martyrdom.

I think I got into creating things, writing, art, because I wanted to leave something that would outlast me. At the same time, I don’t want to be remembered. I struggle with this weird game of tug of war inside of me that partially wants to be beloved and partially wants to be forgotten. But, nevertheless, I create so that there will be things that will maybe help people once I’m gone. Help them not feel as bad as I have, or as alone as I do. And maybe that’s why I wish I’d been hit by the truck, because I want to be a moment stopped in time.

I want to be the sentence that goes unfinished. A story that ended before it began. I want to be the definition of “what if”. I want to be that book on the shelf that you start, think you’ll finish, but never pick back up again. But from time to time, you’ll glance at it, and you’ll smile, and you’ll think “Boy, that started out really good, I wonder where it would’ve gone”, but you never read it, because who has the time, right?

But instead I’ll be the book that lets everyone down. That had a lot going for it, but ultimately couldn’t bring all its plotpoints together cohesively. That had the potential to be a best seller, but instead now is sold on the clearance rack.

I wanted to get hit by a truck.

Instead I’m 31.

Take from that what you will.

Visit My Main Site!  Support Me Via Patreon!  Visit My Online Store!

I’m Maggie. If you like this thing I made, you might like some other things I’ve done. You can visit my main website PIG GUT and find links to all my other work, buy my novels and misc merch at my online store at Payhip , or support my work monthly at my Patreon! Anything helps & is appreciated, thanks!

Why I Keep Trying Despite All My Everlasting Failure

I don’t really post much here these days, it seems, but I really feel like I should.

I have had this blog for almost 5 years (it’ll be 5 on January 2021), and in that time span, I feel like I moved onto other things. I felt like perhaps WordPress didn’t provide me with the interaction or level of success I was hoping it would, and despite having many people be seemingly interest in the things I post here, it never really seemed to follow through numbers wise for my projects. All I want to do, all I’ve ever wanted to do, since I was a wee lass, was tell people stories. It just sometimes feels like nobody is really interested in the stories I tell. I’ll work for months, or in some cases on recent projects years, and nobody seems to notice or care, and it hurts. I know I ultimately do this for myself, for my health, but jeez does it hurt nonetheless.

I recently started doodling a comic strip for myself, just for fun. This is one of them, to the left of the words on this post. This comic basically states what I, and many people my age who were creative, were told. “Have interesting things to say” or “Work hard at your craft” and eventually we’d be noticed, appreciated, perhaps even rewarded. But we all eventually figured out none of that was true. The only successful ones are the lucky ones, the ones who got popular because they posted a meme about a current event, or had enough money to back the advertising necessary to actually reach mass quantity of audiences eyeballs. It’s infuriating, but at the same time I understand that that’s how it goes. I’ve always known this career was a game of chance, and that skill only played a very minor part in it.

Since starting this blog, I’ve undergone what feels like a thousand simultaneous projects. I make a docuseries about dead advertising mascots, I have written a ton of novels (some of which are available, others which will be very soon), I wrote, drew, inked and colored an entire graphic novel, I have an archive for all my webcomics, I created an entire site dedicated solely to the concept of serialized fiction – all of which are written by me – and I started making a whole ton of podcasts.

And despite all of that (and that isn’t even skimming the stuff I do that I didn’t advertise, like the various blogs you can find over at the links page of my site PIG GUT), despite all these years of effort and manhours, I’m still struggling just to pay a credit card bill every month because I can’t work a 9 to 5 job since I am disabled and especially now with what’s happening in the world. It’s sad, but I also recognize that that’s just the way it is. I’m not going to stop, I never will, this is what keeps me alive because it allows me to exorcise the demons in my skull, my trauma and grief, but it also bums me out tremendously that nobody else seems to want to hear my stories. I was hoping to connect with people, maybe find people like me who’ve been through what I’ve been through, who maybe found solace in the things I made, but alas, this hasn’t really been the case, and that stinks.

I don’t update this blog as often as I should. These days it mostly serves as a repository for other things, promotion and whatnot, but maybe I should just keep trying. Maybe I should just keep working at it. Maybe one day, somebody will finally hear me…

…and respond.

Visit My Main Site!  Support Me Via Patreon!  Visit My Online Store!

I’m Maggie. If you like this thing I made, you might like some other things I’ve done. You can visit my main website PIG GUT and find links to all my other work, buy my novels and misc merch at my online store at Payhip , or support my work monthly at my Patreon! Anything helps & is appreciated, thanks!

How To Hack Your Stupid Brain

I grew up in a mixed faith household. When I say “faith”, I mean faith of very little degree. My mother, who was catholic, and my stepfather, who was jewish; neither of which seemed all that particularly interested in being what you’d call religious, and as such, my family celebrated both christmas and hanukkah. I can remember, vividly, one christmas morning leaving my room at about 5 am and going to sit in front of the christmas tree in the living room. Wasn’t a far walk, as my bedroom opened up directly into the kitchen and then from there it was a straight shot down a step to the living room. Hell, you could SEE the living room from my bedroom, okay?

Sitting there, looking at the tree and all the presents underneath, I decided, for whatever reason, to begin carefully unwrapping my presents in such a way that they could be easily retaped and opened again in front of others like new. I know I’m not the only kid to have ever snuck out and open their presents early, hell, it’s a trope in media, that’s how often it happens. It’s almost a childhood institution. But see, the thing is, this wasn’t something I’d ever done before nor have had interest in doing since. Granted, these days I don’t really celebrate any holiday, but still. Anyway, I partook in this adolescent mischief and nobody was the wiser.

But lately I’ve been thinking alot about the things I used to do as a child. About holidays, in particular, and about that one day specifically. What made me want to do that?

I think a lot of my answer could be boiled down to the fact that I wanted to get things sooner rather than later. Like a lot of kids, my attention span was fairly shot from years of flashy quick paced cartoons and overloads of sugary snack treats. But there’s a deeper underlying reason too, and that is that I wanted to keep the moment worth remembering. See, when you grow up with a broken family, as I did, moments with that family are horrible memories, no matter what awesome things you may have done with them. For example, for the past few years I’ve been absolutely dying to go to Disneyland, despite going there a crap ton amount of times growing up with my family. We also went camping in various woods and beaches, we traveled all the way up and down the coast one summer hitting NYC and DC among lots of other cool places, and while that all sounds really neat (and I do appreciate the chance I got to experience it), it has an air of shittiness about it because it had to be experienced with people who hurt me constantly.

Holidays were no exception. I wanted that moment, that morning, kept to myself. Even if the gifts were from other people, people who made me want to die the rest of the year, it didn’t matter. I wanted it immortalized as MY moment, not a moment with my family. I want to go back to Disneyland and redo all my childhood family trips because I want those memories WITHOUT them involved. Unfortunately, when you’re broke and trapped in an empty vortex of nothingness such as I am, it’s hard to make those dreams come true too, but maybe one day? Who knows.

I’m essentially trying to hack my memory, to put it in a nerdy fashion. I’m trying to redo all the things that SHOULD have been awesome but weren’t because they involved people who were absolutely god awful to me. Hell, the only good memories I have from adolescence are of funerals, because everyone else was so busy feeling shitty they couldn’t bother to make me feel shittier. That’s messed up, man. I know I’ve not really kept up on this blog outside of reposting my comic work, and for that I apologize greatly. I would like to fix that. I’ve been trying to fix a lot of things about myself in the past few years, really. I don’t feel anywhere near as depressed as I used to, and though the urge to off myself (once again, trying to get to something long before I’m meant to) still rears its ugly head once in a while, I’m more or less in control of it at this point.

I unwrapped those presents and then rewrapped them once I had that brief surge of joy of discovering what was inside the wrapping. Nobody ever found out. My happiest childhood holiday memory is one that doesn’t involve a single other person. Just me, sitting in front of the christmas tree at 5 am, trying to trick myself into believing that just because my parents bought me gifts it somehow meant they didn’t hate me, despite knowing full well this wasn’t the case. That’s so…sad, honestly.

But that’s why I’m trying to reframe those memories with new memories. Better memories. I haven’t gotten there yet, but for the first time most of my life I actually feel like I could. I could theoretically accomplish these things. Maybe one day I could enjoy celebrating christmas or hanukkah again. Maybe one day I won’t want to spend every holiday alone, and secretly unwrap gifts so that those gifts won’t be tainted with the stench of my abusers. Maybe one day I won’t have to create new memories to replace shitty versions of said memories. I don’t really know what this blog posts was supposed to be about, and for that I’m sorry.

Maybe one day I’ll get all this right.

Buy My Book!  Support Me Via Patreon!  Visit My Online Store!

I’m Maggie. If you like this thing I made, you might like some other things I’ve done, like my 2015 novel “You Ruined Everything”, my podcast network “The Feel Bad Network” or my feed over at Ello. You can also find epubs/books/stickers/prints over at my Payhip , or support my work monthly at my Patreon! Anything helps & is appreciated, thanks!

Imagine, If You Can

Imagine, if you can, the success I could’ve been. Imagine if parental guidance was worth its weight in sin. Imagine all the things you could’ve gotten me to do. But instead you squandered all that time making me hate you.

Imagine, if you can, the things I could’ve done. If you’d only cared a little bit, or could undo all that you’ve done. Imagine all my joy, my pride and sharing my achievements. Instead I’m mourning life not lived, always heavy with bereavements.

Imagine, if you can, the girl that you once knew. The girl who looked for love in anyone that wasn’t you. Imagine all the hate it took to push me far away, to look for adoration in a stranger, what then would you say?

Imagine, if you can, that you’d fought for me and not with me. Imagine if you’d not cauterized your empathy completely. Imagine you allowed yourself to treat me with respect, instead of breaking down all the ways that we could just connect.

Imagine, if you can, that I didn’t have to write this poem. Imagine that I came from a well adjusted home. Imagine that I didn’t have to always feel this way. Imagine if my parents hadn’t shoved me down each day. Imagine if you tried, if you could even comprehend…

…but you’ve no imagination, and this stanza has to end.

Buy My Book!  Support Me Via Patreon!  Visit My Online Store!

I’m Maggie. If you like this thing I made, you might like some other things I’ve done, like my 2015 novel “You Ruined Everything”, my podcast network “The Feel Bad Network” or my feed over at Ello. You can also find epubs/books/stickers/prints over at my Payhip , or support my work monthly at my Patreon! Anything helps & is appreciated, thanks!

Close To Monsters #100

This weeks comic is brought to you by the fact that as a kid you can’t wait to get older, and once you’re older you can’t wait to be dead. Happy 100 comics, bitches.

Buy My Book!  Support Me Via Patreon!  Visit My Online Store!

I’m Maggie. If you like this thing I made, you might like some other things I’ve done, like my 2015 novel “You Ruined Everything”, my podcast network “The Feel Bad Network” or my feed over at Ello. You can also find epubs/books/stickers/prints over at my Payhip , or support my work monthly at my Patreon! Anything helps & is appreciated, thanks!

PORCH #43

Note to self: Get fish. Name it Wigglesworth.

Buy My Book!  Support Me Via Patreon!  Visit My Online Store!

I’m Maggie. If you like this thing I made, you might like some other things I’ve done, like my 2015 novel “You Ruined Everything”, my podcast network “The Feel Bad Network” or my feed over at Ello. You can also find epubs/books/stickers/prints over at my Payhip , or support my work monthly at my Patreon! Anything helps & is appreciated, thanks!

PORCH #42

Magic Hate Ball, only 14.99 because fuck you.

Buy My Book!  Support Me Via Patreon!  Visit My Online Store!

I’m Maggie. If you like this thing I made, you might like some other things I’ve done, like my 2015 novel “You Ruined Everything”, my podcast network “The Feel Bad Network” or my feed over at Ello. You can also find epubs/books/stickers/prints over at my Payhip , or support my work monthly at my Patreon! Anything helps & is appreciated, thanks!

Close To Monsters #99

This weeks comic is brought to you by only really needing one thing to be happy.

Buy My Book!  Support Me Via Patreon!  Visit My Online Store!

I’m Maggie. If you like this thing I made, you might like some other things I’ve done, like my 2015 novel “You Ruined Everything”, my podcast network “The Feel Bad Network” or my feed over at Ello. You can also find epubs/books/stickers/prints over at my Payhip , or support my work monthly at my Patreon! Anything helps & is appreciated, thanks!