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A Traveling Mind

I fashioned a boat, and set sail to be free, left my pressures behind and became a new me. But it didn’t last long, sure the first week was fine, but soon I had found what had been plaguing my mind. They were things I can’t sail from, things I had scorned, things that I soon found that I’d mourn. Sure, sailing is fine, but you can’t run from your mind, no matter how far you go, it’s not far behind.

So I fixed a car, and drove off with no cares, left behind gossip and rumors and stares. At first it was nice, being alone on the street, forgetting your failures and denying defeat. But try as I might, I knew it can’t last, my tires were shot and running short on gas. You can put up a stop sign, you can drive through the night, but it won’t stop insecurities, it won’t stop your plights.

So I bought a plane, I flew into the skies, away from the pressures, away from the lies. I soared through the clouds, I flew with the birds, ignoring those taunts and all their cruel words. The engines were weak, the landing gear broke, this whole idea had turned into a joke. I was forced to land, my trip was a bust, my reasons were flawed and my feelings unjust.

I tried to sail, to drive and to fly, but it didn’t matter which one I’d try; you can’t run away from the problems you have, the things they have said, their opinions of you rattling ’round in your head. Try as you might, you can’t shake the pain, the thoughts that it brings will drive you insane. So if you can’t run, then what do you do? How do you run from your problem when the problem is you?

Hey. I’m Maggie. Like this thing I did? Then you might like other things I do! You can read my depressing webcomic, “In Space, No One Can Hear You Cry” or check out my work at Medium. You can also donate to my girlfriend and mines PayPal if you so wish. Anything you give would be greatly appreciated and go towards helping us pay rent and get groceries. Thanks for reading!

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The Unhappy Manifesto

Despite my best efforts to be a goody two shoes, perfectionist, law abiding young lady from the age of coherence to now, I’ve always apparently just been nothing more than inherently polarizing, without even realizing it was a bigger problem than I thought. I mean, I knew some people didn’t like me, hell I don’t even like me, so I get it, but I didn’t realize to that extent that they didn’t like me. However, after some very recent events this past summer, I know realize that to a lot of people, I’m just sorta not all that good I guess. The worst part is, I continue to be sorta not all that good to the people I most want to be hella all that good to, and it’s….it’s fucking heartbreaking.

I’m in no way ever trying to make myself sound like a perfect person, like someone who puts others before herself at all times or wants to gain the sympathy of complete and total strangers via a pity party blog she runs on the internet, but I do want it made clear that I at least try and do good by others. Because of how I’ve been treated by pretty much everyone throughout my life, I go really out of my way to be nice to those I let get even remotely close to me. I’m so closed up, that even the ones who think they know me rarely now me as well as they think they do. A few years ago, I told an ex girlfriend of mine something, and her response was “I never would’ve known that!”. Be aware, this is a girl I spent about 9 years being close friends with and then spent a year romantically involved with, and yet even she “never would’ve known that”, in regards to what I just told her. So, I try and be the best to the people I really care about, try to be genuinely nice to the people I don’t even know all that well and still try and retain an identity not at all known by anyone at all. It’s a tough life, y’all.

And yet, despite all of this, despite my best efforts, I am not a “liked” person, because even the people who I’ve known for years don’t know me that well and the others, the ones who have claimed to love me and want nothing more than my happiness (like the people I mentioned from this past summer earlier in the post), end up not really meaning that. I am not important. I am expendable. I am not good enough. I am polarizing. So, okay, I’m trying to work with that. For so long I wanted to please. I wanted to make my parents proud despite their obvious disinterest in my actual well being as a person, and I would try to reconnect with people I used to know who cut me off out of nowhere without saying a word, who I thought I mattered to. I wanted to make people love me. I wanted to create things people would be happy about. Now I’m trying desperately not to care as much. I’m trying to be ok with not being ok enough.

So I’m polarizing. Alright then. I’ll learn to work with that. The people who really do like me like me and that should be good enough. The problem is that you’re never sure who those people really are. You think you have a good idea, but…but people are so goddamned two faced. Now, with the advent of social media and online profiles, we as actual people, are nothing. Our profiles are everything. That’s the best of us distilled down to our successes, our triumphs, our goodness, and I don’t want to be one of those people who say “technology is bad!” because it isn’t. It’s helped created friendships I only could’ve once dreamed about, but to so many, I am just “that girl with the depressing blog” and not a real person, but I am real, and I do care. People may see me as polarizing, and, well, that’s on them. But I see me as I really am. I really do try and really do care. And even to the people who hurt me, to the people in my past, my parents, the people from this summer…I understand. We’re imperfect creatures. I don’t blame you anymore. We are who we are. If you find me polarizing, I might find you transparent and abusive, but I guess that’s just who we are, and only we alone can decide if we want to work on who we are. It has taken me two decades to get here, but, I know now that I am more than the sum of your opinions of me.

Reach out to me. Get to know me. I want to create a community out of sadness. I want to build a home from despair. Trying to be perfect got me nowhere, but accepting my imperfections have gotten me so far. Be polarizing. We can do it together.

I believe in us, flaws and all.

Hello. My name is Maggie. I make things, for you and for my own survival. If you like this stuff I made, you might like some of my other stuff, like my depressing space webcomic “In Space, No One Can Hear You Cry”, and the site where I ask others to say how bad they feel to help others feel better, “Sad Party”. Check it out. Hit me up. Let’s be miserable together.

ADDENDUM: I am aware that a new “This Won’t Hurt A Bit: Memoirs From A Post Medical World” was supposed to come out Monday, October 23rd, but alas that could not happen. I apologize and it will return next Monday. Thank you for understanding.

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Art Is Dead

When I was a little girl, I was obsessed with the concept of a “legacy”. Perhaps it came from the fact that my family didn’t pay me any attention or that I didn’t have any real friends, I realized that if I worked hard enough, was skilled enough, got lucky enough that I could make something that would stand the test of time, even to a small amount of people, and mean something to them after I was gone, thus making me remembered. I wanted to be here even after I wasn’t here. I was so terrified by the concept of nonexistence that I just had to find a way to exist, even after I didn’t physically exist anymore. I drew, I wrote, I made films, I did a million things to try and fix this problem, and ultimately after 15 years none of it has made a single lick of difference.

Now, on the cusp of my thirties, I find that instead, I’m wanting to leave as little a footprint on this planet as possible in terms of my existence. I want there to be no evidence whatsoever that I was ever here. How does one go from obsession with legacy to obsession with nothingness? I don’t want a paper trail. I want my birth certificate, any identifying papers (ID, social security, you name it), and anything I ever made to be burnt to a cinder or at the very least, locked away tight in a safe nobody can ever reopen. I want to have not existed. Sometimes I sit down, and I look through the art I’ve made, the novels I have unpublished on my computer, and everything else, and I just think who am I to be filling the world up with more uninspired garbage nobody is interested in? Why don’t I do something worthwhile, actually leave the world with something worth caring about, try and better it somehow in the short time I’ll be here? But instead, I continue to force “art” out of me all for the sake of nothing other than my own ego.

I used to qualify it by saying I made art to help myself cope with things. That it was my therapy, and it helped me deal with everything around me. I realize now that that’s a pretty huge lie. That was just my way to continue making shit without realizing I’d lost interest in it. But now I realize I don’t really enjoy anything anymore. I thought that after so many years I’d really found my calling, but I have no calling. I have no purpose. My art isn’t a career, it’s barely a hobby, and I have no reason to be here. Maybe I’m just going through a really rough patch, I’ll willing to entertain the idea, but…

But after a lifetime of abuse from almost every angle, of disinterest in everything I do from almost every angle, including my own at this point, why bother doing anything. Why bother even being here. What happens when you lose interest in the one thing that’s kept you around your entire life? What happens then?

What happens indeed.

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There’s No Room For Me

I can remember every single room I’ve ever been in.

It doesn’t matter where it was; family members room, friends room, my room, parents room, classroom, etc. Any room. Not even bedrooms, either, no, it extends to bathrooms, kitchens, garages. It doesn’t matter. If there was a room and I was in it, I can recall every single detail about it down to the rivets in the goddamned floorboards. What’s really “funny” about this is that I actually have a rather sketchy memory. A lot of my adolescence I’ve actually blocked for my own sake and then there’s just a lot I don’t remember in general, but I can remember every. single. fucking. room.

I’m sentimental, that much has been made abundantly clear from this blog by this point I’d think, but even so, I’m amazed at what I can recall. For a major example, one of the few friends I had growing up, his mother was an apartment manager and they moved around the city alot, which meant he wound up occupying multiple bedrooms in multiple apartments and all within a 3 or 4 year radius. I remember every single one. I remember the one overlooking the parking lot and the dumpsters with the big window, I remember the one right by the pool that was essentially filled with nothing but his futon bed, and I remember the one in the small house they rented when we first met. I remember them all.

And yet, despite all of this, I have never once felt at home in any one of them. How sad is that? A lifetime of rooms, even my own bedrooms, and I have never once felt at home in any of them. Maybe one day I will find my room. Maybe I won’t. Who knows. All I DO know is that I can remember these rooms better than I can remember relatives I knew for years or ‘friends’ I’d had forever. Voices. Faces. All lost to time. Rooms, though, rooms are the constant.

I think it’s because a room is something you yourself occupy; your energy, your space, and so you’re fit to remember it, even if it isn’t your own room. So, for the sake of some transparency for once, here’s some of my old rooms. Enjoy.

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Little Miss Perfect

I have this impossible desire to be perfect in every way, shape and form. Whether it’s what outfit I’m wearing, what I’m working on or how I keep things organized, everything has to be just so. When you’re this way, people will call you anal, or OCD without recognizing what OCD actually means, but no, perfection is different. I am not a perfectionist because of a disorder or because something irks me and has to be a certain way. I’m a perfectionist because I know I wasn’t perfect enough. If I’d been the perfect daughter, straight and neurotypical and had gone to college and married a man and gotten a regular job and had a couple of kids, my parents might be pleased with me. But I am not those things. I am mentally challenged. I cry when lights are too bright. I shudder when I touch the wrong textures. I like girls. I failed school. I am as far from the perfect daughter as one can possibly be, and that’s what makes me strive for perfection.

I need to be perfect because I wasn’t perfect. I wasn’t even good enough, let alone perfect. I’m still chasing the idea of pleasing people who abused me and told me to die. That’s how big a pass society gives to parents. “Who cares if they said those things or beat you with a pillowcase full of dried minnows? They’re your parents!”. You apparently need to love them, just because they so happened to get pregnant with you, even if they didn’t want you, and give birth to you. I chase perfectionism. I work on something until it’s just right (up to and including these blog posts). The wording must be precise. The artwork must be immaculate. My outfit has to match. My hair has to fluff a certain way. Things need to be organized in the way they should be, all corners neatly aligned and meeting up. Everything has to be. just. so.

And why? All because everyone my entire life has told me I’m not. Has told me I’m a failure and that I should try harder or just give up. I need to be perfect. I’m a perfectionist workaholic, so that can’t possibly go wrong in my life. But in all seriousness, what makes it worse is recognizing that perfection is unattainable, so I get as close to perfect as I think can be, and that makes accomplishing things a bit more bearable, possible and attainable, despite knowing perfection isn’t a real, achievable goal. That’s slightly sick. But I need it. I need to be perfect. I have to be perfect.

Because I can’t be anything else.

Everyone else has made sure of that.

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How To Fail So You’ll Succeed

People often get irritated with me for continually saying that I suck, that I hate my work, that I’ll never be successful or that I don’t wanna do what I do anymore, but what they fail to realize (somehow, even after I tell them this) is that I need to externalize the internal in order to continue going. I need to believe I’m bad so I can continue to prove myself wrong with each new success.

By belittling myself to myself, by telling myself that I’ll never reach my own standards, all it does is make me feel incredible when I do reach those standards, when I do reach even a small piece of success. That drive is what keeps me going. If I don’t say these things, that hatred sits inside of me and festers into a horrid bubble of pure rage, and then I never get anything done. That’s way more unhealthy. I succeed because I believe I can’t.

Now that isn’t to say there aren’t times I really do believe what comes out of my mouth, because believe me, there are, and it’s a lot of the time too. Being touched by failure for the majority of your life, outside of career and inside career, really makes you feel pretty fucking terrible about your chances with success. That being said, more often than not do I use it as a way to continue to push myself towards the goals I wish to achieve with my work, and my life in general. Negativity is a bad copying mechanism? Bitch, please. It’s my only coping mechanism.

My entire life I’ve been told by people that I will never succeed. By my peers, even some people in my family at one time or another, and yes, you eventually start to believe a little bit of that, or all of it, in some peoples cases. But for me, spite thrives my craving for success. You wanna tell me how much I suck? We’ll see how much I suck when I’m happy and successful and you’re bitter that you’re still suck in that loveless marriage or in the same crappy job you claim you hate but can’t leave to chase whatever dreams you might’ve once had. Guess what. Dreams don’t go away with age. You will always have your dreams, so stop saying you can’t go after them after a certain age. THAT’S real negativity.

You hate me for achieving my goals? You hate me for even attempting to? Go try and achieve your own. Be happy. Tell yourself you can’t, and then do it, and prove yourself wrong. Be a successful failure. “Fake it ’til you make it”? No. Fail it, then nail it.

Own your sadness.

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I Have Nothing Left To Say

I have nothing left to say, and this devastates me.

I have no more original thoughts of anything creative to say. I can’t create. I can’t dream. What does a “creative” person do when they can no longer create? They stop being, honestly, which is what’s happened to me. I just sort of….am, now. I sit and listen to music, I eat, I take care of the house. I just do things to fill the time in my day that used to go to creating art, and this is just….it’s soul crushing. I have nothing left inside of me that scratches to get out. That doesn’t let itself go until I vomit it up into some form of artistic expression. I don’t know how to exist like this, and I don’t want to exist like this.

But creativity isn’t something you can force, either, so a lot of it’s just sitting around and waiting for something to inspire me. For something to come to me, and for me to go, “Yeah, that’s okay, I’ll make that!”. I’m lost. I’m completely empty and cold and don’t know what to do anymore. I think sometimes some people are meant to give up on what they thought they were “meant” to do, a sort of realization that destiny isn’t a real thing and that no, you just sort of lied to yourself for a few good years and now the magic is gone and it’s time to grow up and realize you need to join the ‘real world’. What does one do when that happens? I think often they go mad, or become so depressed that they often kill themselves.

While I’m not in the market to die anytime soon, which is a step in the right direction, I suppose, it’s still not where I want to be. I don’t enjoy anything. I don’t enjoy creation and I don’t enjoy existing without creating. Where does that leave me? It often leaves me laying in my bed or on the couch and just staring at the ceiling or the wall. It leaves me empty. I have no desire to participate with other human beings, and I barely had any energy or willingness to even type this entry, let alone come up with something to type about. And how cliche is this? “Oh, waaah, I can’t create, I’m too depressed to create, guess I’ll talk about my depression!”

Now I’m nothing but a trope.

I started this blog with the intent on figuring out things about myself, but what happens when it turns out you have nothing inside of you worth learning about? When you’re just not that interesting? I don’t know, and I’m afraid to find out. Perhaps there’s nothing inside of me worthy of getting out, of being seen, of being heard. Art. Writing. These are the only things I know how to do. It’s how I’ve tried, unsuccessfully, for the last 15 years to make a living, and now even I’m realizing I have nothing worth listening to or looking at. At least people who read these blog posts are disappointed in short bursts once or twice a month, I’m disappointed in long stretches of time every single day because I’m stuck with me, and stuck with my failure.

Whatever. Who cares. Nobody cares when I have something to say, so why would anyone care when I have nothing to say. Sorry.

I’m really sorry.