Fiery Spirit

This piece took me about two and a half hours.  It's all colored pencil in a soft-paper sketchbook.  I think I prefer less soft paper.  When I try to blend multiple colors, the paper starts to tear and "pill".  

I think my favorite part of this one are the tendrils of smoke extending off the tip of her ears.  It doesn't feel complete yet.  Not sure what it's missing, but it's just not quite "there" yet.

My mom kind of joked about this being a self portrait.  If I think about it, she's not too far off.  I constantly feel a simmering anger lately.  This is kind of what my brain feels like with each passing day.  It's as though I'm in a pressure cooker, and the lid is ready to blow.

That's not really what I was thinking as I was drawing my character, though.  I mostly wasn't thinking much of anything, honestly.  I was allowing my hands to move of their own volition, creating whatever they felt like.  This was not a planned-out character at all.  I started with the pink cheeks, then added the shape of the face in that light orange shade.  Continued from there.  It's funny to start with something I've never started with before.  Usually I start with eyes or hair.

Hopefully I'll be able to get back to blogging regularly now that I've figured out how to add photos again.  I have to do it on my computer instead of in the app on my phone.  The phone app wants me to pay to be able to add photos, but the website doesn't.  So bizarre.

Wishing you Peace and Light,

Jenny

 

Checking in After Too Long

 Good Afternoon,

I don’t know why I haven’t posted in so long. Perhaps because of laziness; perhaps because of pain and an inability to think straight. Perhaps it’s simply because life has been overwhelming, simply to stay above ground.

I have started learning a new type of art, called Neurographica. I think it is becoming a favorite form of therapy for me. Even though I haven’t done a neurographic art piece to completion, I do find it helpful. I find it soothing. There is a process I follow, and it works for me. Two minutes to journal. Then, take time to read it over again, circling words or phrases within that journal entry that pop out to me, the writer. Once those are circled, I count them. That number is how many lines I start my piece with. We have, in therapy group, done the initial lines with our eyes closed, or “following” a bottle top/medication bottle lid/anything round around the page, allowing ourselves a little less control over our movement. I will share some of my favorites, which I am turning into coloring books (per suggestion in an art chat). 

I don’t know how much it’s helping in the long run. But it does seem to help me keep calm in my chronic pain state. It has truly gotten bad, y’all. The chronic pain is, at this point, all encompassing. No answers. A lot of tests that come back positive, but nobody can tell me what that means or what the next step is. So I do what little art I can. I had inspiration for a new piece yesterday, but I don’t have everything I need to be able to do it to completion, so I simply didn’t start. Hopefully soon!

Peace and Love,

Jenny ❤️

P.S. Apparently, this app has changed, and you now need to pay in order to share pictures. How aggravating. I can’t do a dang thing without having to pay now. This will likely be my last post, because most of my posts mean nothing without sharing my art. That was the whole point of starting this blog.

2/22/23

The self loathing is seeping from my pores

Insidious in its intent to destroy me from within

A lithe creature winding its way around my throat

Choking out my sense of self worth

\\\\\\\\

As surely as a python suffocates its prey

writing prompt 2/4/23

What is your ideal weekend, and why?

Waking up beside someone I love

Cooking breakfast for the family with someone I love

Listening to Caleb play the piano while I/we read

If it’s a sunny day, an outing to the beach or desert

If it’s a dreary day, games and puzzles, maybe a podcast or two

Reading out in the sun with people I love

Sit-down dinner with my loved ones

A walk in the fog in the evening after dinner

Why?

Because any time spent with loved ones is ideal to me

Because I wouldn’t be alone.

Because I enjoy both sunshine and dreary days alike.

Because listening to Caleb play piano is my happy place.

Because it’s important to get out of the house.

Because family dinners are important to me.

Because walking in the fog makes me happy.

Because Saturday mornings are for family breakfasts

And dreary days are made for puzzles and games.

Because life alone gets depressing,

And I want to spend time with people I care about.

Because nobody should have to spend life alone

When they have so much love to give.

Journal 1/25/23 a poem for my daughter TW: forced miscarriage

The life that never got to live.

She would have been beautiful.

A child with a wild spirit,

Bright and inquisitive,

With bouncing curls like her big brother

And shining blue eyes like her parents,

I picture her climbing trees,

Chasing after Caleb down the bike trails.

What would her favorite color have been?

Her favorite foods?

Would she like to read?

Would she be into art?  Music?  Science?  Math?

What would my little girl have been like?

Who would she have been?

I’ve seen her in my dreams,

But is that who she would have really been?

Am I delusional to think I’ve seen her?

To think I’ve spoken to her?

Only in dreams,

But they felt like an alternate reality,

One where she survived.

One where she’s getting to grow up.

One where she’s going to be seven in July.

One where she isn’t dead.

One where I stayed away from Samy

Long enough for her to be born.

One where I didn’t fuck everything up.

One where her own father didn’t kill her.

The life that never got to live.

Never got to live.

My baby girl.

My Ella Mae.

word association exercise turned poetry

Lost

Found

Keys

Hearts

Broken

Fractured

Souls

Spirits

Twin flames

Meant to be

Loves me not

Not worth it

It hurts

Same old story

Lies

Betrayal

Same old story

Hurt

Sad

No, not sad

Depressed

No showers

Too hard

You’re weak

Pathetic

No, tired of being strong

Tired of struggle

Tired of tired

Tired of being forgotten

Tired of left on read

Tired of humanity’s worst

Tired of all this bullshit

Tired

So very tired

Tormented

Souls

Hell

Hell on earth

Empty arms where a child should be.

Brain Dump 1/18/23

Guilt

Shame

What part lands on my shoulders?

Staying with him

Which him?

Either one of them.

They both hurt me.

One started 9 years ago.

One 9 months ago.

How could I have been so stupid

Again???

Falling for the grooming

The love-bombing

The sweet talk

The attention from an attractive man

Making me feel 

Wanted

Loved

Cared for

Adored

But it was all fake

All a lie to get me…

What?

In his back pocket?

I wasn’t first choice

For this pathetic man.

I was just a plaything.

Just flesh to mark.

How do I reconcile this

With how I felt about him?

I honestly can’t.

I have to go through this.

I have to feel what I feel.

I’m stuck in this hurricane

And there’s no way out but through.

Through the darkness.

Through the storms of my emotions.

Through the fear.

Through the agony.

Through every emotion 

That threatens to overwhelm me.

I’m really trying to just get through this

Without self harming

Without cutting 

Without burning

Without random sexual encounters.

I’m working on writing,

Painting,

Sketching,

Talking on the phone,

Cooking

Cleaning

Doing productive things

Instead of harmful.

I think it’s working?

I don’t really know.

I’m faking it to the best of my ability.

Nobody would know if I didn’t tell them.

So I guess that means it’s working…

… At least as far as everyone else is concerned.

Erased

inside the storm

Lately I feel as though I'm huddling in the center of a storm of emotion. If I reach out and touch the hurricane, I will be obliterated. There will be nothing left of me but emotion. I won't be me anymore. I will be rage. I will be grief. I will be bewilderment. I will be agony. I will be emptiness. I will be all these things and more, and I will lose myself to the  insanity.

I don't think the painting is done yet.

Happy New Year (yeah, right)

I loved him. I love him still. But his lies coil inside me like an oily slick snake, making me sick. They say we're only as sick as our secrets, but what about the secrets of others? How do those affect us when they finally come out? My psyche feels fractured, my soul is scooped out. I can't think. I can barely exist. I let my dog out. I let my dog in. Reading his words from someone else's screen, the images burned into my retinas, but still I look back at the pictures. This man who told me he loved me repeatedly told someone else he didn't. Truth? Lies? Which is which? Who did he love? Neither? My god, my chest feels like it's caving in, and I can hardly breathe when I let myself linger in this emotion. Grief? I have always hidden from grief. She is too much to bear. I would rather feel anger, physical pain, or, best of all, nothing.

The urge to self harm comes quietly. It's sneaky. Kind of like betrayal. A problem to be solved. Kind of like me, if you believe what he wrote to her. Just a situation to be dealt with, nothing more.

I turn the feelings off.

Happy New Year to me.