houses

So. Mom talked like she might move in with Laura in the future, but that she doesn't want to sell her house. Which means I might get to live in it by my lonesome. Which would be cool. Weird, but cool. I haven't lived alone, ever. I think I can hack it. It'd still be weird.

I always hated it when Jacob was gone in the middle of the night. I hated being alone at night in our first apartment. It was so open and we lived in a sketchy neighborhood. Like the kind where there are homeless people who get the cans out of your trash and prostitutes who set up shop in the alley behind the apartments across the street and there are gigantic drug busts in houses a couple blocks away. Oh, yes. And someone breaks into your friend's apartment and rapes her. Fun stuff like that.

Wow. I haven't thought about that in a really long time. Kansas City is kind of a messed up place. It rubs off on you, a little. Fucked up shit happened there. Stuff that I don't think about too much anymore. Except for late at night when I'm avoiding sleep and homework.

Oh, lordy. I was so unhappy. But not all the time. It's weird. Such mixed emotions. It was amazing. It was awful. I can't separate the experience from either extreme. It was a roller coaster. Makes sense. I have bipolar disorder. Hadn't been diagnosed yet. I was medicated. And in therapy. Cognitive Behavioral. Maybe that is the wrong kind for me. Although, my therapist did teach me about deposits and withdrawals and shopping for groceries that aren't there no matter how many times you look for them. And other things. Thereapeutic things.

I also feel fine about not seeing a therapist right now. The last time I was in therapy I was starving, more like I was allowing myself to be starved. But I changed the situation and got over it and I've been pretty great (with bumps, of course) ever since. I talk about my feelings all the time. With people who give me really good feedback and who are awesome and kind and loving. I feel like a therapist would be superfluous.

things

This is the poster I bought:


It is a beautiful three-color silkscreen limited edition of either 45 or 100. It's awesome and I am going to put it in a nice black frame. Art school turned me into a black-frame-white-mat person. Does that make me boring or does it make me a Fascist? I haven't decided.

KCAI is having Alumni Weekend in May. Can you be an alum if you didn't graduate? Unimportant. There's no way I could handle going back there at this point in my life. That's actually a lie. I can totally handle it. Fuck. Maybe I should go. Maybe it would be therapeutic. Maybe it would just be humiliating. Do you show? No. Do you have any new work? No. Do you feel dead inside and heartbroken because in your life you have abandoned not one, but two of your true loves? Why yes, yes I do. *commence blackout drinking*

In other news, the Robert ParkeHarrison exhibit at the Nelson that I desperately wanted to go to is ending on Sunday. That's like a tiny knife in my crusted-over heart because it's my fault and my fault alone that I did not make that happen.

I think maybe I should be in therapy again. I hate therapy. But I have this self-loathing that I don't know what to do with.

Blerg, you guys. Just... blerg.