My emotionally abusive relationship

I can't really remember when it started.

When I think about it now, it probably started back in high school.

A lot of people have tried in their own way to break it down and make sense of it for me. Conceptually, I understood what was being said.

Practically, I could never quite grasp it.

Not the way other people could and did anyway.

Instead of being jealous of others, I was more so confused as to why I wasn't able to do it.

Was it me?

It's me. It's definitely me.

I know it.

This is the type of relationship I've had with it for a long time.

It wasn't until I had moved onto college where the problem was unavoidable.

I wasn't going to be able to complete my degree without dealing with the issue head on.

Question: What was the issue?

Answer: Writing.

Disclaimer: I am NOT at all taking the piss about emotionally abusive relationship. I've been in it before and so the comparison is exactly how I feel about the topic and the subject.

As an artist, it is essential to write artists statements, work statements, applications. About half the practice is based on writing.

Not being able to write?

It means that you're not able to do about half of what is expected of you as an artist.

Oh yes, I can see that the twins 👯 are showing up in full force.

#guilt

#shame

Confession: I actually really enjoy writing.

I'm not quite sure whether it likes me or not. When/if I can get into it, magical things happen. Most of the time though, it doesn't happen.

I hear that this is quite normal, even for professional writers.

The massive issue currently on hand is, I have to write consistently for my PhD.

Have you ever found something you liked so much, only for it to not be quite responsive to your efforts?

I don't mean the other party is playing hard to get.

Because, it's almost as if there's nothing to get.

When I sit down to write, on a good day, I can see the words, they flow out of my finger tips. I hear the words being whispered inside of me guiding me on the subject at hand. And finally, there's a sweet taste of satisfaction in knowing, today, I showed up to write and it showed up for me.

Today was a good day.

We were both respectful of each other's gifts.

We were both present for each other.

On a bad day?

My (in)abilities taunt me.

I'm in a haze at best, almost able to see my words, almost hear the whisper, except it's not a whisper, it's a low hum chatter pulling me away from each of the voices.

The more I try to run into the haze, the foggier it becomes.

Lingering in my mouth is the ever present sweet taste.

It lures me to go further and further into sweet nothingness until I am gutted and thoroughly washed over by guilt and shame.

"I am a mistake.

I made a mistake for entering this ever present seductive hum chiming at the back of my mind."

Ever walked into an Olafur Eliasson installation?

This isn't a commentary on Eliasson's work, insofar as it is a comparison as to the emotions I get when I walk into his hazy installs.

It is probably best illustrated in these 2 images, there's something so visually captivating and it literally translate into my feelings on a bad day of writing.

Instead of walking into a room filled with haze, it's a air tight clear helmet that's attached to me.

Yup, that's me on a bad day of writing.

Untethered, sweetness filled helmet aimlessly floating, curiously trying to forge ahead into nothingness.

It all sounds great, in reality, not so much.

As an artist who sees life in a spectrum and feels materials for their potential, it's almost as if someone has come and severed that from me. You can still see and feel, but it's not the same.

So now what?

Do I call it the day?

Do I keep forcing myself to tap on the keyboard?

Do I continue to call myself names?

Am I the mistake?

Have I made the mistake?

What is the mistake?

How did I end up here?

Why aren't we able to respect each other for what we are?

What changed?

Absolutely nothing .

At some point, I need to accept that this is part of my process.