my palms are sweating and i know, all it would take to fix is a beer.

that first rush of ABV coursing through your veins…it almost aches, but then you relax and magically, the dying world seems bearable. as i write this, i remember i have a beer in the fridge…and even though it’s before noon and i know the effects will disappear an hour, i’m going to drink it anyway. i am not tackling my alcoholism today (not today, satan!).


so i’m new here, and not a fan of technology.

i got my first cell phone at 15, and hadn’t opened a Myspace account until 18. the bulk of my teenage years did not consist of socializing, expressing or even figuring out how to convey raw emotion via technology. however, i did write, and i attended a liberal arts high school, writing poetry morning, noon and night – gritty, beautiful, teenaged words that i could not withhold. this practice was most certainly – beside the cutting, alcoholism, drug abuse, sex addiction and suicide attempts – the most therapeutic of my chosen releases.

when it came time for college, we all dispersed. some moved to Chicago or LA to pursue their art careers. but me? without the financial support that these kids and the students who went straight to the university had, i stayed on my side of town, believing community college was a smart choice, and proceeded to attend an artless facility that provided no classes or even majors relating to my interests whatsoever. so, without real-life exercise, i began to use Myspace to share my art and poetry – of course, that only ever led to one-night-stands with strangers (the original Tinder).

through a digitally-obtained friend that i would never meet, i was introduced to DeviantArt, which was at the time, a blog/platform for artists of all kinds (though it’s members have since morphed into strictly horny anime and cosplay nerds).

i signed up immediately and bled my art onto the worldwide web. it was at the time, a decent substitute for actual art school. i was sharing my art, connecting with other artists and receiving the constructive criticism i missed from my peers in school. but as time went on, my art went from frequent to occasional, to rare, and eventually, extinct. i was finding the lack of physical appreciation to be deepening to the void.

as time lapsed and grown-up demands such as income and the need for independence and self-discovery took over, my art expression faded into the background. it would emerge in forced spurts here and there throughout my 20’s, but much like the pituitary gland – once unused, it became calcified.

DA was the last time i succeeded in utilizing the internet as a form of release. i believe so much more in real interaction, real tears and real hugs, real curse words and real wounds and have quite actually become quite reliant on certain outlets. my instincts tell me that hiding behind a screen won’t really accomplish anything. but in this artificially-intelligent world, unless i adhere to the new social norms, i am left alone in a dark room with my thoughts and feelings like a helpless emo-child.

there is still a strong resistance as i type this now, to continue putting my words out there. what am i seeking in return and will i be disappointed if i don’t get it? am i going to regret going against what i believe in? will my lack of comfortability with technology prevent me from advancing in life altogether?

my agoraphobia has left me no choice. do not take this personally – but i hate people: what they have done to me, my loved ones, innocent animals and this precious earth is appalling. it has created a bitterness inside me that i am working very hard to sweeten, only in order to improve my quality of life while i’m still here, and to be a better person for those close to me. it is unfair to let evil destroy in me what has been passed down for many generations. but i care not to interact with them often and avoid doing so as much as possible.

i live in what’s considered a friendly, artsy, earth-minded college community of ethnically-diverse people. it is also very affluent, and despite the welcoming freedom that seems to exist, one can still feel out the vibe of those who look down upon those they feel are “less-than”. it might be me, i’m still unsure.  but the divisions clearly exist between the rich and poor, even in a seemingly perfect town. i once considered my public-self attractive, confident and friendly. but with the reactions i get around here, i feel i might as well have just landed in a flying saucer.

so i choose to not go out so much. this limits options for sharing my art publicly, though, i wouldn’t have much to share and my yearning to do so has [mostly] atrophied. i know it’s easy to think “just put yourself out there, who cares what people think? isn’t that what art is all about?” indeed. but somewhere along the lines of my life, i simply lost any feeling of support and morphed right back into that scared little field mouse i was before i discovered art – a victim, bewildered, naked and facing the intimidating world of constant, destructive judgment.

and that’s where i am now. past the point of desperation, just knowing i need to do something with all of this going on inside my head. it’s becoming so loud and intolerant of me. it is not allowing me to do certain things i never had a problem doing before. and i am still trying to figure out of this is good or bad, or simply the yin and yang as it should be. whatever it is, i am truly tired of the path i have been on and completely fed up of this incessant muscle-memory of comparing my life to all others’. i just want to discover my own happiness…and need nothing more.

i am sick. i don’t want to blame my family or the past anymore. i want to take responsibility for my own thought patterns. i refuse to take antidepressants. and at least i can write.



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