just something that happened

My life is boring. I’d guess you’re getting bored reading about it. I’m trying to have a clear view of the things that exist. The death panic crept up on me last night again, while I was trying to fall asleep. I’m tired, and every day is the same.

The morning of October 16th, 2010 was the final time I ever saw you.

I would say that my primary concerns artistically, at least from 2006 to 2016, were the embodiment of grief, the embodiment of abuse and trauma — my own, and others’ — and the attempted subversion of that abuse. I was processing the horrors of living.

I don’t regret making this artwork, but I regret sharing some of it. As with all things, I wish I had had a guide. If I could have made all of this artwork in a bubble with a therapist, maybe that would have been ideal.

I remember writing a song in 7th grade with a homophobic slur in it, because that was one of the slurs that people used on me. I was angry. You could call it reclamation. You could say that I was embodying the abuse in order to reclaim the power of the word, the power that the word held over me. I guess that’s what I was doing, but it didn’t work. The word still has power over me.

I’m still angry about it, but it’s different now. Now, the anger is more quiet, and I have no idea what to do with it. How to use it. How to heal it. One step at a time.

The song was never recorded, and the lyrics are lost. I’m fine with that. I hardly remember them. What I remember is how much people disliked me. What I remember is a decade of feeling entirely alone.

It’s no one’s fault. It’s just something that happened.