2004-10-21 @ 11:36 p.m.
|I was hoping Charlemagne the Obnoxious French guy would be at my art class last night, just so I could be obnoxious with somebody, but he wasn’t. So I was grumpy by myself. And I knew I was grumpy because when I went into the communal bathrooms, I looked in the mirror and looked like Joan Crawford on the verge of grabbing some garden sheers and destroying some rose bushes. And this was my favorite place to be. Art class! What was wrong with me?
I had been home most of the day. I had turned some of my anger into power house cleaning, which had been useful. And I had even had some positive reinforcement that day. I had taken two pieces of art down to my case mgmt. place for an art show Friday. Everyone had oooh’d and ahh’d over them. And I really needed that. Especially after my last art show at the cool art gallery where the comments had ranged from blank stares to “oh...nice frame”. Of course the painting had been called “Explode”. Maybe they thought I was talking about weapons of mass destruction rather than my emotional state.
I seem to have better luck drawing people, rather than weapons of mass destruction. I still don’t think I draw them particularly well, but people seem to enjoy them more for some reason. I’ll be having my one year anniversary of going to my drawing class the first week of November. I hope I’ve learned something in the last year. I had gone to one class a couple of years ago, but had had such a negative personal reaction to it, as in hating my own drawing, that I had never gone back.
But then one night I had gotten an e-mail from the class saying that there was going to be a going away party for a regularly featured male nude model that coming Wednesday and I was all about getting to see a NAKED guy. Woo hoo! And for a mere $8 too! So I went. And I actually blushed when he took his clothes off. And then I drew some really awkward drawings, pretty much avoiding his penis. I mean, I drew his penis, but it pretty looked like a Cattleman’s pepper grinder.
I did like the class though. And I remember I brought my sketchpad to my next “A” appointment, showing him all my naked man pictures. Geeze. I can’t believe I did that now. They were really embarrassing. And embarrassingly bad. How could I have done that? Sheesh!! But he was very, very encouraging. So much so that he had pulled some cash out of his pocket and offered to pay for my next class. I was embarrassed of course. I always have trouble when people do nice things for me, especially when they involve money, but boy, I really, really wanted to go back to that class, so after much hemming and hawwing, I finally took the money.
And I never looked back since. Its usually the high point of my week. A time when I get to forget all the shit that’s going on. A time when I get to do something I really like, and may possibly be good at. And it has also given me a teeny, tiny shred of a social life. I mean, people actually know my name and say hi to me, and for a totally shy hermit/recluse like myself, that’s a big thing. It has also tapped into a deep well of creativity I didn’t know I had. I knew I was creative. I used to draw cartoons as a kid. And of course I write. I’ve been published many, many times. But who knew I could do all these drawings, and abstract paintings and collages? Its weird. I’m almost never at a loss for ideas.
And they’ve helped me many times, to express things that I couldn’t say in words. Some of my drawings are very sensual. And I’m very stuck sexually. Some of my collages are very angry. And I have trouble expressing my anger to people. Its been liberating in a way and all of the angst that is trapped in my body at least kind of has a place to spill out.
Of course, there is still plenty of angst left for my appointments with “A”, and for my support groups, and for my long telephone conversations with my mom, when I can get a word in edgewise. You would think, I could maybe see the edge of my angst and anger coming up over the horizon and say, “Yay, its almost over” but it just keeps coming and coming, so I just keep writing and writing, and drawing and drawing, and seeing “A” and talking in my group, until maybe someday somebody scoops me up into their arms and says “It’s ok, witty. You’re a great person. Stop angsting!”
Whether I believe them or not, will be a whole different story.
So my art class last night was pretty non-descript minus the Obnoxious One. Fortunately we had a slight variation from the usual skinny-chick-model mode. We had Frau Booberella. The poor girl couldn’t have stood more than about 4 foot 10 inches, but she had like triple D cup breasts. It was pretty much all you could look at when you looked at her. We’ve had her before. Facially she kind of looks like a Hobbit. Broad, rounded features. Round eyes. Round nose. Very round head. Very rounded breasts of course. And she wore light blue shiny eye shadow. Alot of it. I didn’t even know they still sold that stuff. But with her large round blue eyes and light blue eye shadow, she looked like a stewardess on Air-Hobbitt.
I decided to just scan her face. Her breasts were just too stupendous to include in the picture. I’d have to buy a Super Gold plan.
So this morning, I went to “A”s group. He was still tiredly blissed out from watching his beloved Boston Red Soxs kick Yankee ass last night. I had watched too after getting home from my class. My lack of cable TV, however, prevented me from being able to see the game too well, despite the fact that I live a mere 6 blocks from the Fox affiliate. You would think I would be able to pull in a decent signal, but alas, the TV Signal gods were being cranky.
I’m not really into baseball anyways. I just wanted to join in the hoopla, if for no other reason than to watch rich cute boys swing their bats. Mark Bellhorn and Johnny Damon were the cutest. But what the hell was all the spitting about? Like eww! I hope they had their flu shots.
Group was pretty good. We talked about boundaries, which are still a complete mystery to me. They’ve been explained to me in great detail about 350 times by “A”, but as far as actually applying them to relationships, I don’t get it. They are confusing. I never had any growing up. My mother wouldn’t let me, so I basically let people walk all over me, do what ever they wanted and then I'd say COOOOL...do what you want...as long as you love me. But I guess that was somewhat counterproductive to the idea of boundaries. OK, way counterproductive. Whoops.
I did manage to cry during group though. And I wasn’t even talking, dammit. It was just something somebody else brought up. They had sent an e-mail to someone who never responded and it was causing them pain. Hmmm. Sound familiar? Yeah, well it did to me too. So I started crying. AGAIN! Sheesh. Pretty soon they’re going to have to hire Ed McMahon to stand by the Wittykitty Weeping Toteboard, and everytime I cry, he’ll announce a new total. Then maybe with all those contributions, they’ll find the cure for Low-self-esteemitis.
Lyrics by Lennon/McCartney. All angst copyright by awittykitty