I am not well.
At counseling one day, my therapist told me, "The only way out is through..." and she explained that buffaloes run toward a storm rather than away from it.
So I painted that.
But I didn't have any fun painting it. I felt tortured by my own brain.
I hated this painting. I hated making it and I hated the stupid cliche my therapist offered, and I just hated everything about this.
It's a theme these days. I hate everything.
I stay at home because if I go out, guaranteed I will get in a fight. I got in a fight at the gas station last month with a flat-assed white chick who wouldn't move her flat khaki ass out of my way.
I am irrationally angry and I hate everything.
A lot of people wanted to buy my buffalo painting. This surprised the hell out of me because I am not a professional artist and also because I couldn't bring myself to even like this painting, let alone consider the fact that others might like or love it.
......
I went to an inpatient mental facility shortly after painting this. I didn't like it there, and I panicked and just wanted out. I hated being locked up against my will, with all my possessions locked out of my reach. They did have a shower in my room which was quite pleasant.
When I got out of the hospital I came home and looked at my paintings and realized that this one is actually a pretty good painting. I still don't love it, but it isn't terrible. At least not as terrible as I thought it was before.
I am angry, and I hate everything, but I don't hate this painting anymore, which must be some sort of accomplishment given my current mental state.
