I was talking with my mother today, or, rather, being chastised for not completing a sketch that she wanted me to finish.

“So, is drawing and stuff what you do to keep from drinking?”

“And stuff.”

“What else?”

“You know I’m writing a book, right?”

“No, but you certainly can do it! You’ve got the ability to put words into… words.”

“Clearly it’s not genetic.”

“Clearly,” she smiled.

I’m back in treatment again, and it’s only been a couple months. This time it’s a Partial Hospitalization Program(PHP) so I go to day classes from 8:30 to 4:00 and have the nights off. It’s easy to feel like a failure when the mental hospital has a revolving door for you and the staff all seem to remember you. In fact, there was another man in the program who had felt defeated that it was his eighth or ninth time running through one of these programs.

Then the thought occurred. I’m just going in for an oil change. I laughed to myself and passed the thought off, but later it occurred to me that there were more parallels than just that. My therapist told me that some people have a stronger immune system than others and just never seem to get sick, and some people are like that when it comes to mental health. Others, like myself, aren’t.

Some cars will go 10,000 miles without needed maintenance. Some need to have the hood popped and fluid levels checked every time you get gas. Both cars will take you places, it just might take a little longer, might need a little more care, if you’re in a leaky four-banger that smokes a little when you turn too tight.

Some brains are a little more high strung, they run on premium. Some brains won’t need any repair unless they get into a major crash. For others, you get one thing fixed only to find out it wasn’t really the only problem.

I’d like to think that my brain is a bit like my 1984 Mercedes 190D from a few years back. The upholstery was worn through in a few spots, so the rough plastic bird’s nest of support would poke through and antagonize your side, kinda like a persistent suicidal mantra. She had that diesel smell and rattled like a sonofabitch and could lug up to third gear without ever touching the gas pedal, if you were patient enough and wanted to prove a point. She wasn’t sporty, she went zero to sixty in eight point five months.

But she was forgiving and generous and got great fuel mileage. It’d be nice to aspire to her longevity- I was so excited when she rolled over 300,000 miles. I guess what I’m trying to say is that even though she wasn’t quite perfect for me, she ended up being perfect for me, and maybe that’s how my mind is too.

Another point that is worth making is one about value. A car can come to a restorer as a pile of rusty steel, and leave as a gorgeous hot rod. You always have value. You can always be repaired and restored.

I’ll say it again.

You always have value.

You can always be restored.

My hair is
falling out
from
nothing other
than
bad decisions.
I’m
getting divorced
at 25.
My friendships
are fading,
in a mask
of distance
and hurt.
The most
loving
people
in my life
have left me.
I have
years
more
of school
and debt.
But
alcohol
doesn’t consume me
anymore.
And my
mental health
is turning around.
I may be lonely
but I’m not alone.
I’m the happiest
I think I’ve ever been.

It’s subtle, but I can tell it’s beginning. It shows in the slight definition under my cheekbones, the increasing tightness in my waist, the loosening of my clothes. It reveals itself in the way that my normally strained stretch marks are starting to wrinkle and deflate.

I’m beginning to lose weight again.

It’s not obvious on the scale yet, but when you are a person of my size and history, that usually doesn’t come for awhile. Not until after the muscle mass builds itself back up again and stops skewing the scale.

I haven’t started to panic yet. It’s still not noticeable to others, so I haven’t started receiving comments asking me if I’m losing weight, or telling me that I’m looking better.

I don’t need or want to hear that shit.

If I lose weight, I am aware of it. It is not something I want to hear about from acquaintances.

Let me be very clear about this: I do not consider congratulations about losing weight to be complimentary.

Because… there is nothing inherently bad about being fat.

Touching on my own history, I’ve always been thick, but didn’t get truly big until I developed a drinking problem. I gained more than a hundred pounds incredibly rapidly. I have some truly spectacular stretch marks.

I’ve also always been suicidal to some extent. Why is this relevant? Someone that has no interest in living, will have very little interest in self care. Why would someone who has no expectation of a future waste their time on diet and exercise?

Now, in a truly unexpected turn, I am no longer on antidepressants, since my psychiatrist believes that I have cleared that hurdle and now need to simply focus on my treatment for Borderline Personality Disorder. No longer being able to view myself as depressed is strange and scary. Depression may have been miserable, but it was my whole life, familiar and comfortable. Now I’m finding that I lack the coping skills for being okay!

Luckily, I have rejected drinking as a potential coping skill. Stepping off the path towards alcoholism has been slow. Finding myself okay with not being drunk is new. I feel more invigorated and stronger. I may feel naked and exposed right now, but I’m not hiding behind booze.

So, because of these things, I’m losing weight.

Please don’t tell me about it.

I need to hear about a piece of my art or writing that you liked. I need to hear that you value me as a friend. I need to hear that you care or that you love me. I need to hear that you’d like to spend time with me. I need to hear that you’re proud of me going back to school. I need to hear that you like my goddamn T shirt.
I don’t need to hear that I’m less fat. It makes no difference to my value as a human being, or, at least, I hope you think that way. I won’t be a better person if I’m 10 or 50 or 150 pounds lighter, and I’d hate to think that you’d give me a compliment based purely on being less offensive towards stereotypical beauty, or perceived potential health improvement.

I want people to be more conscious of the reasons that they say certain things, to truly evaluate why it might mean multiple things when you say something that seems relatively simple.

Be aware, there’s quite often more than meets the eye going on.

Dug this one up from the memory box! It’s one of the earliest pieces of jewelry I’ve ever made, and my first time working with soft metals like silver and copper. 

Please excuse the oxidation.
  

Plasma cut T Rex skull. Probably not going to eat your dog. 

I just
squished a bug
that
landed on my wrist.
I ended a life.
Multitudes of atoms
formed organs
that allowed
a creature
to live
and breathe
and eat
and breed.
There’s no saying
that it had
more or less
value
than me,
and I ended it.
I’m a monster.



“Cuz it’s got two lips?”

My brother can be a tad strange. 

Here is a tulip I made from spoons, before and after sandblasting. 



This was a project that I made during a high school world history class. It is modeled by my Maker friend who goes by the name Jelly.