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I Have Been Making Art Again

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I have been making art again, and it feels like I never stopped.

And I don’t mean I have been making some little quick sketches during class or when I am waiting for my appointments to start in businesses’ lobbies. I mean I have been really making art again. In the comfort of my humble apartment that’s actually not humble whatsoever.

And I hate that I stopped.

Fortunately, the almighty question of Why did I stop? isn’t lingering in my brain. I’m not desparately trying to analyze this decision of mine while I go through the motions of my everydays. I already know the answer. It’s an answer that is so prideful it even hurts my own feelings, but I think maybe, just maybe, these prideful answers in my life make manifest the areas in which I need to self-reflect. And God knows that list is long, so adding to it never hurts. If anything, that list reminds me I never have to be bored, for there is always work for me to be completing.

You can guess the reason. It’s not that hard to decipher.

There is something about making art that is so catharthic; it’s indescribable. You don’t have to say anything to try to be understood. You just sit back and let your creation do the talking. You sit back and watch other people try to analyze what your work means, and you’re finally in the driver’s seat. You get to watch them react and respond. And you don’t have to provide any feedback on whether their interpretations match your intentions. They’re finally the ones with the unclear understanding of communication. I find it beautiful in a twisted way. I find their interpretations to be absolutely stupid the majority of the time, but I like to stand there and listen to them explain away pieces that don’t need any explanations. It’s a cruel pastime, but it’s one I’ll keep in my back pocket despite the negative connotation; sue me, please. I would recommend it to a friend in need of a positivity boost for sure.

Of course, there are the many other reasons art is the thread I hold onto during times that make existential questions erupt in my brain like lava spewing from a volcano over every square inch of land as far as the eye can see. But mostly, hearing the elites’ and the genuises’ takes on pieces of art that need no takes is music to my ears.

I’m just the kindest girl in the world, aren’t I?

I Don’t Believe in God.

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Chrisianity ruined me.

How sick and twisted is it that I was conditioned to believe I am inherently the worst person on the face of the earth? That I am born “bad”? That I am to live in the constant fear that I am going to literally burn in a perpetual fire if I make a mistake or mess up or get it wrong?

How sick and twisted is it that I was conditioned to believe if I pray hard enough my problems would go away? That God would hear me?

He fucking didn’t.

He didn’t hear me because he was never there.

I showed up for Him every fucking time, though. Every single one.

And He didn’t do anything…

He didn’t do anything.

Nothing.

He didn’t do anything because he was never there.

I did, though. I prayed. For everything, for everyone, for myself. I sacrificed my time, my energy, my fucking life to and for God.

And He didn’t do anything but watch me suffer.

He didn’t do anything but watch me suffer because he was never there.

he didn’t show up… But I did.

I did because I am here, and I have to live in this state of mental torture every single day of my fucking life.

I am heartbroken for myself.

What if I wasn’t conditioned to believe I fucking killed Jesus?

What ifs…

So what does that make this?

Do I consider it pure joy? Do I LITERALLY fucking count this all joy, my brothers and sisters?

That’s the rule in the Bible.

But is that the rule for me?

Is it the rule for me to be OVER FUCKING JOYED that there’s absolute misery in my never-ending depression?

Because if it is, I’m going to have to say it’s absolutely vile that God would demand that of me.

I’m going to have to say “considering it pure joy.” is not for me. And I’m sorry to and for myself that I ever, even for a second, thought it was.

But, “considering it pure joy…”, that’s for fucking ME.

I am choosing that for ME. Because I made it this far without God. Despite God.

I made it this far because I chose to do so.

That was MY choice… Not fucking God’s.

It was my choice…

Because he was never there…

A Thank You to MaSt (NOT Martha Stewart… But I’m Laughing at Their Coding Being the Same)

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I owe thank yous to many people. I owe several of them to some. And I know I owe everyone at least one.

There is one person, though, that I need to thank on here… And she knows who she is. For without her reaching out five years after Considering It Pure Joy came to be, I may very well still be sitting here thinking I am foolish to have shared so much of my life with people. I may very well be sitting here thinking I am foolish to have shared so much of my life with anyone at all.

So… To MaSt, thank you. To say anything less would be to evince my selfishness, which do not get me wrong, there will always be plenty of that to go around… But to say anything more would be to nettle myself with my excessive need to people-please.

That’s all there is to it, for now; perhaps one day I will find the words to string together some profound publication that adequately conveys my gratitude.

MaSt, I’ll never forget your message. Not just because it humbles me to the point of laughter due to me finding it so outlandish that I had the capability to make an impact… But because that impact I did not even mean to make… I was simply being myself… And hoping someone loved my anyways. And you did.

Writing Scholarship Essays Like I’m Not So Sick I’m Taking the Semester Off & Crying About It

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I have applied to 21 scholarships today. TWENTY-ONE. Not TWENTY-FUN. I am not turning the legal age to drink in America. I am literaLLY dying out here trying to save every spare penny a bi$h can. LITERALLY. And I am using literally correctly so COME AT ME. Or probably don’t; I have no good comebacks up my sleeve at the moment. That is because my sleeve is filled with my salty AF tears.

WHY?

I am so freakkkkking sick and tired of a life in solitude with my poodle. No offense, Tucker, but it is just not the same as being in class. I am just over it. That is why I had to buy Snoop Dog’s wine today from target. I had to because there was no other option for me.

That is ALSO why I had to put it in a portable container before I head out for my nightly walk with Tuck Tuck Goose.

I just cannot even believe this catastrophe of my social and academic career. I NEEEEEEEEEED someone to cut me a break and either get me a book deal or a reality show deal. Preferably the book deal. But I won’t mind some Kim K. action either.

Alright toodles. My Snoop wine awaits me. Can’t wait to walk my dog, drink this wine, and cry HAHAHHA.

K bye bishezzzz,

MOI

Tell all the truth but tell it slant by Emily Dickinson

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Adrian Matejka on Twitter: "I'm welcoming #NationalPoetryMonth with Emily Dickinson, who is one of the first poets I read & whose work continues to inspire me to “Tell all the truth but
Here it is.

Sarah, I lied. This post is not for you. The next one will be (#lolZZZ).

I just have always loved this poem since I read it in high school.

I resonate with the title more than the poem because I think the title itself is genius, especially when followed by words explaining its meaning… **chef’s kiss**; it is a literary masterpiece… And I never told anyone this when I was in high school. I never added to the Emily Dickinson Conversation when we reviewed some of her most famous works. I never said or did anything other than expound upon what Google said her works meant… More truthfully, what Spark Notes and Cliff Notes said her works meant.

And that is because I was telling all the truth but telling it slant.

And it, Tell all the truth but tell it slant, received no credit, or rather poor Emily received no credit for her writing and her ability to feel so deeply, until after she died. And my high school self and this wretched account are dead, so this post, if even viewed by anyone at all, will receive no credit until then. Or I suppose now depending on when this is published, too.

Poor and clearly pompous me, for feeling like I am on the same level of writing and feeling as Emily Dickinson, and even personifying her feelings to her corpse. Poor and clearly pompous me, for even thinking a dead body would be feeling betrayed or disappointed or hurt or anything at all by this entire ordeal of her fame and love only after her, what seems as though, never-ending suffering.

What a shame that those who are trying their absolute hardest to communicate their desire for human connection and understanding and love do not receive any of it until they’re dead.

And that previous sentence, the one literally before this one presently being read, is me following Emily’s advice: that is me telling all the truth but telling it slant.

The Truth, when not told slant, is that I feel like the insurmountable vexation that progresses from having a mind like hers… one that makes her able to think and write this profoundly… is oddly enough the juxtaposition of the crux of progressive deterioration of that very same mind. I feel like it is oddly enough the juxtaposition of the crux of her, as aren’t the body and mind one and the same? Isn’t that what makes a person a person, as consciousness is too perplexing for even the world’s most intelligent psychologists and neuroscientists to “figure out” and explain?

Yet consciousness makes us human. It makes us different than the rest of living “things”. And isn’t that a good thing?

We are not animals but we are at top of the animal kingdom.

We are not unintelligent but we are destroying the one planet that keeps us all alive.

Make it make sense? Make the but make sense. Because I just simply cannot.

And that is what I find to be so profound about this entire poem. It’s the but in the title. That’s it… when I’m not telling it slant.

The Truth is I do not fucking understand the point of life.

I do not fucking understand the point of life.

I do not get it.

And no one can explain it to me.

That is the all the truth when I do not tell it slant.

However, if you do not tell it slant, that truth, or rather The Truth, is “too much” truth. It is misinterpreted as feeling emotions I do not feel. It is misinterpreted as me lying when I say those misinterpreted feelings are not felt. It is a whole bunch of an intertwined mess between me, “professionals”, and what is.

Therefore, I will just say what I said at the beginning of this entry:

I just have always loved this poem since I read it in high school.

Turns Out I’m NOT a CRAZY MOFO… just a MOFO.

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Just a mofo. More to come.

Hopefully not more than a year and a half later, but more to come. That is my word, and I am holding myself to it… but without a timeline this time, as I had back when I created this account for… for… (I don’t even want to say it because it makes me laugh so hard)… a school C O U R S E HAHHAHA. The course was directed studies. I directed myself to do what I wanted. Loved that class. Best part? You grade yourself because you direct yourself. My grade? Perfect. Why? Because clearly from this account I am perfect, incredible, one-of-a-kind, never been done before, and AHHHHMAZING in all ways. DUH. My grade was 100 for both semesters. Best class and best teacher I’ve had, both me obvi, lmao. What can I say other than what great, outstanding work by me as a teacher and student all at once lolz lolz #LOlz.

All I have to say is, though, I was right. Nobody knows your body and your mind better than yourself. I wrote that years ago on here. And from life events from growing up that I wanted to push aside and never deal with, and from life events in high school and college that I also wanted to push aside and never deal with, and from just freaking life as a whole since the womb… things happened. Specifically, and right now especially, since February 10th of 2020.

Many things.

Too many things to count (but I counted and am continuing to count them because it’s not right for me to have been treated this way by so, so, SO many “professionals”).

I was made to feel like… like I was worthless, like I was a liar when I was telling nothing but the truth, like I was a stupid white girl. I was made to feel like I was crazy, like I was a waste of time, like I was a waste of space, like I was unloveable… and I believed it. SCRATCH THAT (self-editing #amirite)!!! I believed THEM, too.

The very people I came to for help. I believed them when all they did was hurt me. They hurt me so much.

How sad it that?

And I am none of those things. AND even if I was, I should never have been made to feel like an inhumane POS. It was not right. It is not right. It never will be right. I am trying to understand how and why you can be okay with knowing you treated someone like that and not apologizing. I am trying so hard to understand why did you treat me like that? because I just do not understand. But more than anything, truly, I want to.

Despite all of the extreme pain and suffering this has caused me, I’m choosing to once again consider it pure joy. I’m choosing that. Because I owe it to myself. Because…

We hurt where we care, and we care where we hurt.

Dr. Steven Hayes

And by the way, I want to say I am so sorry to anyone that has ever felt, ever feels, or ever will feel that way. It’s not a freaking amazing doozy type of feeling. It is the exact opposite type of doozy feeling…

I write all over the place: journals, notes, gratitude journals, papers, everywhere. I’m a vagabond writer at heart. And deep down, I know I’ve always felt like a vagabond person, too: never feeling like I had anyone to turn to or anyone in my corner, never feeling like I belonged anywhere, never feeling like anyone wanted me around, never feeling like anyone loved me or even liked me for that matter… even though all of that wasn’t factually true, I still felt it. And I still continue to feel it.

But I found my way back here… back to where I chose to finally address why I am the way I am and why I do the things I do. I found my way back to where I chose to finally address it because I wanted to understand, and I wanted to change, and for whatever reason that I do not know, I remembered this account, and I came back to see it. Even though I did not want to. I came back to see it. I found my way back here where that journey of my why all started, and I came to see it because I’m still trying to understand myself and why I do everything I do and what the point even is to anything. I found my way back to the crux of, at that point in my life, my entire life’s hurt, my entire life’s pain, my entire life’s brokenness, my entire life’s loneliness, my entire life’s tiredness, and…

And perhaps, perhaps just maybe, this is now actually the moment for which I have been created?

Perhaps.

ORRRRR as the people who know much more about the Bible than my younger-grasshopper-highschooler-self might say…. and who knows whether or not you have entered the kingdom for such a time as this ;)? I’ve made some growth. I watered my mustard-seed self. But ONLY once in a blue moon. Still not a #profesh.

It was worth it, though. The suffering from high school was worth it. The Bible was right about that. I’ve seen it in my own life.

ANDDDD I just passed out recently at the start of this year while funneling diet cokes in a McDonald’s parking lot when I found out Dr. Steven Hayes put in the work and found the science to prove it can be done. He proved that you, me, and everyone can overcome their struggles… WITHOUT claiming they will go away like other therapies do. That’s h o n e s t. And that’s what considering it pure joy is to me. That’s what God says, too. And, like I said on here years ago, God is not in the business of giving you the perfect life… I finally feel like I don’t have to choose a side anymore. I finally feel like I can choose both, like there can be unity.

I can forgive while still feeling sad and hurt… potentially for the rest of my life.

I can be Christian while believing the Bible is NOT the literal word of God, rather the living word of God. The living word of God is subject to interpretation and change; it all depends on who is reading it. No one is the same. No one.

I can believe in science and be Christian.

I can believe in God and doubt… which I have done and will continue to do too many times to count.

I can feel scared and follow through anyways.

“And that’s okay. I accept it. COME AT ME bISHEZZZZZ. I ACCEPT IT AND I COMMIT TO USING IT FOR GOOD…”

That is a little rendition of an interpretation of words by God and by Steven Hayes… & by me. Mostly me tho because I do not think first God or second renowned researcher Dr. Steven Hayes would sign off on that. So mostly by me… inspired tho by them. And by everyone who has ever shown me a little kindness. That’s also true: it goes a long a$$ way, being kind. You just never know who needs it. Because God knows I did…I still do… & I always will.

P.S.: Got my name changed back, ya i got my name changed back (Miranda Lambert recently if I do recall from a youtube video). Consideringitpurejoy.com is back. Found a sale $15 for the year. No more consideringitpurejoydotcom.wordpress.com for now lolol and LOL

Ummm I Thought This Was a Helpful Wellness Center???

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I am sitting here at my college’s health center trying my absolute hardest to get into contact with a psychiatrist. I know what you are thinking. Why didn’t you schedule your appointment earlier? I have the answer to that. I was involuntarily held for a freaking week of my life last week, and they (aka the stoooooopid government) took my phone away from me for five days. So I literally couldn’t. That’s why ladies and gents.

I am about to lose my mind (again) because, well, of course, once again no one is taking me seriously. Everyone thinks I’m joking around or something. But I’m not. I’m deadass 100% seriousness about the fact that I need to see a psychiatrist, or I will go insane. Why? Because I’m already there. I’m already crazy. So the choice is ultimately yours, my college. Are you going to keep an innocent young student who simply is trying her best to get by waiting around in the dark when the light switch is right next to you?

Tune in next week, people. I guess we’ll find out together. Just… ugh.

Eulogy to My Pop-Pop

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From as far back as I can remember, my grandpa, who I have always referred to as Pop-pop, has always been someone who I have admired. My complete admiration of Pop-pop actually began because I thought Pop-pop’s real name was, in fact, popcorn. And this, of course, was truly incredible to my 4-year-old self, so much so that I have vivid memories of telling my preschool friends that I loved my grandpa because his real name was Popcorn. Of course, the next time I got to see Pop-pop, I was so excited to talk about this with him. I ran right over to him, and whispered in his ear, “Is Pop-pop your nickname for your real name, Popcorn?”. I remember Pop-pop started smiling and laughing to himself. He looked down at me and said, “Well, yes!”. That moment confirmed to me that Pop-pop was actually legendary, and that moment made me want to be just like him.

Fortunately for me, Pop-pop was the best possible role model I could have chosen. Pop-pop was a man who made the most of every moment and every single thing in his life, even the most ordinary ones. I remember sitting next to Pop-pop at the kitchen table drawing flowers on a piece of computer paper. Flowers have always been my go-to drawing of choice, so this was the usual sketch for me. Pop-pop, however, found a way to make that moment extraordinary. From helping me add a flower pot underneath my flowers to then suggesting I add a table underneath the flower pot to then finessing the background so that the entire paper finally became a piece of art that we created together, just the two of us, Pop-pop always knew exactly how to spice up life to make it the loveliest. When I got to high school and began taking every possible art class offered to me, I knew I wanted to use that same sort of Pop-pop-style spice in my own art. I was always so proud to see him, so I could show him the artwork I created. I loved seeing his reactions to what I had made and really valued his opinions. I absolutely have always felt a special sort of indescribable closeness with Pop-pop because of our shared love of art and our bond that truly cultivated because of it.

In addition to all of this, Pop-pop was also extremely funny. In a lot of ways, my own humor mirrors his. Back when I was in middle school, I remember visiting Pop-pop and Nona when they were in the middle of doing Weight Watchers. Nona was explaining to everyone at the dinner table what Weight Watchers was, and why it meant they were not having the same dessert as all of us grandchildren. As she was explaining this, I looked over at Pop-pop, who was rolling his eyes, probably because there were several desserts laid out including cake, cookies, ice cream, and pizzelles. When Nona left the room, Pop-pop waved me over and asked me to get him some dessert before Nona came back. When I returned with his dessert, he laughed and told me it would be our little secret. Now, I do the same things when I am with my friends. If we are all out to eat and someone goes to the bathroom, my friends and I will steal some fries off their plate while they are gone, and of course deny these actions ever happened when they return. I like to think this especially is what Pop-pop would have wanted for me to learn from him!

My grandpa, Pop-pop, also liked to keep things short and sweet, so I will do the same here today. Pop-pop was a smiley grandpa that I will always, always remember for his loving attitude, his funny comments, and his commitment to making bright and beautiful art no matter what. Pop-pop, I love you so much, and I’ll be seeing you!

 

My Middle Name is STOOOOPIDB

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Yesterday night, I had the wonderful idea to sign up for personal training at 5 in the morning today. I am very aware that it is normal to workout in the morning, but for me, it is a huge stretch. Like, I would normally rather place my hand onto a hot stove for twenty-seven hours than be at the gym at that time. Let’s be honest, I am not too great to be around before the sun rises unless you like looking at things that resemble monsters and ugliness.

But, I had this weird feeling in my soul that I was meant to workout at this time today. Probably because I like the idea of being one of those people who has their lives together and works out in the mornings and wears lulu lemon. When my alarm went off at 4:20 (blaze it sista frans amirite), I actually wanted to fall to my knees and sob. Instead, I put on my junior shirt from high school, which is totally the exact same thing as lulu lemon, and marched my butt to my electric vehicle. You know, the one all the cool kids are driving these days.

I got to the gym. I did the workout. My butt is now so sore I cannot even tell you this feeling I am experiencing. I am walking like there is a literal twig up my ass. I think I need to call an ambulance to take my to the walgreens urgent care if it gets more severe in the next few hours.

So, all is fine at this point. I am totally just a gal who has it all together since I worked out at this time. My life is totally not in shambles because of this one thing I did one time only. I sit on my couch, and pass the actual heck out. Not even my mom yelling at me to stop being lazy could wake me up. And her voice resembles like a mean Billy Ray Cyrus yelling if he was not country. It is brutal basically.

I wake up from my amazing slumber, look down at my phone, and realize it is 9:57. I am supposed to workout at 10. I look down at my outfit, realize I am wearing the same one as yesterday, change faster than I ever have, and race my butt to the gym. I have never decided on an outfit faster. It was truly a miracle.

When I get to the gym, I see my phone and realize that it is still the same day. It is still Friday. I had worked out four hours earlier. My dumb butt thought I slept through an entire day and woken up tomorrow. I actually wanted to take an axe to my neck, chop my head off, and throw it into a local canal because of all of the unnecessary stress I caused myself.

All in mother freaking all, I am quite the dumb b.

Have you had any experiences like mine? Let a b know!