Baph-FEMEN (sketchbook pages)


So sorry to have nothing newer to post, I’ve spent the past few days away on Psychotic Pre-Spring Break. These were doodled in a miraculous coffee shop that also served alcohol, but only had available seats next to a group of kids, one of whom was an insufferable asshole. The sort of boy I remember from my own collage classes, the few “academic electives” art school kids were required to take at our sister school. The ones whose very voices made my skin crawl, who when they would speak in discussion betrayed ignorance on nearly every count, yet spoke with an air of command and privilege that can probably only be acquired through an upbringing of being treated like the Golden Fucktrophies of Mumsy and Dadsy’s supersized egos and substandard genitalia. The ones who’d say things about how they “knew if they could see the real you, you really have no need to be so anti-social”, while being oblivious to the fact that they are seeing the real you, though I suppose their versions of what’s “real” don’t include a world where women, even angry weird vaguely-ethnic ones, want nothing to do with them and just want to read the latest fucking issue of Hate or whatever in peace in the cafeteria.

Nu, I had almost as much fun writing that paragraph as I did drawing this stuff in my sketchbook.

And FEMEN, of course, are that Russian feminist activist group who run around topless taking chainsaws to things like an army of latter-day Wendy O.’s.
I suppose in the interest of “Blog For Mental Health 2013” I should say more about the aforementioned psychotic break, but I’m really not sure how to segue into that (I think I just did, clumsily), and I don’t know what to say. A lot of the Mad Pride movement writing I’ve read thus far has a centrifuge of hope to it – discussions of recovery, treatment, and basic rights and destigmatization. I’m not sure what to tell you when the truth is that I see no end in sight, no light at the end of the tunnel, when I’m not entirely sure why self-harm is something I should aspire to stop. (Even Kate Bornstein’s Hello Cruel World book has an “if you must” sort of an entry regarding this), when I haven’t fully truly honestly decided, even when it hurts, if this state of being hinders of helps my creative growth. When half he time I suspect what is commonly termed as “recovery” by the rest of society is code for “passive and controllable/abuse-able”. When the woman who’s been told not to provoke me directly has discovered she can do it by proxy by hassling my husband (no this isn’t about you, you lurking narcissist, though I can see how that sentence also fits.) Eric won’t lash back verbally at a woman. I can’t live with myself if I sit idly by and allow him to be given this kind of shit, but my intervening is what this person wants. We cannot presently afford to go anywhere else. Half my family hasn’t the means to help, and half my family I believe based on some emails I’ve gotten, take pleasure in anything bad that happens to us, as if it is somehow a vindication of the Arizona Republican way. Eric is my love and by my side through anything and everything, and I his. I’m talking to a specialist in less than 24 hours, but the danger is palpable to us between then and now. I see biting sets of teeth in the strangest places, the sky and stuff. Not animal teeth but human. I have nightmares of a tall man, looking like a more clammy and sickly Nosferatu with bright eyes and a plastic grin, laughing and condemning me to death as I hold our rat Psyche Razors. I no longer care what the consequences are of writing these things out in the immediate instead of comics that come out a year after the fact…what else can they do that they aren’t already trying?


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