I made this picture when I was 14. To say I enjoyed doing it would be a VAST overstatement. It stressed me out. It brought out my perfectionism hard core. I can still tell you the exact section of the hair that had me in tears because I couldn't get it right until my dad said "stop focusing on perfect shapes and just think 'hair'" and made it infinitely easier. And I finished it. And I loved it when it was done. Still love it. Still feel proud that it came from ME (and an internet printout from an Andy Warhol website that probably no longer exists). Still know that somewhere I have the skill set required to do this thing that creates an end product with life long satisfaction attached. But I am completely unable to even try. At 33, I can't wrap my head around putting that kind of time, effort, and anguish into something for DAYS hoping it turns out. But I know I could. If I wanted to. And so anxiety keeps me from creating. And depression says that doing it just because it would ultimately make me happy, proud even, but with no purpose towards improving the tangible lives of my family or myself makes it an unworthy task. And so I will continue to hoard my Prismacolors in hopes that someday maybe I can art again. #mymarilyn #cantfindmyfreedom #writingismuchlesspainful #cantalwaysjustifywritingeither #someday #mentalillnesssucks #isartsupposedtohurt #maybeidoitwrong