dandy never does shut up
honing any craft takes time and space
if you can't find or make time and space, you can't fucking hone shit.
and not everyone has the amount of disgusting stubborn repulsive defiant fucking unquenchable cockroach-audacity i did
i was a horrible little girl. people would say "move that, clean up your junkk" and i'd make a bigger mess because how fucking dare you people call my pictures "junk" and try to pretend i don't exist?
dad used to get up my nose for leaving my art on the dining room table, i'd get angry because he'd threaten to pitch it and like how fucking dare he call this stuff i made trash?
and he'd pitch it (and once or twice owned himself by doing that because he'd have a damn tantrum and just CHUCK EVERYTHING and oops there go some bills dad have fun digging in the blue bin)
and i'd be crushed of course and make a horrible teary racket but in two or so days i'd be back where i was drawing again. for whatever reason, i never fucking stopped that.
i hid my writing because dad got a wild hare after studying psychology for a teaching certificate and started going through my work to see if it was appropriate. if it wasn't, i got hinty-hint lecture time. he'd never approach front-on because he figured i didn't know; his excuse was always that i acted like i had something to hide.
well, shit, dad, maybe because you made me feel ashamed of it and i thought i should hide it?
mom griefed me to a lesser extent, mostly she was busy with work stuff. she at least had the courtesy to explain how she thought i was being unreasonable and selfish. still kinda expected me to be a bitty little mentat, but she didn't play shitty guessing games.
so i hid a bunch of stuff and stopped talking about my stories and stopped showing them to people but i never stopped drawing, i don't know why.
and it worked out for me because i had the means to get time and space. and some of it should probably have been homework time but LOL ADHD, and maybe i could have raduated with honours if i gave up more time.
but i fucking wanted to draw, and i figured "for fuck's sakes i have to inhale nasty-tasting medicine three times a day and do shitty postural-drainage percussive physiotherapy to clear lung crap out, i have to take pills with every little fucking thing i eat, i am always cold, i am always tired, school is awful, I HAVE THIS ONE GODDAMN LITTLE THING THAT ALWAYS IS NICE FUCK YOU ALL FUCK YOU ALL FOREVER I'M KEEPING IT" and i just hung on tooth and nail like some horrible demon kitten thing from C'thulhu's basement.
I was awful.
Some kids cannot afford to be awful. Some kids never get the chance to be awful. Some kids cannot kick and scream and fight back like I did--not because they're weak but because they were never taught how to, were never allowed to. Some kids had the stubbornness terrified out of them, or smacked out of them.
and that carries on to now. the terror still lives in your bones after years and years.
and making time and space can feel like a sin and a shame, and then what do you do?
seriously. fuck's sake. "U NO WURK HARD" gatekeeping is just as shit as "GOD'S GIFT" gatekeeping and you can all just get the fuck off my playground before I snap into full-on brat mode and shove stagnant-puddle muck down your nasty shirt and slap you had on the back so for the rest of the day you'll reek like a toilet.
