My Gentle Return to Sanity

The past few weeks have been stressful, to say the least. Between firing my marketing team, narrowly avoiding a mental breakdown, going through withdrawals while cycling off a high dose of antidepressants, and remembering my late fiance on the third anniversary of her death, all while trying to enjoy a two week road trip through the PNW; I felt like I haven't been able to catch up until now.

I'm settling back into my simple existence, finally able to resume reflection and stillness, two things that I consider to be crucial to my mental health.

This is not an easy realization to make, but my attitude and mood these past few days are making me think I should perhaps get back on meds, or see a therapist at the very least.

I've developed a general disdain for the parts of my life that have been made unfavorable by my disability. The fact that it takes me fifteen minutes to put on clothes, the twenty minutes it takes me to insert a sixteen-inch tube into my urethra in order to go pee in the morning or, what has been bothering me the most lately, being almost thirty years old and still sharing a small house with my parents.

My girlfriend and I would like to move elsewhere, but the challenge of finding a property, then renovating it so I can live comfortable and independently, isn't possible a the moment. Once we're both out of school (~3-5 years) and have more than a Top Ramen income, this dream has a higher chance of coming to fruition, but for now, I should be grateful I have a place to live at all.

As I write this down, it starts to feel like a lot of 'first world problems', but they are my problems nonetheless. I'm trying my best to focus on the things I can control, but it is proving to be more difficult than the Stoics let on.

06AUG2021, Jackson Sherry @redbeardvisions

To be an Artist

After watching my mother deal with homelessness and joblessness while in pursuit of a fruitful career as an artist, an artist is something I never thought I'd be. Most of my life has been spent in pursuit of things that can make me copious amounts of money. I haven't yet found the scheme that will bring me millions of dollars, and forever squash the possibility of experiencing poverty again. Frankly, I think I'm done looking.

Yesterday, I test printed my first lino-block (relief print carved from a linoleum block), got ink on a pair of overalls I was planning on returning, stabbed myself in the knuckle with an incredibly sharp carving tool, and ultimately ended up throwing away the block after the prints revealed that my linoleum had warped and rippled.

I think the fact that , after my frustration had run its course, I returned to the drawing board, means that I'm an artist. Exactly the thing I have spent my life trying to avoid.

I just want to make cool shit and express myself through a variety of mediums. If I make a few bucks here and there, great. If not, well, at least my soul is fed. I finally understand the conviction my mom still has, well into her 60s. She might still be struggling to make a living, but her identity is rock solid.

If someone were to ask her who she is, her answer would come swiftly and confidently. My answer, on the other hand, wouldn't be as clear. I've always based my identity around what I was doing to make money at the time. "I'm an engineer on a submarine. I'm going to school for accounting. I'm running an e-commerce business. I'm a life coach." Nothing there even hints at who I am at the core of my being.

The more I think about it, the less I realize I know about myself. Art is a tool I can use to figure out who I am, which, at the end of my time on Earth, will prove to be more important than how much I have earned.

08AUG2021, Jackson Sherry @redbeardvisions