Yes, my paintings dont like me back. For long time i understand life like taking another sip of a glass of water. This life its pretty simple. I use to stay in my bed on the phone the whole day, i never had friends and i stayed home till 14.
When my dad passed away my life seems to end up like that; arguing w my mom all the time, hating my brother and doing nothing for 2 whole years after..
I used to speak w my only ftiend all day, we had a long distance friendship and no matter how bad we want to see eachother his father wont let us. Now we are together so its better.
I also like to paint. For a reson i think my paintings dont like me. They stare at me, they know what i did, what i m dreaming about, what i think. I hated my life. I dont wanna end it, i wanted just to stop. Im not felling confortable with who i am and i know the person i host its not me. This is driving me insane. Not felling like myself; bc of the anxiety i am biting the skin around my nails for 5 yeas. I usually dont hurt myself but i cut my arms- cat scratches looking like or under my feet fingers. I belive im not that dumb that people can see me as having troubles. I assumed its not how u cope but for me it was working like a reminder u pay for what the world give u. And u can exteriorize how u fell on the inside. I m sorry for hurting this sweet girl, she had a strong body but now, in this life they are my body. I spend time wathing my walls. They look cute but they dont fell like me. Everytime u leave something like a mark, the moment is leaving aswell. All my work remind me of how i was, lost, happy, feeling insane or sick, sad or mad..but i was hopefull. I imagine all the time how i wanted to live. Nothing was real and all i saw it end up erasing. I exprime in my art. Thats why they see me sad now and no matter how much i like my paintings, my paintings wont like me.
