Rainy Day Thoughts

 One of the reasons I've always doubted whether I'm as lovable or less disposable than other people is odd, but has been a constant in my life. Again, I'm not looking for sympathy, and I damn sure don't want pity, for fucks sake. Just therapy things, but something I've actually known how to articulate for a while. First, let's review what art, and making means to me. Art is life. Creation is life. Beauty is everywhere. I love to make things and create gifts for people. I truly do. I think about the recipient, and it's very intentional. It may be a love language thing, but I equally value time as well, and touch from very specific people. No touchy, for the vast majority. I love gifts that are given to me that made people think of me. I don't think people think of me much, at all. 

Okay. So in all of my important relationships, I've gotten to hear about things done for exes, or see things made for them, or friends. Like, I used to walk 4 hours to see this girl. Before single color christmas lights were available, I spent 8 hours replacing all of the bulbs in a string with a single color so she could have what she wanted. Look at this beautiful jewelry thing I made for a friend, with one of your favorite motifs. It's not all about making, but the thought put into things as well. Those are all real examples, but I didn'r get things like that. I don't want to ask for things to be done for me. It's that thought and time that I cherish. I don't want to ask why I wasn't worthy of that time and thought. I know plenty of reasons why. It's just something that I carry nside of me, a desperate wish that I was worth that time. That somebody made something for me, thinking about me. But I'm a background human. Maybe I'm too accepting? Too, there?   I would like to believe that I'm missed, that I'm thought of, that somebody made art for me. Unintended italics, don't feel like fixing it. But that seems petty. I do have little things that made people think of me. And maybe my love of art is irrational. Who know? But it does contribute to making me feel... less than.

Also, art related, I'm glad that I didn't have the money to get all of the tattoos that I wanted when I was younger. I'm working on getting some now, I have an appointment for the most important one I've ever gotten coming up. No, I won't tell you what it is. I will tell you that it is going to be "upside down" so it faces me, because it is for me. I'm already planning what is going next to it. And on the corresponding opposite bit of my body. It will also be the most visible of any of mine. And the second smallest. I'm so excited. My tattoos, so far, are about the art, not meaning. This one is mostly meaning. I'm crying thinking about it. And what it means to me.

A couple of notable exceptions to the things done for me whine...Stephen wrote a novel based on a character based on me. I never doubted how he felt about me as a human. Someone did drive 8 hours or so to roll around naked with me, who hadn't ever done that with me before, after 8 years or so of flirting. He was the first person I ever talked to in a bar to intentionally hit on. True story. Suits and boots, man. They get to me. He has also sent me...things. So, I do realize that I get things. Which makes me feel...ungrateful and petty? Why don't I inspire that in romantic relationships? I really want to. Ugh. 

Off to do something super scary, in the rain. Vague, I know, but I am contradictorally very private and pretty open. It's a thing. It's something I can drive myself to and from, at least. It will be fine.