They Say That Art Is

They say that art is

Born from a place of great pain

Does that make this art?

For context, I’m gonna be 20 in a month. I can’t drive, and my mom controls my bank account. I can’t move out because I make minimum wage. I’ve wanted a tattoo on my left wrist since I was like fourteen. About a year ago, I came up with the design that I plan on getting. I’ve been asking her about it for six years. She just doesn’t listen. It’s always “you’re too young,” or “well, maybe another time,” or “there’s just too much other stuff going on right now,” or “let’s talk about this later,” etc.

I don’t know how much “later” I have at this point. I can feel my pain getting worse. My physical and mental health are deteriorating, and fast. I don’t know how much longer I can keep up the facade that I’m okay. I don’t know how long I can act like I’m not scared when I’m having anxiety attacks weekly. On a physical level, I feel like I’m dying constantly. On a mental level, I kind of don’t care that I’m dying because we all die someday. But the constant, nagging pain makes me wonder how long I really have. I don’t know what illness this is, or if it can actually kill me. But sooner or later, if it doesn’t take me, I probably will. I don’t want to die. At least, not without living first. What she doesn’t get is that just because she’s older than me doesn’t mean she’s somehow smarter or wiser or any of that shit.

Time is short. My body is dying. My skin is a canvas. Let me paint it

“If it hurts, don’t do it”

Uhh, existing hurts. You just told me to die

Does anyone else ever get this feeling of unreality? Like, I know this is the real world. I know I’m awake. Not dreaming. I know I’m here physically. But mentally, I don’t know where I am. Or who, for that matter.

Am I real? Because I don’t feel… real.

The world around me feels ever so slightly off. Like I’m looking through a foggy window. My movements look normal to others, I think, but I feel like I’m watching my own actions like I’m watching a movie.

I’m not here. I’m not me. Where am I? Who am I?