Ceramics Confessional

photo-1935I failed Ceramics. I made a fucking cool frying pan that also doubled as a stingray statuette, and not to toot my own horn or anything, but it was really quite a piece of majestic wonderment.  But, I failed the class.

I did not fail on account of my art. In fact, almost always my art would get stolen out of the art room. This stingray pan, was actually a victim of theft.  When I took sculpture, the only pieces that were not taken was this lame found object  newspaper and duct tape bunny that I had mosaic-ed in M&M’s, and a bust of myself that resembled a masculine version of Xena the Warrior Princess, but with much worse teeth.  I am fairly certain that some collegiate art thief has the raddest coffee table ever, fashioned  out of plaster casts of old cameras, photographs and broken mirror pieces. (yeah, I made that.)  Hope you are enjoying it, my sticky fingered friend.

I have recently been thinking of going back to school.  I opened up my transcript today for the first time in years.  I was shocked, and saddened by my findings.

Six Withdraws, One Failure to Withdraw, and Two F’s.

Fuck.

The sad thing is, all of the classes I withdrew from (and even the F’s) were actually A’s.  I had a 4.0 that semester.

I was depressed.  Seriously depressed.  Dark and alone, crying in your closet depressed.  It was bigger than me at the time, and it consumed me–every inch of my being was soaked and heavy with sad. I didn’t really know how to deal with it.  I cried a lot; alone. I felt like I was in a tunnel and I couldn’t move out of the inevitable darkness that I was headed for on the other side.  I would sit, and sit, almost waiting to disappear.  I feel almost a sense of shame in this now; like I should have known how to deal with this, I should have gotten past this THEN.  I want to go back, slap myself in the face, hold my hand and tell myself it will be alright.

I managed to be considered “high functioning”.  No one except for me and those closest to me really knew what I was going through.  I had a real shitty therapist at the time, as well.  She would try to convince me I had nonsensical disorders that don’t really exist… my favorite being “Artistic Personality Disorder”.  I was too artsy.  bah!  She would wear this disgusting blackish purple lipstick making her thin old lips look like that of a pit-bull as they stretched and twisted, trying to find the proper diagnosis to my artistically challenged being.

It got bad.  It got to the point where I couldn’t deal with school.  I remember thinking about going to class, and my skin would scream, creep and crawl; I couldn’t do it.  I had straight A’s.  I had seemingly nothing wrong.

So, that is how A’s turned to F’s, W’s and the general lower letters of the alphabet.

I just hate it.

I hate looking at these things now, when I am healthy and strong; a new person.  I feel like they do not represent me, but they are there reminding me that I couldn’t beat the depression at the time.  A permanent past, stuck on important pieces of academic papers.  I don’t like to admit defeat. I don’t like to even admit the heaviness of my past depression.  It makes me feel very weak.  It makes me feel like others might view me as weak, or judge me, for what was chemically incorrect and not personally easy to battle. I get worried that no college will accept me because of these awful setbacks.

It’s just not me.

I am a good student; I love learning.

I love the journey.

I guess that is all it ever was… just one big journey; another challenge.  Another occasion to rise to, another day to be seized.

Seized like a bad-ass plaster cast coffee table with a reflective surface.

(honestly, friends and thieves, if you took it… we can have one of those days like they have at the library with overdue books where you can bring it back and they wont charge you or bother you about it’s delinquency…? I know this was a crime committed circa ’03, and it is probably what one refers to as a “cold case”, especially since I have already reported it to Campus Security and they didn’t seem any more concerned as when someone stole my laundry detergent freshman year… Just leave it on my porch, and I won’t ask questions. Thank You. )

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~ by soartsyithurts on January 21, 2009.

One Response to “Ceramics Confessional”

  1. Babyface, first of all, up until “Seized like a bad-ass plaster cast coffee table,” this little beaute reads like a college application essay, I am not even kidding. That’s what those things are for–to explain yourself, put some personality and personalization to the numbers that appear on your transcript. That shit gets you in regardless of grades.

    Secondly, I never knew you took ceramics NOR that you were so good at it. Wish I coulda seen these pieces OR sheepishly tell you that it was me taking them, just holding onto them for you with great care to return when you needed them.

    Thirdly, I am SO sorry that I wasn’t there to hold your hand and occasionally wipe your nose when you were going through all this. I wish I could do it all over again, but then I guess we wouldn’t be where we are now.

    Love you! Go back to school if you want to! You’re amazing.

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