My marriage is collapsing under the weight of my own inability to get my shit right. The pressure to leave art for the family is overwhelming. I am on the verge of huge breakthroughs but I keep getting snatched back from them by talks, lectures, ultimatums, failure parades, and the mundane. This thing I decided to pursue is selfish. It eats time and attention and I have been living in my own head more than in the house. Something is going to break.
I am in limbo. Awaiting the next fight or the next stupid thing I do to push me over into spiraling depression and anxiety is terrible. There is no clear path ahead and the woods go on forever.
Art is no fun anymore. It's a choice that comes with emotional shotgun blasts.
Afterwards the hyperventilation and panic will set in, the loans, the fugue of uncertainty. but if your name is pulled in the lottery of fate, you'll be falling down an endless well. It will consume you utterly. Am I doing enough. You are falling endlessly. tail chasing and butt sniffing. why am I doing this. Do I still enjoy art?
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