Artist=Crazy

When I was in New York City living the life of a performing artist, my father said to me, “Well, if it doesn’t work out, you can always be an ordinary person.” These were sage, wise words. It sort of lifted the burden.

My healer used to say to me that I needed to learn to just “be.” I said I didn’t want to “be,” I wanted to “be somebody.” He assured me that I already was somebody and I just needed to be.

So I was always torn between enjoying my time lounging in my bed versus my scramble to be productive and change the world. Lounging in my bed won out. Changing the world just seemed like an overwhelming task.

I was always looking for the point, the deeper meaning in things. I am constantly asking the question, “What am I doing with my life?”

My tenth grade English teacher told me that adolescents that tried drugs and then decided not to do them were more well-adjusted than those that never had. I had always viewed drugs as an escape. While discussing what I was doing with my life with my sister in college, I asked if smoking pot would help to alleviate the looming larger questions of life. She advised me that the questions would still be there. So again, I figured what’s the point then.

I didn’t want to be the crazy artist. I wanted the well-balanced life. My friend said that should be my gimmick. The kooky girl trying to fit in. I just ended that sentence with a preposition. But fuck it. I’m an artistic rebel.