My comics are what is making me depressed.

For the past month I've been working on non-comic related art, and have been happy as a clam. I hadn't been thinking about the friendships of mine that are in danger, or about the fact that I'm broke or addicted or have an eating disorder or generally hate myself most of the time. I resumed working on comic pages this evening, and now I couldn't feel more hopeless.

This is because when I begin to work, I have to think about what inspires me. Unfortunately, my biggest and purest Muse happens to be one of the friendships I feel to be on the brink of oblivion, and thinking of him makes me feel sad and empty. Maybe I'm just paranoid, or maybe I'm being too dramatic...but I'm also afraid I might be right.

My mistakes are great, and I still have a long way to go before I can feel right again with what has happened to me, to us, these past few years. But if I could just get back the one little piece of normalcy, this one tiny pinch of light, then maybe I could start to crawl out of this dank pit again.

These feelings I'm having in no way mean that I'm going to stop doing comics or art. That would be incredibly stupid and a massive waste, and I would probably be dead in a month if I kept all of this inside. What it does mean is that I'm tired. Tired of crying myself to sleep, tired of unanswered questions, tired of waiting for an explanation as to why there is still a huge wall between myself and the peace of mind I need and goddamn deserve.

I'm stuck between a rock, a hard place, a brick wall, and a glass ceiling. My only weapon is a pen powered by the bleeding heart I wear on my sleeve. Every day is long and excruciating, and the benefits are few and far between. I need that purity back that I used to have, or I'll never survive this life.