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This isn't a usual post of mine, but I feel like finally talking about it. I'm limiting responses to these following posts, as the intent isn't to seek out pity or anything. This is something I've been trying to process for a while. It's one of the core reasons why I fight/flight so much.

Toons were my peace. I drew toons all the time. My mother and my little sister despised it. Things were always so bad at the house I would lie to leave and get ANY sort of reprieve. My therapist asked me years ago if I had -any- good memories of back then. I couldn't think of a single one.

She would often drive me out to the highway and tell me to 'walk into traffic'. She would also offer her opioids as a means to 'make things easier' for everyone. I convinced myself 20 years ago that all that never happened. Maybe I gaslit myself into thinking I did something wrong.

When she passed, I was roughly 18-19. My father flew in from WA state to CA to take me away, where I lived for a couple years with my sisters. Everything happened so fast, and before I knew it I left WA to finally live the life I wanted. To be an artist. So I've drawn toons for 20 years...