Enderman!!!!! Aaaaa!

The Great White is here to tell you he thinks you’re pretty amazing too!

I just finished writing an article about my raccoon eyes for a “Reverse Negativity” Challenge. I decided to draw my own artwork to go with it. I wish I could feel a little more confident of it, but I just feel a little depressed right now so maybe I’ll feel better later. Here’s a link to the blog if you’re interested in reading its contents. 

[Reverse Negativity Challenge : Raccoon Eyes by KawaiiFira] Art by me

Art by me.

This drawing to me represents peace. Euphoria. Tranquility. I've suffered a lot. I've gone down a lot of wrong paths. I've been swallowed by anger and suffocated by depression. I've been chained by anxiety. I've been lashed by ptsd and starved by dysphoria.

A lot of me hates myself, conditioned by the very people in my life who were supposed to love me. I grew up believing I was never meant to be here, being born below the margin of impossible expectations because I could not be what everyone wanted. In a way, my birth to everyone was, “Well, this is it; this is what we ended up with.” It was as if I was some compromise, meant to make up for the loss of my siblings. Although they they and I never met, I was constantly in their shadow. It was as if I had poisoned the womb, begging god to kill them so that I could exist. My mother, obsessed with her loss, birthed a compromise and a replacement, naming me after my siblings in an attempt to reanimate what was lost.

A lot of my life has been misery. I was sexually abused from a very young age, by family members on both sides. I was home schooled until halfway through second grade, and I didn’t even know what music was. My family never spoke to me, and I was raised to never speak unless spoken to because I was insignificant compared to the three. Nobody wanted to get to know me because that was already predetermined.

Every holiday was a nightmare, filled with expectations to radiate perfection. As a child, all I wanted was to be loved. But everyone told me I was a demon child, and a dark child. I rarely smiled, and if I did, I covered my mouth. Everyone told me I was broken. That I was selfish for wanting attention or love. My entire life, nobody took the time to know me.

My household was chaotic; my parents hated each other. When my mother wasn’t screaming at me over my physical flaws, I was mocked for my shy nature. My youngest memory of my mother is her barging into my room to say, “You’re such a piece of shit,” as she obsessively cleaned the house. If I tried to spend time with her, she would tell me to go away as she hid behind reading books. In reality, she didn’t want me. Every day, she’d make phone calls to her mother and sister, complaining for hours about how I was a nuisance. Every single birthday, I asked for her to spend time with me.

My own body was a warzone. My father was accepting of me, and let me be a boy. I liked sports, my hero was Han Solo, and I wanted to be Steven Speilburg when I grew up. I liked the boy clothes and the boy toys. My mother hated us for it. My only memories of her before the divorce was a battleground-- fighting. My hair wasn’t girly. I was growing facial hair and was happy about it. I didn’t want to wear makeup. She called me ugly, and fat. She’d tell me I didn’t have any friends because everyone saw how worthless and lazy I was. 

I became withdrawn, as every day when she came home, she sat down in front of my father and screamed for hours-- sometimes 4 hours at a time-- complaining about her day before locking herself away in her room. Once we had to delay a day trip to the renaissance festival, and mom blew a casket. I hid in my room, my dad holding her back as she pointed up at me screaming, “FUCK YOU.”

School was no sanctuary except for within my teachers and my studies. School was a warzone as I was the gay trans boy. I got beaten senselessly. I got sick from stress and no matter how often I transferred schools, the cruelty never ended. Summer camps were no different. Once was so bad, I began to cry, going mute for a while after the incident. I was beaten very badly, and left for dead in a ditch filled with briars and rocks. I was bleeding everywhere.

I began wondering if this was what I deserved-- after all, I was the replacement child. I was only here because 3 people died. That made me selfish. That made me a monster.

I began having belligerent black outs. I would write in journals as if someone else had taken over me, and the writing was barely legible. If I was speaking to someone at the time, and they called me by “Sienna” I would get very very aggressive. I would scream that that wasn’t my name. I had begun rejecting myself, so afraid of other people that my own thought process was an insult to myself. I began disassociating. I stopped recognizing my face and eventually fell into bad habits such as self harm and abusing drugs. 

Once I OD’d back in freshman year, unable to walk after taking a lot of anti-depressants. I laid on the floor for hours. I don’t remember what happened. I began keeping myself as drugged as possible, and have almost no recollection of my freshman year. Not many know this about me; not even my parents know.  I wanted to vanish, someway, somehow. 

In sophomore year, I stopped abusing drugs and became clean. I had met some friends who were kind to me. They didn’t beat me, or belittle me. We just... played, making films and enjoying life. They were my first real taste of youth and friendship.

But then my parents divorced. And it was messy. Both of my parents tried to kill themselves, their mental instability causing the world to end. Each pit me against the other, using me as a sword for their own gain. The family on both sides grew to hate me for not protecting my parents. For not saving their relationship. For trying to protect both.

One day, my dad got a shotgun, and went out to the backyard, placing it to his head. He texted my mom that he was going to kill himself. She came in my room, and apathetically told me it was up to me if we called the police or not. She told me it would make her life easier if he died. With his life in my 14 year old hands, I begged her call 911. A lovely officer saved his life. Afterwards, my mother ransacked his place, stealing everything she could.

Eventually, she went to court, claiming lies to make my dad unable to keep me overnight. Then, she dropped custody of me due to not wanting the responsibility of a child, making me emancipated. My family called me selfish and a brat for being upset. They told me they hated me, and wished I had been “thrown away to the foster care system” so my mother could try again for a child worthy of love.

As this went on, I was being sexually abused by 3 of my friends, one of which was my abusive boyfriend (who forced me into a relationship for 3 long...long years). I was touched against my will, and pressured constantly for sex until I gave up, and lost my virginity. Being pinned against a wall and touched became normal for me, and I stopped fighting. I assumed no one wanted me unless it was for sex, even in the anime club. As I was below 16 at the time, losing my virginity wasn’t even consensual because I didn’t have the capacity. But I didn’t value myself enough to care. I was conditioned to obey because I had no worth.

In junior year, I realized I was trans. It had been there all along-- the one part of me that was my own volition and wasn’t cast upon me. It was the one thing that I knew was my own, and genuine, free will. I was a boy, and wanted to transition. 

I didn’t come out to my parents until the end of the year, though. Dad was not accepting, but didn’t reject me. Mom accepted me, for reasons nobody really knows. At least, at the time nobody knew. She took me to transgender meetings, and support groups. She began to beg for affirmation to my counselors that she was “a good mother.” She began bragging to everyone she could that she was a great mother. It almost felt....like I was being used to boost her own ego. The maternal side of the family stopped supporting the lgbt community when I came out. Utmost rejection.

People started having expectations of me, such as not feeling as much. Dressing a certain way. Transitioning a certain way. I became depressed, and de-transitioned. I got scared because I was being what EVERYONE ELSE wanted me to be. I tried becoming female again, hoping to rekindle my friendships that I had lost, and gain love again. But no one wanted me. I became lonely. I played the best act I could-- wearing makeup, wearing dresses, growing my hair out. I became what everyone else wanted me to be.

I still wasn’t happy. I had no identity, and I couldn’t even remember if I ever had one. I wanted to be loved, but didn’t want to be a girl when I wasn’t. I wanted to be a boy, but didn’t want to be alone.

I OD’d again in my dorm, flunking out of college. I had been in an abusive relationship, being used entirely for my body. 

Mom, not wanting me back home after flunking out, put me up in an apartment since I was not able to get an apartment on my own. After a year, my lease was up, and mom didn’t want to cosign anymore. I became homeless. That was a year ago.

I began couch hopping, trading sexual favors and whatever I could to have a roof over my head. In January of this year, I was raped while unconscious. The sexual harassment only worsened by my friends. My mom stopped allowing me to come back, and my grandparents made it clear I wasn’t wanted there (in sophomore year, we lost the house and dad moved in with my grandparents). I became desperate. At one point, I even got physically assaulted, thrown across the room so hard that the bed slid across the floor. I put up a good fight. I started staying with my ex from highschool-- the abusive one-- and slept on a dirty blanket in the floor as cockroaches crawled around me. The ex would grab my face with both of his hands, and sexually harass me until I would submit. 

I feel unwanted by this world. I don’t even feel human-- like I’m just some monster who was accidentally forced into this world, spreading darkness wherever I go. I was born a mistake, a disappointment, and evil. My family to this day still refers to me as “The demon child.” 

I started struggling with alcohol and drug abuse, breaking into my mom’s house and trying to make her mad so that she would give me the time of day, even if it was bad attention. I started shoplifting in hopes that someone would stop me, because it was the only way I could bring myself to spread my wrath to other people. “I’m starving because the world hates me, so I’m going to take your bread.”

But I have to ask, what did I ever do? 

Did I kill the triplets? No, I never even met them.

Did I cause my parents’ divorce? No, they hated themselves and used me as the scapegoat reasoning.

Did I love and try to protect my parents the best that I could? Yes, more than anyone I was there to parent them.

Was I born into a family of mental illness? Yes. Absolutely.

I had no control over anything, thrown into fire. When I started to burn, everyone noticed the fire, and assumed it was me. I was vulnerable. I was different. I was the perfect weapon for everyone’s gain. It was easier for everyone to point at me than themselves.

I am a person. My name is not Sienna. I am not the triplets. 

The greatest thing I’ve learned from my life experiences is that sometimes, we have to give ourselves what others are incapable of giving. For me, that’s love from my mother. I have to give myself love, and welcome love from the good people who want to be in my life.

For me that’s reassurance. I have to reassure myself that I’m not a monster. 

For me, I’ve wanted human compassion. But I have to have compassion for myself, and that doesn’t involve abusing drugs, or self harming. The best compassion I can do is get counseling, and forgive myself for all the hate that I’ve given myself. I have to allow myself to trust other people because I can’t get out of this alone anymore.

One day, I hope to walk with unapologetic acceptance of myself, like in my drawing. I hope to be free of everything I have lost and suffered, and forgive the past. That I can re-associate myself and learn to become my own person again who loves writing, filmmaking, science, and the kind people around him.

Here’s hoping.

~Ashe.

This is a self portrait of me-- 

Most people see me as this shy person who never sings or dances or does anything that would provoke my anxiety. But the truth is, I didn’t always used to be that way. I used to take classes for swing dance, and I used to sing in chorus. But my anxiety for these things I used to love developed after being bullied in elementary school to the point that I got sick. I began to lipsync and soon left chorus. Not many people have heard my voice since then. But, I just wanna dance.

Art by me

happy pride fish belong to the gays

“The Dragon”

I drew this to play with digital watercolor. It turned out much cooler than I anticipated, and ended up with 3 different versions (psst, the second one is my favorite <3). I can now say, I love watercolor. :3

Art by me

Ashe~

Why do you like sharks?

Meet Aslan, my nonbinary oc :3 They’re a lion! 

I thought it would be interesting to make a nonbinary lion character, as lions are traditionally very... gendered. The maned lions (male) are typically seen as very masculine-- the kings, while the maneless lions (female) are typically seen as very feminine--the queens. 

Art by me

Lots of vent art today. I drew this after feeling some depression and the affections that come with it. numb.

art by me.

Another drawing of fira-- this one is one of my first lineless attempts, and I did it about a year ago. I’m not sure if this is something that anyone else does, so I guess I’ll talk about my... unique coping skill. :) What I like to do when I’m sad is draw a really sad piece-- just go all out and convey my feelings honestly. I’ll see the sadness in the character or piece I drew (in this example I used Fira), and slowly change it, making tiny details and changing it until the piece is brighter. Usually it makes me feel better. c:

Art by me