:)

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.

Vent Piece. Art By Me.

I felt the same anger that I did all those years ago. I felt the world fall still, and shrink to only what was in my own lens. My eyes were hazed over, shutting myself down to unresponsiveness because I was afraid of my own anguish. Intimacy is a servicehood that I only give exception to who I think are different, and yet all of those that are different, are the same.

I am deeply afraid of sex. Of intimacy. I often feel that I’m only used for my body. Nobody knows the extent of how bad my abuse was, because I’ve never wanted to tell. Recently, I was disowned by my family for coming forward. For once in my life, I’d like to talk about the horrifics that nobody knows about. I’m going to be unapologetic, because I’m not a whore. I’m a servant, and everyone knows that.

My earliest memory of abuse was at my grandparents house. I was taking a shower, when my grandfather came in and sat on the toilet cover, watching me as he leaned forward onto his knees. I hid behind a towel that was hanging on the rack on the outside of the shower door-- the shower was otherwise see-through. Trying to groom me with a sweet voice, he asked me to come out from behind the shower and to talk to him, and that I “shouldn’t be ashamed of my body.” Before it could go any further, my grandmother burst into the room, screaming at him and crying. Nothing came of it after that, but my grandmother fell into a deep depression. “YOU DON’T DO THAT TO A CHILD!” I don’t remember anything after that.

A year or two later (I don’t know what age I was or how much time had passed precisely, but I know I was very young and didn’t understand what was happening.), we were all at a family gathering-- all the members being on the paternal side. We were out on my aunt’s country property, and it was an okay time. I went into the house to go to the restroom, finding my cousin in the bathroom, who asked me to come inside and help her masturbate. I remember thinking she was in pain (though I now know differently), frantically trying to help her. 

On my other side of the family, when I was still very very young (elementary school), I was also experiencing sexual abuse. In the middle of the night, I would be thrown in the hallway, pinned to the floor as my cousin molested me, asking me to stay quiet, or I was ordered to do things to her.  I do not know how old I was, but I remember feeling strange, and scared. Years later however, it developed to more sexual endeavors, where she would make me practice sexual positions that her parents were teaching her to perform. One of the games would be “marriage” where we would roleplay the ceremony. Husband and wife. And then consummate the marriage. We would repeat it back to back multiple times, over and over. At every family gathering, we were being sexual. 

At one point, there were multiple children over, friends of hers, to which we all played a sexual game. My entire family knew of this game, but did nothing of significance. Or really... anything at all. No. Nothing at all.

The molestation with my cousin continued for years. I don’t remember what age I was when it ended, but I remember completely disassociating. I don’t like violence unless it’s upon myself. Even when I’ve been in physical fights, I always avoided hurting the other person. But at this time, I was being told I was unloved by my family, that I should have been thrown away to childcare (”so that your mom can have a child worthy of love”) or aborted, and I was being beaten at school. Badly. Bruises, being choked, being beaten to the point of coughing up blood. And then.... on top of everything else, I was being molested. And suddenly, she didn’t want me anymore.

I felt a range of conflicted emotions. I was holding all of my pain by a rope, and finally my tendons had separated from my bones and erupted. I disassociated, as though I had completely cut out all emotion at all except for rage.  All I could see was red at the time. I threw her on to the bed, and beat her until the parents came in to save her from me. For most of my childhood, every couple of months, I was being molested-- and suddenly I wasn’t wanted anymore. 

Eventually I made friends when I transferred to public middle school, who proved to be sexual predators. I thought it was normal, or rather, became accustomed to being restrained, or forced to be sexually touched. No matter how much I was reluctant, if they pressured enough, I would eventually stop fighting and submit. All of my relationships were unhealthy and extremely sexual. Most of it occurred in the woods, or in my own home. I joined an anime club, where most of my relationships were sexual. I had an affair with my best friend’s boyfriend as well, where I would be pinned to a tree, or shoved down onto the ground and my shirt ripped off of me, hearing a “you know you want me so bad.” I can still smell the scent of him. Additionally, I was dealing with another boy who often threw me into closets or against a wall, sliding his hand down my pants and pleading with me to have sex. These all went down for months. Eventually, I got into an abusive relationship, who made me have sex every time I was sad. Hours and hours of sex. Of sexting. of pictures. of sex. During that time, I had also been assaulted by my stalker, who forced his hand down my pants despite me using all my strength to stop him.

I don’t even remember my first time. I remember being pressured. And giving in. And crying afterwards, texting one of my friends that I didn’t want it. But I didn’t say no.

Eventually, I was pressured to have sex until I gave in, forcing myself to have sex in a car. I remember crying when I got home. I sat in the shower for several hours.

But then we get to college. I entered a relationship that consisted of only sex. It was the most destructive relationship I had been in, and eventually ended up with me in a hospital, almost dying due to an overdose. I cut myself so badly that my entire body was bloodied. My dorm room was stained with blood. My arms... my neck, my stomach... my legs... my chest... my shoulders. What he would do was speak romantically, or invite me over to his dorm, and then proceed to fuck me for hours until I was literally in tears from the pain. He would never finish. Hours... and hours... and hours. Sometimes I would get an hour break to sleep, and would wake up to him jacking off next to me. Or wake me by touching me in my sleep. Then, he would ignore me for a week, or call me unattractive, and then ignore me for a week. Then the cycle would repeat. He was my only friend in college, as it was difficult to make friends being a trans guy (though I stopped transitioning for him so I wouldn’t be alone). Years later, he would eventually assault me while I was unconscious. 

I don’t even know if I want sex, or if it’s that I’m running through a rythm-- like my body doesn’t even matter. I just obey because it’s the only thing I know how to do. Or I do it because I know it’s the only way I’ll be wanted.

Sorry. All of this came up due to some flashbacks from last night. 

well, thanks for reading I suppose. I feel better after doing the artwork and writing all that out. Please don’t message me calling me a whore. 

-Ashe.

Drew this for my friend LinkTheYoshi :3

yay!

Art by me

“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~

“Sick Shooter”

I drew my sona Fira fighting during a zombie apocalypse. I’m really into this sort of thing, one of my favorite movies being World War Z. But this piece in particular was inspired by the resident evil video game series. :)

Art by me

“Blues Kitty”

oh, I’ve got the blues~ But it’s not so bad :3 

Art by me

Waluigi -chan!

Yesterday, my work day was dedicated to Waluigi. I had a lot of fun drawing him, and my friend had to witness me dying laughing over it for way longer than I should have.

All art by me c:

Ashe~

happy pride fish belong to the gays

Hooked Figure

design from scrapped book/zine project

Just finished this gift drawing for my friend :3

they gave me a boo gif for my birthday ^///^ yay

Art by me