I want to warn you that my posting may be melancholic to some, but sometimes this is how I feel.
I am what I don't want to be, which is an artist, I used to work but tired out quickly, faltering in the normal lines of work. I became a painter shortly after developing my unique skill of painting in fine intricacies. I am cursed with a chronic pain that is mysterious along with the mental torment of generalized anxiety. I dreamed of being that happy go lucky salesman but collapsed under the pressure of the authoritarian higherups. I took on the energy of the anger around me at the workplace, so I fled the job world to do the only thing I am good at, fine art. Autism is the second of my psychological circumstances, leaving me to underperform many norms of society. The irritation and impatience from others caused by my slowness destroyed me. Under the angry pressure of the proctor, my IQ test showed a meager 95, further intensifying my deep anxieties and dampening my already low self-esteem. What am I but an artist? With the brain of a squid? I wish to be that content high performing diesel mechanic who has endless stamina, yet my body is frail. I so wish to be that bubbly customer service rep that has boundless mental energy, but I tire quickly after a sentence. I love to paint, I love to do art, but they all tell me itís a hobby.
I havenít pulled in an income with art. Iím 6 months in.
Who Am I?