It’s been awhile since I wrote a comic that made me feel like I was going to throw up, so I guess I’m overdue. Heads up, this is a little heavy.

It’s also kind of a touchy topic. I want to be honest about my experiences and struggles with self-esteem issues without seeming like I think mine are the worst or that I’ve somehow suffered more than anybody else – I’m Canadian, y’see, so I hate to be a burden – but talking with a therapist has brought a lot of this stuff to the surface. I’ve been working on trying to acknowledge how I feel and build coping mechanisms, rather than drowning or compartmentalizing everything. I’m finding ways to cope and realizing the things I’ve done subconsciously that DO work.

Kids reading my stories works.

Teens emailing me works. Letters, art, poems, even short little tweets of “I get it” from strangers. Sometimes I forget. I get so down and I can’t see logic. I can’t see that my life is incredible and filled with possibility. I get so riddled with anxiety, I get tunnel vision, and it’s hard to break out of.  For a long time, nothing anybody said or did during those moments of despair made a lick of difference. Then, I started writing for kids.

It’s funny, I suppose, because THESE comics are not for children. The connections and friendships I’ve made through them are incredibly valuable to me, but there’s something entirely different – look, a kid bringing you art that they drew based on a story you wrote, because it inspired them or cheered them up or they just thought the fart jokes were funny – I have never felt anything like that. I’ve never felt so… worthwhile. Important. I’m something to one kid for an hour enough to make them want to give back and in the dark cold hours of the morning it keeps me alive. More than that, it makes me want to be a better person for them.

Find that port in a storm. Find the thing that brings you back. Be grateful. Stay alive.

I get asked pretty often about the honesty in my comics, and how I manage to balance what’s personal and what’s public. Here’s how: I’m really not very good at it. I just like to talk, I like to share, and I like to put my raw stuff on the table.

I’ve been going through some heavy stuff lately, friends. Family things, friend things, some pretty serious health concerns with someone I care a great deal about. Is that vague enough? There’s cancer in my life and it is hard. I take it all in and I just keep compressing it, pushing it down and compartmentalizing. It’s not my problem, I’m not allowed to be upset. I’m not the sick one. I make it through the day. I work, I draw, I sweat, I fill my life with enough projects that I don’t have to be alone. I avoid quiet. That’s when the dark parts start creeping in around the edges.

I don’t do drugs, but I drink. I’m usually okay, drinking. Lately, I’m not so convinced. This comic is a true story, about me completely freaking out and running out on a party in the cold at two in the morning by myself. It’s not the first time I’ve done it. I’ll probably do it again. I drink to forget and I start to remember. What’s that line about trying to drown your sorrows, but they just learn how to swim?

That’s me.

It’s scary to share this stuff, but the scary stuff always means more. I draw this, I feel a little less alone.