In my previous post I touched on the fact that my joy for drawing had faded away. The reason for this is something I can only speculate on, but I believe it's related to post traumatic stress. And no, not from my military experience. This started years prior to my joining the Marines, while I was still in high school.

Between my junior and senior years, an event occurred in my life that I'm still feeling the effects of 20 years later. At the end of the 2001 academic year, life was perfect (as perfect as it could be for a teenage boy post 9/11). but by the start of my senior year, everything I'd come to appreciate in life was tarnished.

For context, my dad was a graphic design teacher at the local vocational high school, and my teacher during junior year. It was not uncommon for the two of us to ride to school together. All my life I'd been picked on, teased, and bullied, but when I entered that vocational school my junior year, I was popular. I was among my people. And my charismatic dad was part of the reason why, as his popularity with other students helped give me a leg up.

During this time of my life I was a drawing machine. I'd rather grab a sketchpad and a pencil over watching a movie or playing a video game. My skills were advancing by leaps and bounds. I was looking forward to attending the Columbus College of Art and Design. Drawing was my life. It defined who I was.

Once you learn my senior year was the last time I'd draw with any passion or joy, you don't need Sherlock and Watson to start pinpointing the problem. So what was the problem?

My dad was having an affair—with a family member: my aunt (mom's brother's wife).

It got ugly. And messy. And painful. And so much worse.

The affair was discovered during the summer, by me. I revealed it to my mother after we started back to school in the fall. By the second half of my senior year mom and dad were split but not divorced. That's when the second affair started—with a girl in my class not one year younger than me. Here I am in the part of my life where drawing was not just a hobby, but an academic pursuit. I was drawing more than I'd ever drawn, all while enduring the heartaches of this affair right in front of me.

I believe that years' long emotional trauma was hammered into my psyche and I now associate it with drawing. Sketching in a notebook is not just joyless, it's painful. It's depressing. It's harder than hard.

It took a long time to forgive. Like, a really long time. But my dad and I are on good terms now. He even helped me produce a movie loosely based on that first event. With that said, the problem still remains—I can't find joy in drawing.

How does one cope with that? Move forward? Is there something I haven't dealt with yet? Am I harboring hidden emotions that are blocking me from a breakthrough? Or is it simply the fact that I haven't drawn in so long that I feel my talent weakened? Could it be as simple as drawing more to move out of this funk?

I've heard a few theories and suggestions, and some I'd like to try very soon. The truth is I just want to be over this event. I want to work through it, even if it's hard. Especially if it's hard. Let's do this thing. Show me the mountain I need to climb so I can conquer it once and for all. Something tells me it won't be that fast. It's going to be a long hard road with a lot of work.

So this will be a journey and one I hope these blogs will help me with.