Classic with Cheese and Pickle

[Natedoggga 155]

 

https://i.imgur.com/0do7a0o.png

 

[Hope 234]

Smexi!

[Mikey 1,238 1 Item]

Wow!  Awesome work!

 

[Maniak_uk 5,063]

Nice work  

[EntemberDesigns 982]

The detail in this is amazing and so is the flow.

[Freya 2,561]

Good job Nate

[theBACON 17]

Love this sort of Surreal Cell Shading style.

[Inflo 8]

Delicious in any way!

So that's how you eat burgers on a trip

[rentless 2]

my dude, i wanna be able to make art like this.

 

good flippin' job

[Natedoggga 155]

While creating this image, it had no direction or purpose. A stock photo of a cheeseburger spoke to me in a way I couldn't pinpoint. As I meticulously designed thousands of shapes onto a canvas, I repeatedly asked myself, why am I making this? It looks cool, I suppose. But why am I laboring so intensely on the details? Why do I feel so compelled? Who is moving the strings tied to my dwindling limbs? 

I'm tethering one drug to the next, hoping the sum of the weight will keep me anchored. Coffee with extra sugar, and two cigarettes burned before I reach the mug's bottom. Now a blunt for balance, but I've lost my focus amongst the layers. Coffee with extra sugar, and two cigarettes burned before I reach the mug's bottom—a blunt to settle my stomach. I need food. I lack the energy to think about the components of a meal, I've lost my focus amongst the layers. I type a simple search, select a pre-made option, and I'm tracking my delivery driver. The order process meter reflects a measurement of my anxiety—a blunt to relax and maintain my appetite. 
At long last, the food arrives, but it is imprisoned behind the door with the broken handle. Using the last of my power, I walk around the house to retrieve the only thing I care about now, each step increasing my anger and angst. I don't taste the first three-quarters of the meal as I inhale it. That's for the monster. I try to savor my portion by chewing it, but to be swallowed, my scruple will have to pass the scraps rejected by the imp. I lose another battle, but I haven't lost the intensifying war being waged—an antacid to settle my stomach. The monster presses forward on the battlefield. A cigarette to settle my stomach and satisfy the undying desire. The war proceeds, a blunt to settle my stomach. Eventually, I feel okay and slide into my other favorite sandwich, consisting of mattress, sheets, blankets, and pillows. I get lost in the layers. I wake up having not slept. If I drink this twenty-ounce energy drink quick enough, I can compensate. My cursor is stuttering, a blunt or two will calm the nerves. The monster is back before feeding time, the last drops from the pot of coffee keep it at bay—two cigarettes burned before mugs bottom... for good measure. Hunger stunted and monster subdued; finally, a battle won. Eight browser tabs, four programs, and two photoshop windows clutter my vision. Two computers, a laptop, smartphone, and the television's volume on for companionship. A blunt to settle my mind. I lose myself in the layers until the monster tugs me back out. Feeding time again. 

I recall the monster's weakness. Sugar. Ingesting enough will quell the beast. I can taste the sweet flavor without it touching my mouth. Saliva pools on my tongue like liquid mercury. The fiend inside swallows the candied treasures like a supernova. The demon and I alike soon succumb to a laden curtain of slumber. I wake up having not slept. The familiar beckoning of the bathroom is deafening. A blunt to resume my unrest. Awoken again, having not slept by the lure of the restroom. It isn't morning yet; it isn't night anymore. Time to put on a fresh pot of coffee and consume slices of white bread while it brews. To be proactive against the monster, extra sugar and two cigarettes burn before I reach the mug's bottom. I'm tangled in the layers. 
How long have I been spinning aimlessly in this cycle, waiting for some type of gravity to reel me back in? 

Almost a year. Almost a year since I answered this question honestly. Almost a year since I've actually examined my own behavior...my own body. A year since I've cared for or about myself. The shell of me muddling through daily endeavors. The reason I'm finally addressing it is because I can't breathe.

My health has declined to the point where I feel like I'm choking while I attempt routine life tasks such as eating or lying down. Urgent care prescribes me allergy medications. The stress of not being able to breathe is, at last, outweighing the stress of admitting my symptoms. One week until I can be seen by my primary and I can not function. I haven't slept through a full night in over a year due to urinary interruptions, the bags under my eyes like two fresh shiners. My skin is so dry it resembles a peeling sunburn. I'm getting scratches easier, and healing takes eons. I have an uncontrollable urge to chug water to the end of the glass—every time. I rush to put on clothes, omitting lotion limits the time I might notice my appearance in the mirror. My pointer finger overlaps my thumb when I grasp my wrist. The holes in my belt show a timeline of weight loss, but I'm digesting award-worthy amounts of food. I'm always hungry. Something is truly wrong with me. I've been basking in isolation. Quarantining myself in the comfort of cravings whilst distancing myself from friends and family.  I was skipping out on any activity that took more than thirty minutes in a car because I knew I'd need a bathroom. Late at night shadows dance in my peripheral, glimpses of paranoia revealing itself. My fingernails are brittle and bitten.  I stopped exercising and started opting to drive to my destinations.  Physically, I feel frail. Mentally, I seem missing. 

Anxiety creeps in. I'm afraid to shower because if the water pours down my face, I may drown. I'm fearful of sleeping alone, so I'm spending nights on my sister's floor with her puppy as my comrade. When I think about not being able to breathe correctly, I panic, which makes it even harder to breathe. After I eat, bile boils in my abdomen, also barricading my breath. Finally, conceding to my body's outrage, I forage for remedy. For the week leading up to my doctor's visit, I eat only soup, tea, nuts, berries, and fish to help reduce phlegm and promote digestion. I quit cigarettes, sweets, and coffee cold turkey on the day of my urgent care consultation. I'm beating myself up emotionally because I feel guilty and responsible for causing these issues through my destructive behaviors and addictions.

I survive the week, but I'm mortified by my lack of weight upon arrival at the doctor's office. Over the course of a year, I had lost thirty-five pounds. Exchanging my mask of denial for a medical face-mask, I begin to unload the truths of my situation to the doctor. Saying my symptoms aloud makes me recollect middle school biology, and I know exactly what is wrong with me. They take a sample of my blood and urine and send me on my way. An hour later, they call me and confirm what I had already known. An hour from that call, I am now in an Endocrinology office to learn how I am going to manage Type 1 Diabetes for the rest of my life. For an hour and forty-five minutes, my brain juggles the shock of the life-changing news and a slew of fresh information pertaining to it. I am overwhelmed.

Luckily I've hit the ground running. Beginning to research proper diet for Type 1 Diabetes, I learn that I've been eating the exact right things for a week already, and loving it. I find that a lot of my late-night snacks, such as apples and peanut butter, cheese & crackers, grapes, or Greek yogurt, are proper munchies because the proteins stabilize blood sugar over time. For some months, I had been raving about Greek food constantly and ordering from a local Greek cafe frequently, and it turns out the Mediterranean diet is optimal for type 1 diabetics. My taste buds were telling me the food that my body needed, but my mind contradicted them. My lust for sugar surmounted my love for ketogenic cuisine. My addiction to sugar conquered logic in the race to my brain. By the time symptoms of Diabetes arose, I was already convincing myself that they were normal and okay, so I can keep securing sugar.  I cared more about bread and treats than anything or anyone. The addiction dragged me back into every bad habit that I had dabbled in and kicked prior to Diabetes. I isolated myself to hide my shame and symptoms. I distracted myself with screens and substances. I immobilized both my activities and aspirations. I was binging on destruction. 

As I re-learn about Type 1 Diabetes, I recognize how I was led down this path of demolition. My body stopped producing insulin without giving a two-week notice. I no longer had the capability to utilize the sugar in my blood, so my brain cells were starving. My blood was pooling all the sugar I was intaking, meanwhile, my brain and body were telling each other that I needed more sugar. My body began to eat itself, depleting my fat and muscle for energy. Thus, weight loss and sugar addiction. By the time I was peeing frequently, I was already regularly pounding Pepsi, RedBull, and a pot of Folgers. I attributed constant thirst to my marijuana intake. I justified the dry skin with the lack of lotion. I blamed depression for isolation and isolation for the depression.  My brain was sure that it needed sugar, confident that it was a life or death scenario for over a year. This gave time for the addiction to grow bigger than any of my other concerns.  The sugar monster fed me excuses for everything.

A week into taking insulin I noticed that quitting cigarettes and caffeine was a piece of cake. On the contrary, giving up cake has been the most difficult task I've faced. When I walk by the candy aisle in a grocery store, the colors scream at me. The vivid hues make my ears ring and my eye's water. The fragrant gusts of wind from fast-food restaurants send my mouth into a waterfall of slobber. The bread basket on my kitchen countertop hurls me into a cascade of emotion; it's currently concealed by a dishtowel. There's a demon inside of me telling me to eat a whole pizza. My mom told me that heroin is hidden from recovering addicts, but food abusers have to slay their dragons three times a day. I wield a spatula for a sword and frying pan as a shield with honor. At night I become a werewolf that devours piles of low-carb snacks, a lingering battle with the demon. I've been gaining back two pounds daily. I feel a million times healthier, but now I catch myself seeing parts of me as fat. I'm still struggling with food & sugar addiction, body dysmorphia, and an overeating disorder. 

Avoidance of sneaky addiction is vital as I traverse a landscape that normalizes unnatural eating. I recognize a gradient of saturation on grocery store shelves—bright toned boxes on the bottom at a toddler's reach. The contrast in color and cost to the top shelf packaging deters consumers from considering health-conscious products. They place soda and sweets at every checkout line, praying on impulse. I notice trickery in the text on labels. These are things I take into consideration as I pursue a stable lifestyle. 

I have scheduled to see a counselor, dietician, ophthalmologist, endocrinologist, and follow up with my primary physician. I've created a new menu of food options that are healthy for me. I've also cut pork from my diet. I take vitamin supplements every morning and exercise every day. I re-organized all of my belongings and activities to provide ease and routine. I plan my meal timing consistently. I've switched from tobacco leaves to glass and organic hemp. I began doing things that bring me true joy again: potting succulents, herbs, and spices in front of my window creating and collecting interesting art, writing poetry, preparing and cooking food at home, reading books, hiking, taking time to appreciate natural beauty, reconnecting with friends & family, playing basketball, sleeping through the night, and breathing. With this newfound outlook, I have one immediate goal in mind. Balance. Balance nutritionally, chemically, mentally, socially, ecologically, emotionally, physically, creatively, and existentially. 

When I created this image, my subconscious dictated direction and poured out intense purpose. Looking back, I realize what each component of the image is portraying. A monster's mouth devours a massive burger, but it only appears that way until you recognize it's dwarfed by chopsticks. Candy trapped in teeth and clotted in corpuscles. Spaghetti strands swerve through the foreground. A collage of carbohydrates covers a berry frosted background. For a brief moment, my mind took the reins from the sugar monster that mimicked the marionette moving me. I was depicting my body's diabetic deprivation and decay that I had unwittingly concealed. I had designed a distress call from my dormant psyche to alert me of the lurking addiction. This realization was the battle that ultimately won the war.