A small, wide cilantro leaf. Three serrated strawberry leaves. Text says: cant just keep digging myself / deeper and deeper / into this niche existence / until I can no longer cope with the world. The waxy leaves again.

Text starts the page, saying: and she was right basically / this is something I do. Large, wide leaves. First one I can not identify, and then a cucumber leaf. Writing continues: and its true / I can barely cope.

A leaf with a shiny, waxy surface that ripples over the veins. Text reads: I am vegetarian / and my father started separating / the meat and cheese / in the refrigerator. A young branch of a tomato plant with small but plentiful leaves.

A twig holding five oval leaves, and a blueberry. A large leaf of something like chard. Writing says: which was a nice thing, but / my mom was like / no / no.

Text starts the page, saying: she started frantically putting it all back as it was / and I protested. A drawing of pothos leaves, and another of three serrated leaves. Writing continues: but she really was insistent.

Writing starts the page again, reading: she said I cant just avoid ever seeing meat. We see the same serrated three leaves from another angle, bending gently down. And another drawing that might be kale or chard again, with white veins. The writing continues: she argued that I cant build myself / into something like this.

part 19 of 47

“Sketchbook Comic: Book 3” is my personal sketchbook, where I juxtapose my art with writing about my experiences as a non-binary, chronically ill person.
re-releasing this in advance of a print run!
read the rest on my website, or support my patreon - links in bio!

A large abstract panel sits in the middle of the page, with dark tendrils dancing among milky white. Text says: I wonder how much was self destruction / I wonder how much of what I do now is self destruction.

Writing reads: there are times I am reckless with my health. Darker, scratchy lines fill the panels, matched with white lines. Text continues: for over a decade I’ve just had a habit of / running myself into the ground / almost compulsively.

Now the abstraction almost looks like water rippling against glass, where you can see the underside and water’s surface at different parts of the wave. Writing says: do I want to be run into the ground? / do I feel safer when I feel worse?

part 18 of 47

“Sketchbook Comic: Book 3” is my personal sketchbook, where I juxtapose my art with writing about my experiences as a non-binary, chronically ill person.
re-releasing this in advance of a print run!
read the rest on my website, or support my patreon - links in bio!

The two large panels on this page show pieces of a doorknob detached from a door. The knob itself attached to hollow chamber, and the latch with a long sheath behind what you would normally see when installed. Text reads: and still I will say again: I am afraid to be well.

Writing starts the page: all of this desperate effort to fix me. A drawing of a circular metal base to the handle, and then a knob separate from anything else. The text continues: and a part of me wonders if / the reason I wasnt nearly as worried was / I was okay with being sick. In a small panel a little metal piece that looks like it might be part of what locks the door or something.

Text says: like at least I knew the parameters / at least I knew how to do it. A drawing of what might be the bottom of the mystery metal bit, and another of the back of the latch contraption. Writing continues: everything else was becoming too much / but this, this I could do. The odd hollow space on the other side of the knob, with a slot open to fit through the latch sheath seemingly.

part 17 of 47

“Sketchbook Comic: Book 3” is my personal sketchbook, where I juxtapose my art with writing about my experiences as a non-binary, chronically ill person.
re-releasing this in advance of a print run!
read the rest on my website, or support my patreon - links in bio!

The messy lines intertwine and tangle as the shapes overlap in three dark panels. Text on the page reads: what do you want to be? You ask yourself. The question loses its meaning to you. You have no answer, just a sigh.

In a thin panel, it says: you lay your hand down on the bed near your face, and look at its limp form. Then in a large panel with lines that outline in wavy S shapes barely trying to fit the shape beneath, the text continues: you are simply what you are right now.

On the back cover of the zine, two dark shapes dwell at the bottom of the page with messy lines around them. And a large empty space lies above them, a peaceful feeling coming from the cloudy gray void.

The shapes dance through four different forms. Text says: that feeling you had of the future, so optimistic. You could be anything. Anything was possible.

Larger shapes now impose upon the page. The text continues: You try to look at the future ahead of you, but you can not quite seem to. Are you unsure, or are you afraid of what you will see?

A white page with a block of text. It reads: None of this is easy to do. It is easy for me to write face your fears but I have had a lot of trouble actually doing so. It is easy to write let go of commitments but most of the time I do not feel like I can. Maybe you are better than me at all of this, but it is okay if you are not. The goal here is to let you know the sort of challenges you will face, and to point you vaguely in the right direction. You are the one who will have to wrestle down these thoughts and feelings. And when they come back, you are the one who will have to do it again.

Another white page with text which says: If there is one thing that I think is most important to know, it is that this process will be messy. That you should not expect instant success. And when you work something out, there is no sense in looking back and saying why did I not just do this in the first place. The failures are part of the process. They are what you need to do to get to a more successful practice of rest.

The encircling lines on this page start to feel like swirling doubts. Text says: You run your hands over the parts of your body that feel most wrong. Feeling for change. Maybe improvement, maybe worsening.

The uncertain lines continue to cast doubt on the sure shapes they surround. Writing reads: Impatiently you stroke your skin, rubbing turns into mashing and pulling soft flesh. A kinetic outlet for anxious energy.

Another set of tall panels, and in this one what’s evident is the empty space. The smoky murk that the uneasy abstractions sit in. The stillness surrounding them. Text says: what do you want to be? The thought hits you again. You feel the eyes of your childhood self staring at you.

The shapes continue to shift and swirl. Words read: You are this thing here. This lump of clay you are trying to knead into shape. But everything you do just makes you more formless.

The darkness on this page is almost overwhelming. Writing reads: A fear grows inside of you, barely acknowledged. A fear that you will never get out of this state of being. That this will be your life, if you let it.

A light appears behind the sharp and clean shapes and messy swooping lines. Text reads: The faint memory of hopeful imagining. Dreaming of a life.

A white page with a paragraph of text in the center. It reads: the other side of expectations are doubts and fears about what might happen. It’s natural to fear that your symptoms might last forever. That you have reached your new status quo. This sort of fear can be behind the “I can rest for one week” talk too, because accepting any more than that would feel like letting in the possibility of forever. And the truth is, these fears are valid. Your new symptoms can become your new baseline, and that can last the rest of your life. That’s just as real a possibility as your new symptoms lasting a week. You need to face this possibility, because running from your fears can also lead to reckless and self destructive behavior.

Another white page with a paragraph, which reads: You might also fear the opposite: that you are actually fine, that you are just overreacting and imposing this regiment of rest and limitation unduly. This sort of fear makes any ambiguity in your symptoms into feelings of shame and guilt. This too needs to be faced and dealt with as much as you can, because it can lead you to test your limits recklessly and harm your health. Or curl up into yourself and compulsively avoid the world, with activities that might wear you out.

A paragraph of text sits in the middle of a plain white page. It reads: so much of rest is a matter of controlling your expectations. It often feels totally rational to say to yourself: okay I can rest for one week. To set a deadline or a goal like that, so that you can feel like you have some control over your physical limitations. But you do not really have that control. Your body will take as long as your body needs. Setting that kind of expectation can put too much pressure on the situation and the stress of that can make your rest ineffective, or even drive you into self destructive actions.

Another white page with a paragraph of text. This one says: This is particularly difficult to navigate when the outside world is filled with deadlines and expectations already. You might have said, I can rest for one week, because next week you have something you absolutely must do. Sometimes things are actually more important than your health at that moment. That reality means you are going to accrue damage that you can’t avoid. That is all the more reason why you need to recover health where you can, and prune all of the goals, deadlines, and responsibilities you can actually give up. If you do not, you might not have it in you to do the next thing you absolutely must do.

Two tall panels stand side by side, and the looping lines in them almost seem like they show water swirling down a drain. Writing on the page says: In the bathroom mirror you catch a glimpse of yourself, and you look strange and ragged. Like some wild beast.

A dim glow dwells behind the dark shapes on this page, suggesting an awareness you can almost grasp. Text says: what do you want to be? The thought surfaces again. Every time it feels further away.

The cover of a zine with dark, overlapping polygonal shapes surrounded by curvy black outlines that loosely follow their shape. They sit on a murky gray background. White text reads: how to rest 4, fears and expectations. And then at the bottom it says kimball anderson.

The darker shapes in this zine have a stark and heavy feeling. Text reads: your thoughts turn to your childhood. And then in a large panel where there’s a dim light in the murky gray behind the shapes, it says: being asked what do you want to be when you grow up?

The encircling lines vibrate around the dark forms on this page, shifting from panel to panel. Writing says: the question echoed in your head like an invasive thought. Not this, you mutter to yourself. I did not want to be this.

Issue 4 in a series based on 20+ years experience as a spoonie, about rest and how hard it can be to accept that you need it. If you want a print copy, I send them out in my patreon monthly mailings before posting them here! I'll send old ones too while I have them! Link in bio.

Text starts the page: my brother got sick too. Again, the rippling. Around a drawing of a water droplet floating in the air reflecting the world around it, text continues: and it must have been like / there was something wrong with her / with my parents.

Two droplets in the air. Text says: they felt like bad parents. More droplets. The writing continues: they said it sometimes. Droplets explode out from an impact on the water.

Writing at the top of the page says: it was hard on my mom / me getting sick. Panels hold patterns that seem almost abstract but if looked at closely they appear to represent waves. Text continues: she works so hard to get me a diagnosis / and treatment. The waves get narrower and narrower, until they are just a bunch of parallel lines.

Countless little waves, rolling, becoming barely discernible. Text reads: she had big thick folders of information / and would read all of the recent data.

A drop hits the water, making an impact and a single circular ripple. Writing says: I went to dozens of doctors with her. The ripple spreads out more, and more rings appear in it. Text continues: and I think she had a harder time accepting it than I did.

Writing starts off the page: she thought I would never have any kind of life / unless she could get me healthy again. The ripples from above, radiating circles coming from a single point. In another panel we see the moment of impact on the water, with a little ring of water rising up and forming into tendrils that then break into drops. Text continues: never have friends.

part 16 of 47

“Sketchbook Comic: Book 3” is my personal sketchbook, where I juxtapose my art with writing about my experiences as a non-binary, chronically ill person.
re-releasing this in advance of a print run!
read the rest on my website, or support my patreon - links in bio!

Dappled light falls across a gray-blue wall, catching on the cover of a zine held up by a pale hand. The zine has a reddish and blueish hue that shows through in the loose pencil lines. At the top of the zine it says: fair weather friend. Below, a simple and loose drawing of a tree, the foliage represented by a jagged outline around the ball-like shape of it. And limbs go up into the shape from the bottom.

The zine is held open by the pale hand now, and the light stretched across a full page drawing from a POV perspective. A person sits on the steps in short shorts, squiggly lines defining hands held out over the thigh, and a bare foot on a step. On the right page, we see the bottom of a railing of a porch, and then the perspective shifts upwards and we see the tops of knees and something out far past the end of the steps.

The zine is held open again, and on these pages are four panels showing the same tree from the cover. The perspective shifts up and up until we see only a little of the tree, and then nothing at all. Just the implied sky.

Another set of pages is held open by the pale hand. On the right page, a mottled shadowy texture is split by a channel of light. In the next panel the visual is clarified and we see that it is hands pulling away from the face, still in shadow right now. On the right, we see the hands further, pulling away and folding as feet rest below on the ground. Then we see the hands returning to rest on the thighs.

This is a quiet zine about chronic illness, and the temptation to just pretend you are well for a moment. Peaceful but wary. 26 pages. Get it on my patreon’s $20 tier (or $1 discounted slots, while they are still available)!

Thank you! Yeah dynamic disability/illness is hard enough to understand from the inside. I wish people on the outside understood it more but mostly the people who really get it are people who have similar conditions.

Text starts the page: I wondered sometimes what the other kids would say about me / after I got sick. A lineless style inhabits the panels, just defined by chunking hatching. First an outstretched hand, and then a self portrait that is barely identifiable as such. Text continutes: I really had no idea.

A figure puts out their hands like they are loftily weighing between two important options, their body just a jumble of messy gray and white lines. Writing says: a couple of times I imagined people saw me in a window / and / felt like they saw a mythical creature. A figure stands in a way where it looks like they are not sure their legs will hold.

part 15 of 47

“Sketchbook Comic: Book 3” is my personal sketchbook, where I juxtapose my art with writing about my experiences as a non-binary, chronically ill person.
re-releasing this in advance of a print run!
read the rest on my website, or support my patreon - links in bio!

Two large panels show a close up on a tiny mouse that seems to be moving nervously. Text between the panels says: hiding, and being seen.

A mouse stepping over objects, looks right at us, its little toes spread out to get a good grip. Writing reads: I wonder a little / if sometimes hiding is the most visible thing I can do. The mouse continues moving through obstacles cautiously.

part 14 of 47

“Sketchbook Comic: Book 3” is my personal sketchbook, where I juxtapose my art with writing about my experiences as a non-binary, chronically ill person.
re-releasing this in advance of a print run!
read the rest on my website, or support my patreon - links in bio!

Skin texture. The many little crevices and platforms that are barely visible to the eye. Writing says: so what is this ugly self? In another panel there’s a series of short hairs coming out of the skin, maybe an eyebrow. Then the wrinkles and folds on the joint of a thumb. Text continues: what is this uncomfortable self? / why am I still drawn to it?

Long vertical lines that intersect, with little cracks cutting across them, and light bouncing evenly off. Seems to be another patch of skin. An ambiguous panel that seems to be dark shadowed crevices in some part of the skin. Diagonal, intersecting lines seem to be from similar skin to the first panel. Text reads: why do I want to be something else / something ambiguous.

Skin is shown again on this page, looking cracked and filled with many complex intersections. On the bottom panel, what is clearly a fingerprint is shown, with soft whorls of white and gray making a smooth but ribbed surface. Writing says: when i feel it instinctively / that it makes me uncomfortable / that others will be uncomfortable.

part 13 of 47

“Sketchbook Comic: Book 3” is my personal sketchbook, where I juxtapose my art with writing about my experiences as a non-binary, chronically ill person.
re-releasing this in advance of a print run!
read the rest on my website, or support my patreon - links in bio!

Two large panels fill this page, with abstract shapes strewn over each other, like scattered shards of broken glass. Words on top read: you get past the -when you get back- part. He is just talking about work responsibilities, things he needs help with.

Three panels show shapes with shaky lines fumbling over each other, and then finally settling neatly on top of each other. Writing on the page reads: what is he talking about. He is asking you to help with that? You, this puddle on a bed?

A sharp thin shape cuts through a larger one, and in two subsequent panels they dance and then settle down at peace. Text says: there is no reality to it. You see that. He is just living in an illusion that will at some point be dispelled.

Three wide panels are filled with overlapping large shapes that brighten the page. Text on the panels reads: somehow you feel better, realizing this. The reality you are in is messy, but you cant deny it like someone on the outside can. You are living it.

A blank white has a paragraph of text in the middle that says: sometimes you will be able to find these unhelpful external ideas by tracking back your feelings to an idea. As you start to rest mor, as you start to live this life of someone who needs rest, there are going to be ideas that just make you feel bad. Sometimes they will make you feel bad subtly, over time, or sometimes right away. Identifying this negative feeling can show you the ideas that impact you the most.

Another white page with a paragraph of text. It reads: Doing all of this will help you see your limits more clearly, which will make it easier to perceive a limit as it comes up and react to it. But it is also necessary work for your mental health. Living as a person who needs rest means needing to weed your mental garden of these unhealthy ideas again and again. New weeds will always pop up again, because you live in the world where these ideas are plentiful. But removing the weeds will make you feel better about yourself, and when you feel better about yourself you can tend to your rest needs better.

The two panels on this page feel peaceful, even as the outlines move around the edges of the shape with an inexact kinetic energy. Text on the panels says: slowly, the feelings pass a little. You find yourself lying on your side, feeling like every emotional, mental, and physical reserve you have is empty.

A wordless large panel sits at the top of the page, and in it two large shapes sit uneasily off to the side, their outlines sloppy and hardly close to the edges they are meant to define. Below, a wide panel with messy sharp shapes and lines says: you find yourself looking back at the message from your boss.

Two tall panels are filled with angular shapes that feel like they overwhelm the space. Text reads: why couldn’t you just feel better. What is wrong. Below, fainter shapes continue to fill most of the wide panel. The writing continues: even when you try to relax it is still there.

Two substantial shapes sit on top of each other, their borders marked loosely by outlines that don’t really fit. Text in the panel reads: your body is still so worn out. Below, two panels with darker grey cloudy backgrounds that contrast with the bright spot the overlapping shapes make. Writing in those panels says: you cant let yourself self destruct again, but you want to.

A large wordless panel has a big polygonal shape with a soft light cast onto it. A small sharp shape seems to be held against the larger shape, ready to pierce it. In two small panels at the bottom text says: how could any of this be real. It does not feel real.

The abstract shapes move over each other, outlines creeping away from their edges. Text reads: A nauseous feeling overtakes you, pushing every thought out of your mind. You want to escape, to get away from all of this. But how. Those last two words sit alone in a panel with an empty feeling to it.

In a large panel, words and shapes sit at the bottom, giving a feeling like looking out at the far off horizon. The text reads: It sort of works. It feels better at first. Below, a silent thin panel lets the feeling of quiet relief continue.

The gray starts to brighten a little, and then over the course of three wide panels, starts to darken again. Words read: But after a bit you start muttering to yourself. What am I doing, what am I doing. The feelings well up again.

A white page has a paragraph of text at its center. It reads: It is not just visibility and invisibility either. Countless ideas throughout culture can get caught in your head. Narratives about pushing through pain or the challenges, narratives about overcoming your setbacks. For many people pushing through is dangerous and overcoming is an impossibility that just casts hard limits as failures. Even seemingly positive ideas like being told you are determined, resilient, or strong can make it harder to let yourself stop when you need to rest. Or bully yourself for letting yourself get into a worse condition.

A white page with a large paragraph that says: Authority figures are not really to be trusted when it comes to this either. Countless people with ME/CFS trusted doctors when they suggested graded exercise therapy, a therapy where they make you do 5 minutes of exercise, then 10, etc. etc. So many people have had their health permanently damaged by that. And as a person with ME/CFS, almost every doctor I’ve ever had has suggested some version of it. And yet, a condition like repetitive strain injury truly does benefit from gently increasing exercise. Nothing works the same for every person, but doctors, coaches, therapists, and self help experts (even zinesters!) are prone to one-size-fits-all advice that can be directly harmful. You can listen to them, because there is plenty of useful wisdom out there, but remember that you are the one who knows your body best. It is most important to listen to your own needs, and your own sense of what is true about your body.

A blank white page with a paragraph in the center, the text reads: It can feel like people emit a reality distortion field on you. Like their expectations, too low or too high, are more real than the observations you’ve made about your own body. They can make you start to expect your body to meet these illusory ideas.

A blank white page with a paragraph in the center, the text reads: Tuning out these ideas comes down to identifying these distortions. While you make observations about your body, compare these observations to what it seems that others expect you to be. And even, what you expect yourself to be. When you identify a contradiction between what you observe of your limits, and what you expect to be able to do, that’s the sign of a message that you need to tune out.

Two panels with dark backgrounds fill the page. In the top one, there’s a strong sense of stillness. Words in it say: You try to breathe in, and just be. In the second panel things feel more crowded and hectic. Text reads:To wait out the impatience, the feelings of disappointment.

This page is filled with a single panel that feels like a deep breath. The text reads: To let it dissipate.

Darker clouds of gray sit on this page, and soft angular shapes top it somberly. Text reads: You feel this impatience in the air, like everyone in your life is tapping their feet somewhere.

Shadows continue to move underneath the shapes of light. A thin panel has writing that says: Waiting for you to just get over it. Below, floating in a large panel of almost entirely stark gray, are the words: to just be done.

Grainy texture moves over polygonal shapes of light, giving an insistent feeling without resolution. Words in the three panels read: And the thought keeps going through your mind that you should be able to do everything you set aside. You should be able to just do it.

This page is divided into quarters, and in each the overlapping shape seem especially bright. Text on top reads: You feel like a disappointment. No one has even said that you are, but, you cant help but feel it.

Two panels split the page unevenly, with the first panel larger and with text hanging low in it with a melancholic feeling. That text reads: You want nothing more than to just go back. And then in the next panel the writing says: So why aren’t you just letting it happen.

A blank white page with a paragraph in the center, the text reads: A large part of getting in touch with your own body, your own limits, is tuning out the messages from the outside world. But we spend our whole lives completely surrounded by these messages, they inform our whole context, they inform what we can imagine and what we can’t. Most of the ideas that we have about ourselves come from external sources. How do you shut something like that out?

A blank white page with a paragraph in the center, the text reads: When it comes to injury, illness, and disability outside perspectives tend to pivot along the lines of visibility, literally, it depends on if you use an assistive device or if your symptoms affect the way your body looks or acts. If your limits are visible to the people around you, they are going to impose a set of expectations of excessive limitation onto you. They are going to infantilize and become uncomfortable when you try to do more than they think you should. If your limits are invisible to the people around you, they are going to basically tell you that you are fine and normal, and impose standardized expectations of able bodied success onto you. Even if you try to tell them you aren’t going to be able to do all of that.

The cover of a zine with two panels on it, both with light polygonal shapes on a murky grey background. Unlike previous issues though, loose white pencil lines mark the general outline of the abstractions. A large wordless panel fills the top of the page, and below, with far more overlapping shapes and lines, text says: how to rest 3 things people will tell you. And then it says kimball anderson.

Dark grey fills two panels that split the page in half. In the panels, polygonal shapes congregate in the corners, moving from dark to light grey as you move toward the center of the panel. The lighter overlapping area in the center is lined with white pencil and contains text. The text reads: You get a message from your boss starting with the words when you get back.

Four panels split the page into quarters, shapes inside continuing to be outlined by vibrating white lines. The text reads: You can’t even think about the rest of the message. You feel guilty, like if you were taking care of yourself better you would already be back.

Three wide panels fill the page. Broad angular shapes move across the cloudy gray murk.Text says: There is an ambient feeling to the world around you that if you just allowed yourself to re-enter your life, you would be fine. Those last few words sit alone in a panel off to the side, leaving an uneasy unbalanced feeling.

Issue 3 in a series based on 20+ years experience as a spoonie, about rest and how hard it can be to accept that you need it. If you want a print copy I'm currently sending out issue 4 on patreon (and can stick 1-3 in the envelope)! Link in bio.

Smokey abstractions with little points of light fill the page. First just vague shapes, and then with more lines streaking across the gray. Text reads: so I look myself in the mirror, right / so I look myself in the mirror / and I get the feeling that / I am just

Hazy vertical lines now stand in the smoky gray panels, giving the feeling of the trunks of thin trees on a foggy night. Writing says: maybe all I am seeing is / stability and instability / what will let people down, and what wont.

Now the lines are diagonal, crisscrossing across the murky gray. White on top makes it feel like the view out of a car window at night. Text reads: just gotta keep going, right? / thats all / just gotta keep going

part 12 of 47

“Sketchbook Comic: Book 3” is my personal sketchbook, where I juxtapose my art with writing about my experiences as a non-binary, chronically ill person.
re-releasing this in advance of a print run!
read the rest on my website, or support my patreon - links in bio!

A zine sits on the wrinkled fabric of a pale seafoam blanket. One large gray panel fills the cover, but in this zine the polygonal shapes are a darker gray, with loose, curving lines outlining their shapes. White text reads: how to rest 4 fears and expectations. And then smaller: kimball anderson.

A pale hand holds open the zine, and two pages can be seen. On the left, two tall panels with small, faint shadows says in white: In the bathroom mirror you catch a glimpse of yourself, and you look strange and ragged. Like some wild beast. On the right, three panels with surer and darker polygons reads: What do you want to be? The thought surfaces again. Every time it feels further away.

The zine is held open so that one page is visible. Text on the plain white page reads: You might also fear the opposite: that you actually are fine, that you are overreacting and imposing this regiment of rest and limitation unduly. This sort of fear makes any ambiguity in your symptoms into feelings of shame and guilt. This too needs to be faced and dealt with as much as you can, because it can lead you to test your limits recklessly and harm your health. Or curl up into yourself and compulsively avoid the world, with activities that might wear you out.

Another two pages are held open by a pale hand. On the left again are two tall panels, this time with shapes that feel more tenuous somehow, maybe because of the sketchy loose lines outlining them. The page reads: What do you want to be? the thought hits you again. You feel the eyes of your childhood self staring at you. On the right, three panels with darker and firmer lines outlining the shadow shapes reads: You are this thing here. This lump of clay you are trying to knead into shape. But everything you do just makes you more formless.

Rest is really hard. You have to fight against your own instincts and hopes. In issue 4 of How to Rest I talk about the pitfalls our minds set. Get a copy on my patreon $20 tier (or $1 discounted slots, while they are still there). I’ll catch you up on older issues too!

Standing starkly against the prior pages that were all black and white on top of brown paper, the first panel has a colorful flower, the petals shifting between yellow and red. Writing says: lately Ive been so nervous / about failing everyone. A bunch of tiny flowers erupt from thin stems.

A red tulip with wide, long leaves. Words say: I feel like / I shouldnt be depended on to hold up anyones expectations / any responsibilities. Golden orange roses, their outer petals drooping to reveal many more.

More roses on this page, their many petals, green stems. A bud. Text reads: they will drop / if theres one thing I know about my life / its that I am not reliable.

part 11 of 47

“Sketchbook Comic: Book 3” is my personal sketchbook, where I juxtapose my art with writing about my experiences as a non-binary, chronically ill person.
re-releasing this in advance of a print run!
read the rest on my website, or support my patreon - links in bio!

Text starts the page: I feel like when I look at myself / its never through my own eyes. A figure holds hands up in exasperation or confusion. Another sits and looks down, looking glum and uncertain. Writing continues: theres always a filter / I am always predicting.

This page has three wide panels with a bald, almost facetless figure putting their hands over their face. Mashing at the flesh, and hiding. Writing reads: what will people think on the streets / what is the thing that they wont say?

part 10 of 47

“Sketchbook Comic: Book 3” is my personal sketchbook, where I juxtapose my art with writing about my experiences as a non-binary, chronically ill person.
re-releasing this in advance of a print run!
read the rest on my website, or support my patreon - links in bio!

Words start the page: sometimes I like my face less in the mirror / with my longer hair / wearing womens clothes. Choppy, quick lines make up the forms of a self portrait, and a hand seemingly holding a phone camera that isn’t shown.

A strange self portrait with the proportions all skewed is hewn out of quick lines. It looks wrong. Text says: but seem to do better just looking at myself / as a boy / a man / whatever. Then there is a drawing of feet that is considerably more accurate looking.

Text says: shouldnt I just stop, then? Shouldnt that just be proof that its all just / a mistake? Feet seem to hover tentatively, unsure of what will happen when they touch the floor beneath.

part 9 of 47

“Sketchbook Comic: Book 3” is my personal sketchbook, where I juxtapose my art with writing about my experiences as a non-binary, chronically ill person.
re-releasing this in advance of a print run!
read the rest on my website, or support my patreon - links in bio!