Dazed and Klon-fused: Crash Landing onto Psychotropic Island

In 2003, I moved to Cincinnati to study art at the University of Cincinnati's College of Design, Architecture, Art, and Planning (DAAP). At 21, I was convinced I was too mature to live in a dorm, but I didn't know a soul in "the big city," so I rented a one-bedroom by myself.

The students of DAAP, with their pantone skinny jeans and sculptural hairstyles, intimidated me with their apparent confidence. I missed the first day of my first class because I walked in, took one look at the people, and assumed that I had mistakenly walked into a graduate-level studio. I was actually three years older than everyone there.

Under the stress of the demanding Fine Arts program and difficulty making friends / adjusting to city life my first year at DAAP, I started having regular panic attacks and reluctantly started taking psychiatric medications.

Enter Klonopin.

Also known as Clonazepam, Klonopin is an anticonvulsant muscle relaxer used to treat epilepsy, spasms, and severe anxiety disorders. Prescribing such a strong, habit-forming medication was probably a mistake, but my doctor suggested it as a last resort, given my lack of response to Wellbutrin, Zoloft, Celexa, etc. and a horrible antidepressant/sleep aid called Remeron that gave me a migraine that lasted a month (that's another story).

Klonopin worked, in a way. I didn't have panic attacks. The problem was, I didn't have consciousness, either. Taking the drug allowed me to attend my classes, but I sat through them unproductively, more focused on the sensation of my blood cells floating through my veins than on gestalt theory. During a lecture, I fell asleep and out of my chair and was confronted by the concerned professor about my disinterest in his subject. For the one academic quarter I took Klonopin, my grades dropped from A's to C's. I couldn't remember what I'd done an hour earlier and busted my lips and knees tripping up the stairs on a daily basis. 

Klonopin also allowed me to vegetate at social events, too. My then-boyfriend (who has the patience of a saint) loved to throw parties, and I would pop my "mother's little helper" and then crumple in the corner like Milla Jovovich in Dazed and Confused, that heavy-lidded, strung-out girl who's always hanging around but is definitely not present.

After a difficult withdrawal process, I regained consciousness. Currently, I take no prescriptions. I still struggle with anxiety, a lot, especially in social situations. But I have been able to channel my daily anxiety toward productive goals. Other than a bad back and diminishing eyesight, the side effects of my new medication—drawing—are fantastic.

Hiding Place

The house where I grew up is in a very special place—an isolated, womblike enclosure of acres of forest and fields. As a kid, I played outside whenever I could, striking magical flint rocks, concocting various formulas of mud in the creek, naming and talking to the trees like they were my friends. When I transformed into a brooding, miserable teenager, the familiar woods became my escape by default; it was the only thing within walking distance on all sides.

Photo by Josh Barker

The woods (the wild) was a safe place where I could think, try out new voices and facial expressions, be angry if I wanted to be. More importantly, it was a solitary place where I could hide emotionally, and if no one could find me, no one could hurt me. When I couldn't physically escape to the woods, I retreated to my thoughts and hid there instead.

But, even in a good hiding spot, the forest does not feel safe at night, and, surrounded by the dark and dangers both real and perceived, one becomes acutely aware that she is alone.

I will find my way out.

Parting Gift

In a few weeks, I will pack up and move from the village of Yellow Springs, Ohio to the city of Columbus.

Today I received a very special gift from Yellow Springs' head (and other) cartoonist, Walter Rhodes: his own vintage calligraphy pen and pewter rest from Italy. 

Walter is an accomplished retired actor, an unforgettable personality, and an elder at the church where I currently work. I tried my best to be shy in his presence, but it was impossible to stay quiet around such a ham. We have spent many a long hour in the church office swapping ideas and stories and generally being kids.

True story from the church office.
Comic by M Young, color by Walter.

I have met many people who call themselves Christians in my life. Many of them horribly misunderstand the title, and most of them would bore God to tears. Walter is not one of those.

Read Walter's local cartoon series, Bench to Nowhere, here.

Bonus Story: Wolf Girl

My first attempt at writing Wild Child was in the form of a single, hand-bound artist book about a girl raised by wolves--a veiled autobiography. (This was also my college thesis project.) Years later I resolved to grow a pair and quit hiding behind a persona in my comics. But I love the archetypical character of the feral child, the patron saint of the free-spirited loner, so I decided to include, in addition to my life experiences, a storyline about a girl who runs away from home and is raised by wolves--to function as an allegory for my individual psyche while being a relatable figure who will appeal more to the collective unconscious. 

By the way, about 8 pages of Part 2 are sketched out, so watch for new work soon!

Dweeberella, circa 1993

Note scale of basketball to human.

Failures and Successes

I learned of the Xeric Foundation Grant for Comic Book Self-Publishing, which “offers financial assistance to committed, self-publishing comic book creators” as a student in Carol Tyler’s Comics class at University of Cincinnati in 2006. At that point, I knew I had a story to tell and wanted to make comics more than anything on earth, but I didn’t know the first thing about printing, distributing, promoting, etc. (I still don’t know much.)

The Xeric grant seemed like the perfect first goal: a modest amount to print my book, a boost of confidence and validation from the grant foundation, and I’d be able to have full artistic control while working out the kinks in the approach to my book.

Pyrograph 1: Pretty in person
but takes a bad photo.

“I’ll take my time,” I thought. “There’s always next year,” I told myself.

Years, and drafts, and experiments passed. Then, in October 2011, I overheard a conversation that the Xeric Foundation was retiring the grant. The final grant deadline was February 29, 2012. I had less than five months to do what I hadn’t been able to do in as many years. Thank God it was a leap year!

I sketched all through the fall and burrowed in for a busy winter. The straightforwardly-autobiographical section of my book was easy enough—ink on paper. But for the section set in the 1890s, I planned an approach that was rustic and old, something undeniably West Virginian: woodburnings.

With my trusty little electric stylus in hand, I attacked a poplar board with my first design. The results were beautiful! So I did another, and another, until five were completed. I threw the first board on the scanner. The results were not beautiful. The rich brown burned lines were broken by white reflective glares, and, even after hours of Photoshop tricks and touch-ups, when reproduced, the woodgrain looked like scraggly trompe l'oeil. I HATE trompe l'oeil.

It was now late January. A month from the deadline, in my FROZEN, un-insulated apartment, now constantly coughing from woodsmoke inhalation, my knuckles throbbing, I abandoned the grand experiment. It just was not a sustainable way to work. (Don't bother suggesting I give it another shot.) Wearing fingerless gloves, two hats, and a sleeping bag, I inked my sketches on paper and met the grant application deadline. Now that I have more time, I'm refurbishing that section into full color.

Pyrograph 2.

Yesterday, I received in the mail a letter of acceptance from the Xeric Foundation, an offer of nearly double the amount for which I had asked, and a hand-written note: "More grant $ awarded than requested, but you deserve and will need it!"

The same day, I also received a note from a dear friend that she had taken Wild Child #1 to a counseling session, and it had helped her communicate the nature of her own upbringing to her counselor. If that were the only result to come from my frustrations, I would still have considered the book a huge success.

Day One

TEN years ago, I started writing a graphic novel about my teen years, growing up as a total misfit in my beloved home state of West Virginia.

After many false starts and countless rewrites, the first installment of the book, which introduces the setting, main characters, and conflicts, is complete. At least in this stage of production, seven separate installments will follow. Only six of those seven are scripted. The last installment is incomplete--the part where the heroine overcomes the struggle and is triumphant and self-realized.

Truth is: For a multitude of real and imagined reasons, I withdrew from people in my teens, but I haven't quite made it back out yet.

Suddenly I realized that: Crap! I'm in this thing. If I'm going to offer anything more than a soul-crushing message of loneliness and despair, I'd better start practicing what I preach.

And if I'm going to have any inkling of the career that I hope to have, I'm going to have to do terrifying things:

-Talk to people

-Promote myself

-Attend events (and quite possibly even have to learn how to drive a car)

I know that my anxieties are not unique, and others' stories have encouraged me immeasurably. So I'm writing this blog as the metanarrative to my book, for your and my mutual edification. Here I'll share my research on psychology and feral children, my experiences writing a graphic novel, and my personal adventure in overcoming myself.

To read the first installment of the book, visit: http://www.facebook.com/WildChildComics.

Or you can buy a copy here: https://www.etsy.com/listing/96423253/wild-child-1-fight-or-flight-comic.