Why I was thinking about getting a degree in social work. Simply stated, I want to help people. But how, why, and with what? I have no credentials.

I wish I could just use my lived experience to get myself a job, but that doesn’t count in this world. You need a master’s degree in something to make any kind of livable wage, if you can even make that. Plus, to be honest, it’s scary. I can’t see myself working a full-time job outside of art. I’m mental. I mean, I’m bipolar. And despite being (mostly) medically managed, rapid cycling makes every day a new saga. Could I be dependable enough? I really don’t know.

Not that my cycles are so extreme, I couldn’t be responsible. I think I might be more responsible and organized than most people without a disability. My physical disability makes things a lot harder with standing, walking any distance to speak of, or getting myself ready to go outside. Socializing is equally hard. I’m a little slow because of the brain surgery, I’m on the spectrum, and I easily get overwhelmed. I guess I’m a mess.

But I’ve built a career in art from absolutely nothing. Don’t younger artists want to know how I did that? I’d love to show them, teach them, mentor them, and show them they are worth it. I’d love to help artists grow.

I’m also a survivor of trauma, i.e., childhood sexual abuse, mental abuse, incest, rape, being a member of a controlling, dangerous cult, escaping that cult, and thoroughly educating myself about undue influence.

And what about trans youth? I’d really like to help at-risk, trans teens come into their own. And now we’re talking a lot about mental health. I, myself, have mental illness (though, I think many psychologists do. It’s how a lot of them get interested in the field). But I still have imposter syndrome around all that. This is why it feels easiest to help young artists. This is something I know about.

However, without an MFA, how can an undergrad feel like they can learn from me, trust me, or listen to my advice? They probably wouldn’t.

Hannah keeps telling me to look over my CV again and see how far I’ve come. I’ve accomplished a lot, I’m in museum collections, I’ve had many solo shows, I’ve won grants and awards, sold half the 1200 pieces of art I’ve made, and I’m “established.” But all I keep thinking about is how I haven’t won a major grant or landed an artist’s residency in over a decade. What’s with that? I feel washed up, kind of like not being a seasoned musician anymore. But at least that’s more lived experience under my belt.

It’s not like I’ve never mentored anyone. I have mentored a couple of undergrads for 6 months, and a troubled kid for 9 years as a “big sister.” I drove all over Southern California to see her at countless foster homes, girls’ homes, and orphanages. After she turned 18, she reached out to tell me I was the only constant in her life and thanked me for making her a better person. Floored (because she was pretty difficult), I always felt like I wasn’t making a difference in her life, but apparently, I did. She had a 4.0 average in school and got her own apartment with a roommate. I felt very proud of her. It was her doing, but now I’d like to think I helped.

I know this doesn’t count, but between the ages of 19 and 22, I ran a nonprofit drug and alcohol rehabilitation center. I worked my way up to become an executive in charge of all the services we delivered, and I worked 60-hour weeks with practically no pay. However, that was when I was in the cult, and despite all my training, it was 80% L. Ron Hubbard-derived. Most of the services and help I administered were from his cockamamie ideas that do nothing for me in the real world. I learned more about how nonprofits operate than about truly helping people with a substance use disorder. In fact, now I know most of the things the patients had to do were more dangerous than helpful. I live with that guilt all the time. So, how can that ever go on a resume?

Before that, and on and off til I was 27 or so, I ran my father’s pattern-making business. I was the manager; I trained his employees, handled deliveries, and did all the invoicing. That was a real job, but I was working for my dad, and he overpaid me.

I hated working for my dad, so at 16, I got a job at a t-shirt printing shop for a little more than minimum wage. Minimum wage was $3.35 at the time. I got $3.55. I was rolling in the dough, I tell you!

And, before that, believe it or not, I worked for Larry Flynt. What did I do for him? He hired me, other teens, and homeless people to picket and protest in front of the Roxy, the Herald Examiner, and a radio station (I can’t remember which one). It went on for about a year. He wanted to advertise a new magazine on the billboard between the Whisky and the Roxy, which the Roxy wanted no part of. He hired picketers there, then the Herald, because they wrote bad press about his weird operation. It all turned into a presidential campaign. He got on the ballot and used his picketers to promote his candidacy. We had to wear t-shirts with his face on them, hold signs, and chant, “Larry Flynt for president!” I was paid every single day—$20 an hour at the end of a 6-hour day, in all brand-new, single-dollar bills. I had to stuff the cash down my pants and nervously take the bus home with $120 in all those singles bulging out of my clothes. I was 15, and this was before I had my work permit.

After the drug rehab, I was a professional musician and played drums all over. I toured and recorded with talented people. However, most of the pay was under the table, as with my dad. All that did was set me up for disaster, not paying into Social Security, and thus, never being able to collect full disability or retirement. Yay for me.

So, yes, I have some weird life experiences. But were they worth anything? I’m still trying to decide.