“Later, though, I began to meet people like myself, people who actually respected my values. They’d be there for me. I admit – it was hard to adjust to how much they cared, but they were true; I could feel it. They helped me realize that drawing, painting… art in general, was something I loved, and it wouldn’t matter if others beat me up and threatened me for it. Art was something I grew up with, and made me what I am now.”
~Exit Wounds, by Kip Tidy
“As a young boy, I was very sheltered and introverted, so it was hard for me to relate with other children my age. I decided to pursue art because whenever I drew, I felt happy, being in a small world where everything went the way I wanted it to. As a child, I was bullied too because of how I saw life, and how much art meant to me. But soon, as I got older, the bullying intensified and began to target my work, so my motivation to draw began to grow null. I hated myself for drawing, but that made me feel even more disgusted with myself. How could I hate something that made me so happy? Why couldn’t I ever draw when I needed ‘my world’ the most?