Kimball and Laurel

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!

A stack of 20 or so teal envelopes sit in the light from a nearby window.

Just sent out How to Rest 3 to my monthly mailings subscribers. Excited to have another chapter seen by others. I could send out some late ones if anyone new signed up!

Read the first issue for free on the link in my bio. Going to be adding more free ones as time goes on!

A mid-sized panel fills the back cover of the zine. It has a smoky gray in it with glowing geometrical shapes. Text reads: A guide to the practical and emotional realities of getting good rest, and a story about how messy the process can look.

This page is filled with one large panel. Inside, a melancholic emptiness fills the spaces between polygonal shapes. Text in the center says: This isn’t tenable long term, you think.

Two small panels filled with dark gray start the page, and text in them says: But a part of you whispers, like you are trying to keep a secret from yourself. Below, a large desolate feeling panel continues: that you won’t be like this long term.

At the center of a white page, text reads: And here are some questions that might help you start to understand what is the “noise” that should be ignored:

On this white page, a series of questions appear. They read: Are there any simple steps to resolving the sensation, like stretching or drinking a glass of water? How did you feel before you started doing whatever you are doing now? What do you wish would happen in this situation? Is the sensation you feel pushing you closer to, or further away from, your wish? That is, what is your bias?

A large panel with murky darkness fills the page. Angular shapes sit at the top and bottom of the page, overlapping. White text reads: You lie back, your head spinning.

A white line splits the page into two shadowy panels with abstractions in them. Text reads: It is strange, there is still a part of you that feels better. Like you needed to run yourself down even more to be okay.

Shapes float on darkness in three wide panels. Text reads: Like there was something in you that needed to prove that your limitations were real.

In tall panels with faint abstractions the writing continues: Maybe it was just that you felt for a moment like you used to feel. You used to feel so much more stable and secure. Maybe a bit of that lingers on.

Three dark wide panels fill this page as small faint polygons drift around white text. The text reads: You kept seeing that stack of papers in the corner of the desk, and actually doing something about it makes you feel like your old self before any of this.

Two small panels start the page, saying: You find yourself stopped, and arent even sure when it happened. A large panel below has soft ghost shapes that float above the text: Just staring blankly down at these pages you can barely focus on.

On a white page, text says: You are the only one who can give you the answers to how your body works. But I can ask a few questions that can start you on the process of finding the signal in the noise:

This white page has a few different questions on different lines. They read: When you push yourself too far, how does it feel? If you push yourself too far, say physically, does it feel different from going too far mentally? Are there any sensations you feel before you push yourself too far? Are these sensations different for different tasks? Can you try to be on the lookout for these pre-symptom sensations?

A plain white page with a paragraph of text in the center. The writing says: Trusting your intuition is a fundamental skill for effective rest. You need to be able to tell when you can push yourself to do something, when you need to stop, and when you need to abstain altogether. The only way to know this is to listen to your body and to reflect on your experiences, and this will often come in a subtle feeling that is easy to dismiss. You need to learn how to give space for that feeling, and to heed it when you can identify it.

Another white page with a paragraph in the middle. The text reads: This also requires finding the signal in the noise, because your body and mind are constantly sending messages about various stimuli. And only some tell you about your health needs.

A tall silent panel spans from the top of the page to the bottom showing spare shapes overlapping in the dark. Beside it, two panels say: You find yourself sorting a pile of papers that you let build up. It’s not important but it feels like you need to do something.

Small panels with light abstract shapes say: It feels better, and worse. Below, two tall panels with brighter shapes hanging at their tops continue to say: That antsiness in you stopped, but you feel a nauseous feeling like an oncoming headache.

Two tall panels are filled with brighter overlapping shapes congregating at the top and bottom, away from the text. The writing reads: You try to not think about the things you need to do. Important tasks looming on the horizon. A wide panel at the bottom is filled with more darkness, with small little shapes hiding in the corner. Text continues: But you feel it in the back of your mind.

Two tall panels are filled with dimmer shapes, and text reads: It used to be easier for you to calm down. There used to be times you knew you could relax. Another wide panel says: Were allowed to relax.

A very dark panel with barely visible overlapping shapes says: Everything is confusing. A slightly brighter panel that still has very soft panels continues: and out of your control.

A large, dark panel fills the page, and in one corner light seems to shine through the murk and glint off of the geometric shapes. White text at the center of the page says: Are you really doing the right thing just lying here?

A plain white page with a block of text in the middle that reads: Your body is honest. It seems too simple to say, but if you feel pain you are in pain, if you feel fatigue you are tired. There is no deception in the signals that your body sends to you.

Another plain white page with a paragraph in the middle says: We act like we can negotiate with our bodies, come up with a compelling enough case to win new health and ability. But our bodies are too straightforward for that. They are not as mutable as we want to think.

Dark gray fills two panels that split the page in half. In the panels, polygonal shapes congregate in the corners, staying away from white text in the middle. The text reads: A restless, squirming energy fills your body, even as moving just increases the heaviness you feel.

Three more panels are on this page, and in them the bright shapes seem to dodge the text, staying to the periphery. Text reads: Is this right, are you doing it right. Is this what resting is supposed to feel like.

Two wordless panels fill the top and bottom of the page, leaving the middle empty. In that plain white middle it says: how to rest 2, listen to your body. The panels above and below are filled with polygonal shapes that overlap over a cloudy gray. The soft transparency of the shapes slightly brighten everything behind. In the darker gray bottom panel it says in white text: kimball anderson.

Issue 2 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 3 on patreon (and can see if there are issues 1 and 2 to stick in the envelope)! Link in bio.

Sharp needle shapes coalesce into an abstract form. Curve and bend, are caught by light or by shadow. Writing says: theres a story here, right? / theres a story of a person who / couldnt face life / so they hid and hid and hid.

part 8 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 rests on a velvety seafoam blanket. It has two panels on it, both with light polygonal shapes on a murky gray background. Unlike previous zines 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.

A pale hand holds open the zine and shows a page. On plain white, it says: A large part of getting in tune with your own body, your own limits, is closing off 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 not. Most of the ideas that we have about ourselves come from external sources. How do you shut something like that out?

The zine is held open by a pale hand again, still on top of the blueish blanket. On the left page there are two equally sized panels with abstract imagery on them. They read: you try to breathe, and just be. To wait out the impatience, the feelings of disappointment. On the right page, a single panel fills the whole page. In a dark gray void, two overlapping fragments of light form the backdrop for the words: to let it dissipate.

The pale hand holds open another set of pages. On the left, brighter, larger abstract geometrical shapes fill two tall panels with a wide one on the bottom. Text in these panels says: Why couldnt you just feel better. Whats wrong. Even when you try to relax, its still there. On the right page, three more panels with prominent outlines around the shapes read: Your body is still so worn out. You can’t let yourself self-destruct again, but you want to.

Issue 3 of a series about rest! This issue is about cultural messages and how to try to deal with them in a healthier way. You can get it on my patreon $20 tier (or $1 discounted slots, while they are still there). If I have the copies, I’ll catch you up on older issues too!

Dark lined drawings of a hand, turning it over. Looking at it. There’s a reflective aspect to the two large panels on this page. Writing says: faking illness when i was younger / really made it hard to believe that / I could be telling the truth about illness.

Text starts the page: like it all just felt like some con. A thumb feeling across fingers, across. The text continues: and sometimes people like seem to agree / saying, must be nice to not have to etc. etc.

part 7 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 long fish, a koi, a catfish, all detailed and shining with highlights and shadows along their smooth forms. Text reads: saved a roll of bread / and used cleaning products and powdered make up / tore up the bread / and made relatively convincing fake vomit in the toilet bowl.

A ribbon-like eel swims in undulating s shapes, a thick moray eel coils and looks out with those seemingly lidless eyes. And a thick, round fish with rayed fins. Writing says: another time I was in brain fog I think / and was like / yeah, it totally makes sense to microwave a thermometer.

Bleh, text says. A crab extends its back feet, becoming surprisingly long. A school of fish from afar, like little specks of light moving in unison. The text concludes: I am sorry.

Carefully rendered fish fill the panels. A thick fish that is maybe a bass with ribbed fins and a barcode like pattern on its side. A longer spotted fish. A tiny little fish with a chin jutting out. Text says: my illness was too ambiguous / and I knew my parents wouldnt buy it / but I knew I couldnt go to school.

A large panel holds a crab, white highlights showing on the serrated claws and the joints of the legs. Writing says: so I faked various short term illnesses / to stay home from school. A sea turtle moves through the water, its large fins speckled and strong.

Text starts the page: a lot of like / stomach problems. A jellyfish floats through a tall panel, trailing tendrils around what looks like a jeweled necklace. Writing continues: I must have worried my parents that there was something else up / some completely different illness. A sleek fish swims with thin fins.

A barracuda looking fish with speckles and a duckbill looking mouth, and a couple more mid-sized fish. One very smooth and facetless, another with a thick body and big frilly fins. Writing reads: at some point my mom got skeptical / and wanted to see when I fake threw up / so I like.

part 6 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!

Steam comes up from two hands held out. Text says: I was afraid, right / I just wanted to avoid school / avoid life. Swirls of steam move between the fingers of a closing hand. Text continues: and then I did.

A figure with its head down has steam rise off of it like a cup of tea. It rises from hand and shoulder, from feet. Text reads: I can see the narrative / I can believe it.

Text at the top of the page reads: there was this moment before I was out of school where / I had been sick so much that / I was afraid to go back. A drawing of a ghostly figure breathes out something. In another panel, we see the mouth with little squirming word bubbly shapes coming out. The writing continues: afraid of how much I had fallen behind.

A tall panel shows an upturned face at the bottom releasing long white tendrils that end with hands. Writing says: its cruel how much illness makes you feel like a failure. The corner of a smiling mouth is seen in a small panel.

A head breathes out a bubble that forms into the same head. Text reads: and I distinctly remember a lot of anxiety / a lot of, but I don’t want to go to school. A person breathes out a bubble that forms into another person, and the two figures seem to be having a discussion. The text continues: and then I just / stopped going to school.

A head tries to breathe out another head but it’s too wobbly a shape, a person breathes out curving and overlapping tendrils, a person breathes out normal swooping tendrils of steam. Writing says: and that anxiety has stuck with me / as a question / as just / did I make it all up?

part 5 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!

Thank you!! That means a lot to hear.

The light starts to fade back into the darkness in another large panel that fills the whole page. Many overlapping shapes fill the center of the page. Text says: You need to rest.

A completely empty white page.

A white page with the URL outside dash life dot com in the corner.

A large panel with a gray cloudy background that faded into blackness at the bottom has large overlapping polygons that create a sense of fullness. Text in the middle says: A guide to the practical and emotional realities of getting good rest, and a story about how messy the process can look.

The gray starts giving way to black, creeping in around the edges. Bright crystalline shapes overlap on top, with text on top that reads: You feel the edges of something half known inside of you. Something your body knows but your mind does not.

Glinting light cuts through the darkness underneath the abstract shapes in a large panel. Text on top says: You are just a weary mess slouched over this sturdy truth. Below, the glinting continues in two small, silent panels.

Another small silent panel starts the page, and then in a small panel next to it, it says: You open your eyes. In a dark, large panel below with light shimmering through glass-like shapes text continues: and you let yourself feel the heaviness in your body.

A large panel shows a darkness with light breaking through. In the midst of abstract shapes it says: You are not going anywhere any time soon.

A grid of four panels are filled with more text. They read: Everything you have ever been told about your health, about your body, has been about strength. Has been about pushing through.

A large panel has no text, and unlike in other panels where the light polygons appear in the middle, the shapes seem to be up in the corner like the way a child draws the sun. In a small, wide panel below it says: But down in your gut you know that there are only so many more times you can push through.

A wide panel starts the page, saying: Why was this happening, you think to yourself. Below, two tall panels where the polygonal shapes are minimal and small. Text reads: Are you weak? Is that it?

A single large panel fills the page, with swirls of light in the gray background. In the middle of bright overlapping polygons it says: You close your eyes.

Two large panels are filled with a darker gray, giving the sense of a dimming sky as storm clouds roll out across it. Text says: You find yourself yearning for the end of the day, because that is the only time you’ll let yourself lie down and just be.

A plain white page has text at the center. It reads: Every bit of denial you have, every stubborn impulse, every time you entertain a sneaky but maybe if I hypothetical is going to make it harder to rest. So, the first thing you need to do to rest is to try to accept your life as it is. It is not going to be one perfect moment of acceptance. It is going to be a continual process of accepting again and again.

Another white page with text. A large block at the middle of the page says: In subsequent zines I am going to give more practical advice, and these things are going to feel like lifehacks again. There are ways to feel better, and do more. But this is a double edged sword, because it will always make accepting the way things are harder. It is a process of gaining moments of hope, and then surrendering that hope and accepting your state. It is harder than it sounds. At the bottom of the page the text continues: But I think it can help.

A large dark panel has shapes that seem to have light shining through them. It says: You know you are doing the right thing. Below, two small panels read: It is just hard right now. It is just that everything keeps getting in the way.

Another white page with a block of text in the middle says: It’s easy to do the physical act of lying down in a bed. The hard thing is allowing yourself to just lie in bed. While tasks pile up, while relationships fade, while responsibilities go unmet. To just lie there as all this happens. To watch your old life fade. This is what it is to really rest.

Two tall panels are filled with gray and overlapping polygons with sharp corners. Text in the panels reads: All that is important now is to just keep yourself moving. To keep going.

Four equally sized panels with shapes like the refraction of light say: You see the people around you carrying on with such ease, and you start to resent it. That is how you should be doing, that is the least you should be doing.

A large empty panel fills half the page, allowing the focus to be on the abstract overlapping shapes that feel small and tender somehow. Two panels below say: There is something inside of you that is wrong. You know this, but you don’t want to know this.

More panels are filled with abstract overlapping shapes. They say: You immediately reject the words just said to you. You look across at this person you know as sick, you know as a sad story of an illness not overcome.

A large panel with mountain-like polygons says: You will figure this out on your own. Two small panels continue: You dont need anyone else to tell you what to do, or how to do it.

The words continue through more abstract imagery: This isnt the first trouble you have faced. You know how to handle yourself.. You can beat this thing.

Another plain white page. Near the top it says: And why should you want this new life you’ve found, where people disappear on you, where you don’t feel like yourself, where the world feels more hostile. You just want relief from pain, or fatigue, or limitations. You are completely right to want that. That block of text ends but there’s another near the bottom of the page that reads: But this feeling only stands in your way.

A gray field fills the page with a blurry, smoky texture. Shapes appear in the middle of it, like panes of polygonal glass reflecting light. The overlap and make an area brighter and brighter. In the brightest area it says: how to rest 1, your life has changes. Below it says kimball anderson.

A blank page with text at the bottom that reads: copyright 2025 Kimball Anderson.

A block of text appears at the center of a plain white page. It reads: If you are reading this comic, your life has probably changed. You are sick, or injured, or disabled in some new way. You probably dont want to accept that it’s changed. You probably picked this up to get lifehacks that will help you reclaim your old life.

Two large panels split the page in two, filled with gray cloudy texture. Bright polygonal shapes overlap each other, adding brightness with each layer. The first panel says in quote marks: you arent going to get anywhere until you accept your condition. In the next panel, without text it says: you are told.

Issue 1 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 2 on patreon (and can stuff 1 in the envelope too)! Link in bio. And I'll post more issues here!

Text starts the page: there were two years between when I started getting sick / and when I couldn’t go to school anymore. Odd human figure drawings populate the panels. The text continues: from age 11 to 13.

The figures on this page are very simplified, but it makes them feel a bit more alive. An emotive eye, an exuberant pose. Writing says: the first school year I was out of school like three weeks that year / the second, over a month / and the third brief school year I was only there two months / and had already missed a month of school.

A choppy looking hand, and hands on the ground with feet behind, in a gesture that seems to be in the middle of getting up. Text reads: it was weird / but I remember saying to other kids, like / no, I am fine, I am fine.

part 4 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!

Curved lines bend around shadows and highlights, looking almost like shiny folds of blankets or fat. Text reads: its less that I want to stay sick / and more that I’m afraid of change. The thick curves move independently of the shadows and highlights, which make them look like the curves of reeds or branchless tree trunks against a cloudy sky. And in the final panel, the lines curve and spiral into the middle.

I am aware that in the world where I am well / that Ive got an empty resume / Ive got no coping skills, the words on the page say. Curving and spiraling shapes make odd twisting, bulbous forms.

Something about the curves in the large first panel on this page makes them look like the skin on a soup after someone tried to push it out of the way. Handwritten text reads: all Ive ever learned how to do / was to get well / not to be well. Curves in a faded looking environment.

part 3 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 a blanket with a woven texture. On the cover there are two wide panels of gray, and a space in between them. In the gray boxes bright polygons overlap each other, giving the effect of light refraction, or the glare on window panes. In the space between panels it says in neatly traced text: how to rest 2, listen to your body. And at the bottom it says: kimball anderson.

A photo of a page with this text written on it: Your body is honest. It seems too simple to say, but if you feel pain you are in pain, if you feel fatigue you are tired. There’s no deception in the signals that your body sends to you.

The zine is now open, and held in the folds of the blanket. On the left page there are two large panels where the polygons no longer sit under the text, but stay to the edges of the panel. It says in white text on the gray background: A restless, squirming energy fills your body, even as moving just increases the heaviness you feel. On the right page, in two small panels and then one large, it says: Is this right, are you doing it right. Is this what resting is supposed to feel like.

The back of the zine held by a pale hand, still on the blankets. There’s a lot of white space around a single panel of gray. In the panel, bright polygons dance around the periphery of white text. The text reads: A guide to the practical and emotional realities of getting good rest, and a story about how messy the process can look.

Issue 2 of a series about rest! I try to teach basic skills of observing your body, while a character has reason not to listen. You can get it on my patreon $20 tier (or $1 discounted slots, while they are still there). If I have the copies, I’ll catch you up on older issues too!

A tall panel goes from the top of the page to the bottom, showing a curving tree trunk that looks almost like a thick monster leg and foot. Text says: sometimes I am afraid to get well / no thats a lie / I am always afraid to get well.

Thin white lines suggest the shape of the branches holding up a bush, Writing says: if I could just be in bed and do nothing / then it’d be alright / right? A trunk leading up into a mess of leaves catching the light.

part 2 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!