NO MATTER WHAT


*TRIGGER WARNING.*


This is the story I’ve never told, of the life I never thought I’d survive. Within these green blue eyes are sparks of secrets disguised by color, and within my voice are screams disguised as melodies. Today is the day I release these secrets, these screams, these disguises. And hopefully help some of you, who are a little or a lot like me. Bare with me as I take you on this journey. And before you get your jiggles jumbled thinking this is for attention, I want to let you know, it is. But not for me. I’m writing this for sexual abuse victims. For victims of domestic violence and toxic relationships. I’m writing this for those who suffer, for the people who have a tape measure around their waste so much they use it as a belt, for the people who cry themselves to sleep and make themselves bleed hoping to find proof that they’re still alive. I’m writing this in hopes that one of you, will relate to my words, and see that you’re not alone. I’m writing this in hopes that one of you will seek help, or stop thinking people who suffer from mental illness are just looking for excuses to act out. I’m writing this to show you there’s hope. And to hopefully, give you some of mine. I’m writing this to bring attention to the ever crippling realities of mental illness, and the ever growing strength and hope that’s waiting for all of us at the end of the tunnel. SO…let’s go.

I don’t know how to say what I’m about to. I guess that’s how every story begins..with a mosaic of ideas that are so intricate, they refuse to be outlined. I guess I’ll start by introducing myself. To the store clerks of my vastly developing yet slowly disintegrating town, im the girl who’s name isn’t as relevant as her label. A thief. To the neighborhood moms and dads, i’m the girl they warn their children not to be. When you look at my face, you may not think that I am the breathing source of pain for many people, including myself. But I am. I’m The accidental first born of a lost woman addicted to drugs, the sorrow of a daughterless father, the flesh of a neglected past. I am the circles under the eyes of half the people you saw today. a faint memory to some, a beacon of light to others. To some I am as strong as the ocean, and to others, im nothing but my empty words.  Nobody sees the chains I am dragging as they grind against the pavement I leave behind me. Nobody expected me to become an addict and an alcoholic by the time I was 15, but I did. Nobody expected me to try to kill myself, but I did.


May 28th 2018 my dad found me foaming from the mouth on the bathroom floor. I had chugged as much bleach as I could find. And chased that with hydrogen peroxide and gin. I should have died that day. But I didn’t. In fact I didn’t even need to get my stomach pumped. That’s not the first attempt either..or the worst. I really can’t tell you how i’ve survived half of what I have. Especially The last 6 years. But I can tell you, I did. I’m alive. I won’t ask god why. I’ve learned i’m not always entitled to answers. But I trust whatever higher power is out there pushing me to write this. Whatever this may be.

I was exposed to suicide at a very young age. When I was 7, my adoptive mom developed an addiction to prescription pills, Vicodin, Percocet, ambien…I was kept in the dark as far as the details went, but I have vivid memories of my mom overdosing that haunt me to this day. I didn’t know why she did it, but I knew She wanted to die. Which really hurt me because she was my best friend, and the only sense of peace I had at the time. I remember her locking herself in the closet and sitting on the other side of it banging on the door sobbing, begging her to let me in because I knew she was trying to kill herself. She was in and out of hospitals, and institutions for the next 3 or so years…until she was diagnosed with cancer.
I don’t know which was worse. Watching my mom die from cancer, or watching her die from mental illness. But I do know, I lost her. And it sucked.
As her battle with cancer started looking more hopeless, I was caught cutting myself at The middle school. I’d been secretly and increasingly depressed. I’d never thought about cutting myself. The thought of it repulsed me and I looked down on people who did it. Until those people, were my friends. They would glorify it in a way; how it made them feel better. It seemed like they were proud of themselves.
Perhaps it was my growing numbness and confusion. My mom was dying and I honestly had no idea how to process it. I had no emotional skills, and no idea how to cope. Nobody really trains you for that kind of thing…
One day before school, I had my friend wait downstairs while I went to “grab something”. I grabbed a knife..cut my leg and promised myself I would never do it again. But it was all I thought about that whole day at school. Because for the first time since I could remember, I actually felt something. And I wanted more of it. When I got home, it was all downhill, and thus began my addiction to self harm. Some girls at school eventually found out and told the counselor, and the counselor didn’t tell my parents. But she did tell them that they should be worried about me. My parents caught on, luckily, and brought me to a therapist the next day.
Over the next year I was diagnosed with depression, anxiety, and anorexia. An approximate 3% of the population is diagnosed or suffering from an eating disorder. That’s about eight million people in the U.S alone, and I was one of them. I was obsessed with my weight, calorie intake, and being as skinny as I could.
I feel like a lot of people think people with anorexia just want to be “skinny”. But for me, and many others, that isn’t the case. What I really wanted, was control. I was 12 years old, had no idea where I came from, my mom was dying, I didn’t get along with my sister, I was having serious drama and conflict with friends at school and I felt like everything was falling apart. Not to mention this ever growing battle against myself and my own dark thoughts terrorizing my head. I had no outlet. So I made my own. Cutting, Starving, Throwing up. I would stay up all night exercising, I’d run until I spat out blood, sometimes even passing out on the sidewalk Or trail from pure exhaustion. And yet I kept going. I felt like I finally had control and the potential to prove to myself that maybe just maybe, I could do something right. Maybe that logic seems entirely ludacris. I used to think so too….until it was all I had. Little did i know, these actions weren’t fueled by stupidity, i was sick, mentally, physically, and spiritually sick. Did I want to be such a burden on everyone around me? No. Did i feel as though i had a choice? No. If only I knew i were sick back then, I think things would have gone a lot different.

October 4th 2013, my adoptive mom lost her battle with cancer. My aunt broke the news to me, and all I said was “okay’. I didn’t understand why I wasn’t reacting the way normal people do. Shouldn’t I have been sobbing? Shouldn’t I be furious at the world and everyone inside of it? Well deep down I was. But I covered up my feelings so intensely, for so long, that my body refused to show emotion. No matter how much I begged. I had seemingly lost all sense of reality and self. I logically knew where I was and what was going on, but I could never seem to process. I always just felt this numbness, and at night, it was replaced with uncontrollable sobs that I fed to My pillow. This is a side effect of trauma, and a symptom of depression. Isolating my inner emotions, and being involuntarily and subconsciously dissociated with my own inner feelings and my outer circumstances. It’s a defense mechanism, with a filthy price.

By now I was going to Tahoma junior high. And I spent most of the day in the counseling office. Mostly so I wouldn’t freak out in the classroom. Im grateful they let me take up space in the office, but thats all I really did. They’d listen to me…but it wasn’t enough. I needed serious help or at least a little guidance and I didn’t get it there.
After a serious downfall with my friends that I didn’t know how to handle, and an investigation for sexual abuse and neglect in my home, I moved to Twin Falls Idaho to live with my grandparents.I needed a change in scenery, because though i didn’t want to ask for help, I knew i wouldn’t survive my own mind in the circumstances I was in. I attended school at Twin Falls High for the rest of the semester, completely starting over. I was put on an immense amount of prescription pills to “control” my mental illnesses. It only made me worse. I had impulsive tendencies, and after being taunted by homicidal thoughts induced by my meds, I started self medicating. Taking more anxiety meds than I was prescribed. Half the time It didn’t do anything. But for some reason my mind craved a change in being..a change in feeling..a change in chemistry. To the point where I would take more just because it was..different. I honestly couldn’t give you a definite explanation for why i was this way. Why I always did what i wasn’t supposed to, but i was soon to find out.


Life went by and after coming out as bisexual and leaving the mormon church, I moved back to Washington to be with a girl, who I thought was the love of my life. Little did i know, in those moments of baffling butterflies and starlit puppy eyed conversation, that my entire life was about to be thrown into what i would describe to be; the ever gaping jaws of hell. I threw my own family on the shelf to spend time with this girl, whom i thought was the best thing to ever happen to me. She helped me in times of need, she held me when the world seemed dark. She would sing to me, make me laugh. We cried together, we learned and grew together and getting to live in the universe we built together, was everything to me. I guess that was my first mistake. Handing over the wheel to someone else, who would ultimately gain complete control over my mind, my feelings, my hobbies, my time and how i spent it, while being convinced that’s what i needed, and being led to believe by my deceptive emotions, that it was healthy.  She began to grow sick, quite rapidly. She would have panic attacks every few hours, that left her crippled on the floor screaming out to a god she didn’t believe in to make it stop. We could only hope it would. But it didn’t. About a month into our already extremely intense relationship, We got into a petty fight about my friends and how i thought she was controlling. She told me to tell my stupid friends that we were over, and i did. I lost my mind.

I was 15, had no idea who i was and for the FIRST time in my life i thought that i had it figured out. I finally got my car driving when she was behind the wheel. I had created a world i loved with her, and now that she was gone, i had no idea what to do. The world i made was now empty, a shriveling shell of what i thought would never die. And i lost control.

I was sent back to a behavioral and mental health hospital just two days after the break up. I spent 9 or 10 days in the adolescent unit, listening to all of these stories about drugs, mostly pot, and how great it was. In fact, i was the only kid in there who had not tried it.

The day i got out of there, i smoked weed for the first time. I would say i “tried it” but it didnt end there. I hated it, and swore i would never do it again. I was also taking 13 meds twice a day, and mixing these didn’t go very well. But i kept doing it. Then eventually, I got bored of this and decided to drink. My friend handed me a water bottle, and without even asking what it was, i drank the whole thing. I knew it was alcohol from the first sniff 5 feet away. But i didn’t care. I got drunk and i loved it. If only I knew then what I know now.

Abby and i got back together somewhere in the midst of this and eventually she started drinking and smoking weed again. I saw nothing wrong with either of our actions for a really long time. Until it got out of hand. I was always off hanging out with my friends and chasing the next drunk and the next high. To be honest, my drug of choice wasn’t the drugs at all. It was toxicity, destruction, and most of all chaos, which i guess can be traced back to my childhood trauma, and my growing, neglected mental illnesses. I broke up with Abby again, because i felt that she was controlling, but looking back i think i was scared that she intervened with my rapidly developing using habits. And the last thing i wanted to do was quit. You see, when i picked up booze and pot and cigarettes, i had finally gained what i thought was control, by giving it all away. You cant loose what you dont have, right? Right. So this continued, and got worse and worse. My dad would get calls from the Maple Valley, Kent, Covington, or King County police at least once a week stating that they had found me somewhere in a drunken binge, or I was somewhere I shouldn’t be (Stolen cars, parking lots, parties, etc.) and he needed to come get me. He would also get calls from my, at the time, best friends telling him i was passed out, blacked out, covered in my own vomit or having a mental breakdown. But I never had to deal with it, because i never really cared or remembered. So i kept going.  

 

*The following content contains details that may be triggering to sexual abuse victims*

 Everyone’s parents always tell them not to talk to strangers. But what if the strangers have something you want? Something you need and can hardly live without? Something like…an ID proving they are of age to buy weed, alcohol, cigarettes. Something like, the money to buy these things. And the kindness of heart to share with under age girls, like me. You see, to me, these sounded like acceptable reasons to get into a 23 year old mans black honda civic outside of a gas station, give him my number in exchange for cigarettes and keep talking to him so he’d keep providing.

That went well. Until the day that it didn’t. Me and two friends invited this man over to my friends house while his parents were out of town. He bought a 60 dollar bottle of vodka. And hell mikes hard lemonades, beer, some svedka and a bunch of weed. I think there might have been jack but i don’t remember those details of the night. My mind is too occupied by what happened after bringing this all home.

My two friends were more adapted to this culture than i was at the time. They could slam bottles and not feel a thing. So I should have known something was wrong, when after one or two shots each, they passed out. One of them looked me in the eyes as she was falling into a comatose like sleep, and told me she was scared, and felt really weird. I couldn’t shake her hard enough to wake her up. Same with the other one. And all the sudden, it was just me and this man, who was feeling more and more like a stranger to me. Who was i with. What had i done. What was going to happen to me. My mind was swirling and empty all at once. He told me to drink, so i drank. I wanted to pass out too, or at least drink away this echoing siren going off in my head. I just wanted to disappear. After a few drinks, i felt odd. That’s the only way i know how to explain it. I remember him yelling at me to go upstairs so we don’t wake them, and i remember feeling like my jaw was sewn shut. I had no energy to speak or hardly move. I went upstairs to find him in the bed of the guest room. He told me to sit down, and when i declined he aggressively said it again. I knew he had a gun, so I sat down. He grabbed me and pulled me into the bed, and revealed that he was naked before stripping me, and telling me i needed an examination. He proceeded to rape me. And forced me to stare at his erection for 5 minutes before i escaped and ran downstairs, desperate to wake my friend before he got down there. I messaged my dad in this time period, begging him to come get me even though it was 4 in the morning by now. I didn’t give him a reason. He trusted me, even though he shouldn’t have. Tom came downstairs and laid on top of me. I tried fighting him off, and kept telling him to lay somewhere else but he refused, and by now i was terrified of him. He called me mommy and asked me to rub his head to sleep. So I did. I was shaking, scared, holding back tears until he fell asleep. I waited under his body for a few minutes before crawling out from under him and forcing My friend to get out of her slump. Luckily for us, my dad had randomly woken up 5 minutes before i texted him, and was on his way to get us from down the road. We snuck out the back door and stumbled to the car. I didn’t tell either of them what had happened.

In the United states, one in five women on average will experience rape in their life, and one in seventy one men will experience it as well. Statistics show that 51.1% of women who are raped, are raped by an intimate partner, and 40.8% by an acquaintance. In 8 out of 10 rape cases across the US, the victim knew the perpetrator. These statistics don’t sit well for me, nor do they go against my situation. The raging trust issues i had before and after this, are still an issue i work through every day. These issues got much worse after i drunkenly admitted to my dad, what had happened, and a police investigation was opened. You’d think there would be justice, and there should be, but there were so many aspects. If you’re reading this, and you’re scared to speak up, I want you to be a lion. I want you to roar and show no mercy for what was done to you. Rise, love, and fight for the peace of mind you so rightfully deserved to keep. I wish I would have had that strength, but little old me was a push over, made of eggshells that cracked as i let the world walk upon me.

 My homeboys house was searched by police for evidence, and during the process they found his step dads collection of marijuana plants. Needless to say, the harassment i was receiving made me question even my own trauma. “Kill yourself You dirty fucking whore”

“You wanted it, admit it”, “because of your attention seeking ass, i don’t have a plug anymore. Are you happy? You should die.” Were some of the actual messages i received, that day alone. My abuser was arrested and put in holding for only one night, and everyone turned on me. I even had my closest friends send me messages of that sort, and tell me his story to rehearse so that it would match in court. They told me; Tell this story in court, or you’ll regret it.

I eventually dropped the case from all the pressure. I got a temporary protection order. And continued to abuse substances; by now it was all that kept me calm. Don’t do what I did, whoever did that to you does not deserve to live free.

This theme of drinking, smoking, lying, going in and out of my relationship continued more and more. School started, I showed up twice, drunk off my ass and never went again. Partly because my priorities were screwed, partly because I couldn’t get out of bed in the morning, partly because I didn’t want to see the faces of the people I thought were my friends, as they laughed at me in the hallways.

I switched to an alternative school which was basically designed for developing addicts and hoodlums like myself, to pass and graduate. I got away with everything there, even beat a kid up for degraded my trans friend, and all I got was a 10 minuet timeout until they made the kid apologize to my friend and I. I can’t tell if that’s how manipulative I was, or if that’s how badly the school system failed me. Either way, I didn’t care. I’d go to school, high off my ass, and write songs in my journal all day pretending it was for one of the assignments they never gave me. And I passed with flying colors. This gave me the illusion that I was a “functioning alcoholic/addict”. Which, for the record, doesn’t exist.

It was now 2017, my ex and I got back together a while ago, and my stealing habits had died down a lot. Maybe because now, I got the same rush from her that I did from stealing. Studies and observation show that people with addict mentalities, tend to swap one addiction out for the other, so when the glorious “love of my life” would come back, I could ditch some of the behaviors I would use to distract myself. But, I was still partying and slowly killing my body.

I’d been doing cocaine for about a year now, and managed to keep it pretty hush hush.

I was what i’d now like to call, a selfishly deceptive bitch. For a while, one of my friends had been taking me to a ”trap house” where I made plenty of new friends and had a seemingly endless supply of alcohol and drugs. I thought I was in heaven, but heaven quickly turned into Hell one night. I’d met up with a few of my ”homies” and they we decided to go to a party at the trap. I should have known it was going to be bad, when the first person I saw was none other than my rapist from 2 years prior. I was so deep into my addiction, that I just decided to drink until I stopped caring he was there. To some, this is insane. But that’s what addiction does to you, it drives you to insanity. Addiction, is a disease, despite common stigma of it being solely a choice. Let me break it down for you real quick. A disease is defined by; a dysfunction of an organ with a progressive set of symptoms. In diabetes for example, the dysfunctioning organ is the pancreas, and the symptoms can be anything from thirst, hunger and frequent urination, to poor wound healing, weight loss or weight gain. These symptoms get progressively worse if not treated. For addicts, the organ dysfunctioning happens to be in the brain, specially the central nervous system. The part of our mind that is supposed to help us make logical decisions, is dysfunctioning rapidly, and instead of telling us to do things like sleep, drink water or eat, it tells us to cause rapid destruction. Typically, this is fueled by a blockage between the receptors, causing frequencies to stack up, if you will, and eventually the only things that get through to the reward system and clear them out, is the next fix. And those “fixes“ are the progressive symptoms, whether it be stealing, drinking, doing drugs, being violent, gambling or even lying and cheating. Hence, most addicts, no matter their Drug of choice, display criminal behaviour, and have previous or developing histories of mental illness.

Now that we’ve gotten that out of the way, we can tell that my judgment was impaired even before I drank. My mind was hard wired to do whatever it took. I pushed past my rapist, walked into the party, and proceeded to drink, and drink and drink.

At one point he came up to me, stating “not to be creepy, but you’ve gotten a lot hotter since you were fifteen.” Mind you, he was creepy, I was in a relationship that finally seemed to be working, I wanted nobody else BUT the girl I was with, especially not my rapist. I instantly knew I was going to need more alcohol to handle this situation. So I had somebody go get me another bottle, then proceeded to down the entire thing quite rapidly. Shortly after, the friend who had driven me there pulled me aside. He led me down the hallway and into a back room.

What I’m about to tell you may be triggering, but I’m hoping that by painting out all of these red flags, I can help to prevent this from happening to one of you who may be reading this. I should have left long ago, I shouldn’t have followed him down the hall. But what happened next, was not my fault. He had me sit down, next to another friend (who knew I wanted nothing to do with him) and then walked away. The other friend and I were sitting in a dark room for half a second before he grabbed my face and began to force himself onto me. I pushed him off telling him no, I’m in a relationship, I won’t have anything to do with this. The door to our left swung open, revealing the infamous ”coke room” and they invited us in. Thank god. The day is saved! Or so I thought.

When I walked in, I saw one girl I knew, which lead me to believe nothing would happen. They told me to sit down. They closed and locked the door, and as I looked around me, all I could see were the men lining the perimeter of the room, resembling hungry dogs ready to tear apart my flesh. The next thing I knew, I was being Passed back and forth. I was grabbed by my neck as one of them spat in my mouth and the other pulled my hair while doing as they pleased with my body. By the time it was over, i got dressed and ran out of the room sobbing. My girlfriends gonna hate me. Nobody’s gonna believe me. Nobody’s gonna understand. Why did I let that happen? I was blaming myself for not knowing how to react to a situation I thought I’d never be in again, or at all. These thoughts only spread more rapidly as I walked out to see one of my best friends screaming at me “YOU’RE A FUCKING WHORE! I can’t believe I’m under the same roof as you! YOU SICKEN ME. You have 24 hours to tell your girlfriend or I’ll do it for you.“ The room spun slowly now, the voices blended in with each other, the faces all looked the same; hungry, angry, ready to tear my flesh. I looked around desperately for my friend who had driven me, only to find out he left as soon as he brought me back there. It was all a set up. The girl who had assisted in the men getting their way, came over to me and told me to just admit what I had done. I wanted to vomit, and not from the alcohol. I spent the next week at my girlfriends house, afraid of the world, sobbing, shaking violently while she mocked me, texting other guys and laughing at her phone any time I started to cry.

She’d get mad at me for not controlling my tears, so I’d go outside and cry in the middle of the street outside of her house. I just wanted to die. I had survived the two rapings now, I’d survived an ambien overdose that could have easily killed three grown men, I’d survived so much and yet I felt more dead than I would in a grave.

A week or so after, I finally left her house and was able to go back to my dads. She was always hanging out with my friends, dabbing THC oil and having the time of her life while I rotted away alone. I thought she would be here for me. I thought she would care. I couldn’t really blame her though, I’d probably feel some sort of way about it too if I were in her shoes. One day, she came over. She was having a hard time, and I was ready to be there for her. I made her food and brought her tea. She decided she wanted to take a dab, so she pulled out her rig and her glass dabber, a small narrow glass piece, that was used to scoop the oil and place it on the rig. She dropped the glass dabber. And it broke in half. I picked up one half but couldn’t find the other. I sat down, and she began to cry. I held the broken, dagger like object in my hand and nervously started rubbing it against my hand. I never dealt with things by staying still, I would always fidget, so this wasn’t really out of the ordinary. She grabbed it from my hand. Held it up above her head, and screamed “I’LL FUCKING STAB YOU.“ Now, I know what you’re thinking, but I swear I can’t make this shit up. The love of my life. The girl I’d do anything for. I looked into her dull eyes that used to look like the stars, and I said ”no you wouldn’t.”

Those were my famous last words. She did.

She pierced my leg, then pulled down, creating a deep cut in my leg. Apparently, had she have lifted her arm any higher, she would have hit the main artery in my leg and I would have bled out internally regardless of stitches. It didn’t stop there. She proceeded to cut her hand and rub blood on her face before allowing me to use her phone to call for help, which is also when I discovered she’d been cheating on me. This, was the worst 10 minutes of my life thus far. I was baffled. I could hardly react. Her dad picked us up, and upon getting in the car she said to him, ”I stabbed ally so we need to go to the hospital.” Her Dads response? ”oh. Okay.”

We made up an elaborate lie about how we got in an argument, I ran upstairs and was gonna cut, then she walked in, scared me, I flinched and cut deeper than planned, and she felt bad so she cut her hand open. The doctors bought it. We were two incredibly manipulative people, and to this day I wish I would have told the doctors the truth. Because honestly, it would have saved both of our lives.

If you’re ever put in an unfortunate situation similar to that, don’t lie to protect your relationship. Your relationship isn’t protected, and if anything, by not allowing your lover the opportunity to get help weather or not they want it, you’re hurting them.

The next day, she hit me for something my friend said to me. And I broke up with her. I was back on the run, back binging, and I thought I was living my best life despite being suicidal as all hell.

Over the course of the next 9 months that my ex and I were broken up, I was drinking every day. I was taken advantage of at a bonfire while i was passed out drunk, asleep in my friends car. But at this point I wasn’t phased. I was constantly partying, drinking, and running away from my problems however I could. I had several girls living in my house with me on and off, because like me, they didn’t want to face the struggles that came with going home, and sometimes they truly didn’t have one. By february, I got back together with my ex despite toxic warning signs and circumstances. We got drunk together, she cheated on her boyfriend with me, and within a few days we were back on our bullshit. This would be the last time we got back together. We were fine for about a month. And rapidly, we both spiralled into a seemingly endless snowball of destruction. I started doing molly again, which lead to both of us doing coke, and if we couldn’t find it we would chop up her adderall and snort it when nobody was around. One night, she ended up going to jail with her father after a dispute between her and her step dad turned violent. She claims she was innocent, and to an extent I can see her side, but ultimatley it needed to happen. I drank the whole time she was in jail (all three days) awaiting her return. When she finally called me I was expecting her to be distraught or sorry, but she was happy. She told me she met the most amazing heroin addicts and she fit in so well. She had a truly amazing time.

Now….what the hell. I honestly hung up on her, partly because I was selfish and partly because i was baffled. There was also a lot we had been dealing with. I had gotten drunk and cheated on her while blacked out, confessed to her in tears, and she proceeded to tell me she slept with one of the guys from the party I was abused at a month prior and wasn’t going to tell me. She said she only did it so she could get more cocaine.I was shocked. It partly made me feel better for what I had done, but obviously I still felt bad, and now even worse.

Hen she came home from jail,  We made up and got drunk, and she moved in with me due to a restraining order prohibiting her to go home. All she would talk about was how badly she wanted to do meth and heroin. It truly broke my heart. I did everything I possibly could to change her mind and help her in any way I could. I had seen the light within her so many times, and I knew there was a REASON i fell in love with her so strongly. She was everything..and she gave it all to the drugs as I did the same. Slowly, then quickly, we were nothing but sad and empty shells of who we were when we fell in love. The only thing harder than having a loved one die, is having the person you love most die mentally, emotionally, and spiritually before your eyes, and then screaming into the void as they slip through your fingers into the deadly trap of hell. She eventually walked out of my house, to go to meth and heroin. She broke a promise we had made to each other to never do it again. And I sobbed as the love of my life, willingly got into a car that would lead her to death. My wrist was sprained and my body was badly bruised from trying to stop her from leaving the night before. She beat me senseless for it. I broke up with her, knowing she had made a choice she wouldn’t come back from. It was, and remains, one of the hardest things i’ve ever had to do. But there comes a point where you have to realize, no matter how much you love someone, no matter how much history you have, no matter how many nights you dream about them and wake up in tears reaching for their presence, you have to walk away. I suffered serious grief, and I’m still dealing with it to this day.

That night, I got drunk with my friends, and saved some gin for the next morning.

MAY 28 2018

I woke up, drank some of the gin, broke up with her in person, went home, drank the rest and proceeded to drink bleach, followed by a chaser of hydrogen peroxide. This is when my dad found me, foaming from the mouth on the floor, and I was taken via ambulance to the hospital.

Upon arriving, I was labeled a miracle. They didn’t even have to pump my stomach. But they did have a harder job…fighting my insanity. As I looked at the clock, in the empty room that was now way too familiar to me, each second that ticked by was like a knife in my heart. She’s gonna die. I need to get out of here. She’s probably fucking someone else. This is all my fault. I have to save her. Today, December 13th 2018, I heard something I ish I would have heard 7 months ago. “You can carry the message, but you cannot carry the addict.” To me, this means that despite our efforts, we wil only be as helpful as they will allow us to be. I described that time, as me screaming and screaming for her to stop, without taking into consideration that she couldn’t hear me. But, she can see me. So truly, I can set an example and I can carry on doing what I’m doing. I must spare my voice for those who can hear, and demonstrate my proof in recovery for those who can see.

I hadn’t yet figured this out, so what did I do as panic filled my bloodstream? I screamed. I cried and i began to run out of my room, only to be stopped by doctors, and thrown back onto the bed as they held me down. I was sobbing violently, and screaming terrible things at these doctors who knew something I didn’t, i was terminally and life threateningly sick.  They tied my arms and legs to the bed, so I began to spit at them. They put a mask over my face So I began to hit my head violently on the bars I was bound to, while screaming that they were horrible people, and if they didn’t let me out, the love of my life was going to die. They put a vest on me which strapped to the back of the bed, prohibiting any movement. One doctor later told me that in all of his years working there, they had never had to use such restraints before. Nobody expects me to be such a flaming burst of violence, but I was sick. I was addicted, I was an alcoholic, I was heartbroken and confused. I felt I was dying, and wanted to speed up the process.

I was involuntarily taken to fairfax, and it was my first time in the adult unit. My whole stay there, i remained the youngest patient, and I met several people with amazing stories. I think I may publish the journal I kept while in all these institutions…it really was one hell of a something. There is one experience I will bring up and talk about, because it truly was the beginning of events that saved my life. A man who was leaving the day after I arrived, heard me talk about my alcohol use and drug abuse. He came up to me and handed me a blue book, I had to look closely to read the title, Alcoholics Anonymous. I almost laughed. He told me the book changed his life, and that I needed to read it and then pass it along to someone else. I thought he was crazy. But I ended up reading it while I was there. Suddenly I..switched. It was like the lights turned on in my head and I could see. It talked about addiction being an allergy to substance, a disease that was far more than moral corruption.  The book encouraged the reader to make amends to any person they had harmed while suffering from insanity, and to find a higher power. After being mormon, I was far from a believer in God. I was taught to fear him, and treated as his slave for the majority of my life. But I somehow developed my own personal relationship, with my own individual God. I talk to him often even to this day.

I had set up appointments for out patient care with the drug and alcohol counselor while I was in there, but I didn’t follow through for quite some time. Upon discharge, I had vowed to myself that I was cured, and that I would never pick up again. Within about 3 weeks, I started smoking weed again. I was under the impression that by doing so, I wasn’t doing any harm whatsoever. But I was quickly proved wrong when the day before my 2 month mark of being free from alcohol, I drank. I swore to only take a sip or two, but when my friends would turn around, i would steal more sips. As much as i could. I was instantly thrown back into the insanity of drinking, and it only got worse. They say your addiction picks up where it left off, and that couldn’t be more true. I was drunk every day, all day, I dropped out of my GED program, I started doing coke again and I was evil. I set up an appointment to go to IOP, intensive outpatient treatment. I met with her once, and then before our next meeting scheduled for a week later, I had relapsed on meth. I told her what had been going on, and that I’d been taking extra anti anxiety meds, mixing them with alcohol and getting high off them. She told me she had to let me go, that I needed more help than she could give me. At this point, I was powerless. Nobody really liked me anymore. I didn’t talk to my family. My biological siblings had cut me out of their life after informing me I was a horrid example and a bad person. I was sick.

Most people eat breakfast when they wake up. Not me. I’d wake up confused, sometimes in places I didn’t recognize with people I didn’t know. And I’d spend my day trying to figure out what happened the night before. I’d spend my days apologizing to the people I had lied to, or physically hurt in my drunken binge. But even after assaulting my best friends, I kept drinking. I felt as though my use was against my will. I was merely a puppet to my addictions.

The next thing I knew, I ended up on a 5 day alcohol, and meth bender with some people I shouldn’t have been with. I can’t recall the details of the bender, but I still have videos on my phone that taunt me, I look back at them when I feel myself justifying another drink. I never want to be that shallow, hopeless, hurtful shell ever again. I was toxically out of control.

This bender lead me to make a life changing decision. I decided I was done being a slave to my disease, I was done being the person I swore I would never be. I was tired of hurting everyone I loved, letting them all down and breaking every promise over and over again.

I went home, and detoxed myself for a day before realizing the extent of the impact this addiction had taken on my body. I thought I was going to die..and for the first time, I didn’t want to. I wanted to live. Actually live. For the first time. I realized that for the past 6 years I had been running, non stop, away from my own mind and imaginatin. I hadn’t even stopped to breathe and suddenly, for even a moment, I stopped and I was terrified that I couldn’t catch my breath. Had I really let my selfishness get the best of me? Was I really that bad of a person?

After sweating, freezing, hyperventalating, having terrible joint and muscle pain, tossing and turning trying to get my heart to stop beating so rapidly out of my collapsing chest, I had a friend come over. The same friend that was ruffeed three years ago while I was taken advantage of. The same friend that had been there for me through thick and thin, the same friend I had hurt so many times. She encouraged me to call lakeside milam, the rehab center I swore I would never go to just because of what I’d heard about them. She didn’t tell me it was them, she just handed me the phone and once they said “Hi lakeside milam how may I help you?” I hung up the phone. Somehow, by the grace of God, I got the courage to call back, and make an appointment for an assessment. I went to the assessment, and they told me the same words I’d been hearing for months, “if you don’t stop, you’re going to die. Your addiction wants you dead, and I don’t think you deserve to suffer in it’s grasp anymore. You owe this to your family, and to yourself.”

I went. I spent the next 30 days in intensive treatment, where I finally broke free from the chains I had given myself. I finally recieved the proper education I needed about my condition and what was going on inside of my body. I finally took back control, and im happy to tell you that I’m still clean and sober. My ex? She still suffers. Many of my friends have died, from addiction, from recklessness, and from suicide. Many of my friends still aren’t fully trusting of me or healed from the damage I did, and I cant blame them. I’m happy to say I can finally breathe, I feel emotions good and bad but at least I know they’re mine and they aren’t synthetic. I can look people in the eyes without lying. I realized, I wasn’t a bad person trying to get good, I was a sick person trying to get well.

Whoever you are, wherever you are, I want you to know I believe in you. I want you to know that if you weren’t worthy of this life, you wouldn’t still be here. Sometimes all you have is the sky above you and I know how lonely that is. But I promise you, the sky can be enough. The sky understands you even if nobody else does. Cling to whatever you can, whatever you need to. The ground beneath your feet is willingly holding you up, because it wants to. The space around you is fully allowing you to be there, and it accepts you however you are in any moment. If you don’t see a purpose in yourself, find a purpose in something. Anything. And trust, that we were each put on this earth for a reason. Somebody needs to hear your laugh. Somebody needs to see your smile, and hear your story. One day, when you get through all of this bullshit that you KNEW would be the end of you, you’re going to shine so brightly, you’re going to be living proof that anything is possible and you’re going to save lives, just be living yours. I love you. You’re precious. If youre sick, if youre stuggling, if youre giving up, look up to the sky and know that it’s going to be okay. It takes action, it takes bravery, it takes nights of screaming and sometimes nights of saying nothing at all, but I swear to you, and I bare my deepest utter testimony to EACH of you, that you will not only survive, you will grow, and the world will cower at your brilliance. Don’t give up. No matter what.

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canvas

Picture a canvas. Picture a canvas so virgin, as untouched as the sun. So unwanted, as outcasted from color as Satan was from heaven, that you’d rather projectile vomit onto its vacancy simply to replace that dreadfully, neglected, boring, little canvas. No easel, no paint, no color, no effort, not a single fingerprint or SPECK OF CONTACT JUST THAT dreadfully, neglected, boring, little canvas….that I adore. 

Perhaps to you, strange creature, my little canvas is constructed of nothing but cotton. Cotton woven in a million different ways by an unknown object of society to create a CANVAS, a canvas who could hold the next biggest masterpiece of our time, a canvas who was designed to collect the dreams and thoughts of our strange and mislead species a canvas who…..who is so dreadfully overlooked and under used and it drives me insane because…..I care too much.

It wasn’t out of the ordinary for me to spend days on end away from home doing nothing productive, speaking the words of the crowd and following in the footsteps of the falling. All my life I was told I was different. That I would lead others and inspire the whole damn congregation just by opening my mouth but when I got there, the pews were empty. The lights were off. The podium was covered in dust and all I could hear was my own breath getting heavier and the faint buzz of struggling electricity as I flipped on the only light left untouched. I was too late. And for the millionth time, I found myself sitting in the back row of the pews with my head in my hands, wishing I was at an airport. Had I have been in the airport, I’d at least know there’d be another flight. Another chance. Another way to get to where I was going. And when I had finally accepted there wasn’t, I realized I needed to go somewhere else. But in the midst of my traveling I got caught in the loop of the falling. The ones who walk in circles until the ground begins to soften and break beneath their weight, taking them to the core of the earth where they are burned by the magma of its veins. I know that sugar coating was a bit too sweet but I hope it was cinematic enough to work. Everyone breaks their diets at the movies. Who cares? It’s the movies, eat until you have diabetes………..

I used to go to the movies a lot. I think about it when I’m sitting at the beach with my feet dangling over the 6 foot concrete wall separating it from the busy streets of arrogant people. They don’t think to ask…why….why is she sitting there so late at night all alone in a circle of broken bottles staring at nothing? But if they did ask, I’d tell them I wasn’t looking at nothing. I was thinking about the movies. How sometimes the big black night sky reminds me of the big screens that I used to look up at as a little girl. They were so big compared to me then, like the sky is now. My mom always told me that I’d be in one someday. Little did she know Im starting to think that I am, just without anyone recording it. Which is why I decided to go out and buy a dreadfully, neglected, boring, little canvas. 

My doctor prescribed me a psychiatrist who prescribed me a lock and key for the darker parts of my mind, which demanded to be let out. My therapist prescribed me a canvas to absorb them when they do. So I bought one, brought it home, and stared almost as blankly as the little thing before me. Whats the first thing you think when you start to paint? Typically I’d expect one to say, “I think about what I want to create.” but…what if our answer shouldn’t involve an ‘I want’, what if it should involve a burning passion to create something that WANTS to be created. What if we don’t get to decide. What If it doesn’t want me to paint it at all……..what if it does…I want to so badly I do I do but does it want me the same? What if it can’t breathe under the paint I wish to smother it with and it drowns in a futile attempt to be beautiful? what if I can’t paint. I continue reflecting the canvas as these thoughts clutter my brain, the voices getting louder and louder. Until the “what if”‘s disappear and leave nothing but statements. I can’t paint. It can’t breathe. It will drown in a futile attempt to be beautiful. BUT THATS THE THING. IT ALREADY IS. 

EACH LITTLE STRAND OF COTTON WAS WEAVED SO DELICATELY INTO THIS PERFECTLY RECTANGULAR CANVAS. IT HOLDS NOTHING BUT MYSTERY, OPPORTUNITY, A SYMBOL THAT ANYTHING CAN HAPPEN, THAT WE HAVE THE POWER TO CREATE WHATEVER WE WANT. AND WHEN WE DO, IT WILL NOT RETALIATE OR ATTACK IT WILL STAY GENTLE AND ACCEPT OUR INTENTION AND THOUGHT REGARDLESS OF ITS OWN And I think……I think thats beautiful. I think that’s more beautiful than anything anyone can paint.

So I will not paint the canvas….but that drives me insane because…I love you. I love you and all your quirks and passions, I love you and all of your thoughts and attempts to show your love even though I know its only for the image. I love you and you love…..you love…colors. pop music. perfection. you have a synthetic imagination. and that’s why we will not work.

Because you love the painting. 

And I love the canvas.

You need color to find something beautiful 

I don’t need anything at all.

You want me to sign my name on the art I give you 

While I wanted to show you art. 

May you never get close enough to a masterpiece, to burn it to ash again.

Don’t look at this canvas, it is not mine, nor yours, nor his or hers. It is as it is, dreadfully, neglected, boring, beautiful little canvas. And it intends to remain that way.

You taught me why my mom believed in me. Because I, at the time, was an empty canvas. And you wanted me to be made for you. So you took out your scissors, your colors, and your brush. You molded me into the person you loved. And she acted a lot like you. She missed the crowd she was supposed to move, the screens she was supposed to fill, the ears she was supposed to sing to. She is now, a tattered canvas sitting on a 6 foot wall in a ring of broken bottles, holding an empty canvas. 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Are you scared?

   Harry Houdini, an illusionist and stunt artist from Budapest Hungary, is considered to have been one of the most captivating and mysterious individuals ever to exist. His confidence in defying the inevitability of death shook the world, and always left his audience on the edge of their seats. From escaping a seemingly secure milk can full of water, to walking through a brick wall, his illusions held the world at his gaze. But they were just that, illusions. A magician never reveals their secrets, and perhaps this is because the audience is their secret weapon. How is that possible? The only way optical illusions can be effective, is if they are gazed upon by the human eye. It is the human eye which perceives the image, and the human brain that alters its meaning. Thus, even the greatest magicians and illusionists, like harry houdini, stand no chance against the human brain. Our minds create illusions every day; when our vision is replaced with the vacancy of light, when our subconscious creates possibility, and when we convince ourselves that the illusions are not illusions at all. Those are only three of the many illusions humans create, but perhaps taking a closer look will expose a few more tricks hiding up your sleeve.

One of the most common causes of mishap in perception takes place so often, that many people are nose blind to its impairing ways; the vacancy of light. There is one major difference between the sun kissed comfort of day time, and the echoing darkness of night. No, it’s not the decrease of human activity as the sun goes down, or the increase of artificial street lights for those brave souls choosing to race dawn home. As night falls, we experience something more drastic than we take credit for. We lose control of one of our most vital senses; sight. Suddenly, as the bright ball of fire climbs down from its throne to sleep, the canvas before us seems to turn into the edge of the world, a path into an infinite nothingness. In the unpredictable nature of darkness, humans lose the privilege of deciphering images based on detail, color, distance, etc. Every image becomes stripped of its authenticity, replaced by a silhouette, or made invisible all together. Have you ever been engulfed in darkness, either at night time or in a room with no windows or light, and placed your hand in front of your eyes, being sure it’s in your field of view? I have tested this theory countless times for myself and have been intrigued by the results. As the waves of shadows engulf the fabric of air around me, the image of my hand is non-existent. As if the darkness had stolen it all together. But had it? No. My hand was indeed still there, the image was just distorted into the space around it. Just like the mystery of disappearing magicians, our minds have the power of tricking us into a blind reality. Now, could houdini pull something like that off? Maybe, if he turned off the lights. No matter the talent, no magician could create an illusion by taking away the senses of human nature the way our minds can.

Think about that. How many things exist without your eyes approval? Does that scare you? Everyone is afraid of something. Think of fear as a sprinkle of human instinct. It gets mixed into the batter of logic and soul to pull the flavor together. Without fear, we would never be cautious, and without being cautious, we’d never slow down before a red light, never look both ways before crossing the street, never lock the door, etc. Thus, avoiding danger would be nearly impossible. This is the very reason we have fear, to keep us on our toes. There is an infinite field of fears and where they stem from. One of the hair raising branches on the tree of fear, is paranoia; the deceitful illusion that your worst fears are coming to life, or even breathing down your neck.  Not everyone meets the gaze of paranoia in their day to day life, but it’s noticeably more present when we are facing the unknown. When people don’t have control over things, they tend to panic, or create assumptions. These assumptions are what create the illusion that illogical fear is rational. Just as the darkness can take away our vision, our minds can use it to alter images, processing a distant shadow as a possible threat, rather than just blowing it off. It is this need for understanding and proof that can either save us or trick us into cowering. It is human nature to crave explanation, to chase the answers rather than avoid the questions, but what do we do when we can’t find the answers? We become paranoid. A good example of this can be found in multiple movies and TV shows, it is the infamous ongoing quote, “It’s just the wind”. For those who are unfamiliar with the line, it was never actually just the wind. A noise would be heard, whether it be a whisper or a shaking of bushes in the distance, and the assumptions would kick in. What could it be? Where was it coming from? The phrase “it’s just the wind” is used to convince the fear that it’s unnecessary. But how do we know? When we hear a possible threat, but we can’t see it to confirm the source, we think quickly and often drastically, as if we’re grieving our own death before even closing our eyes.

Our minds are more powerful than we acknowledge. We have the power of convincing ourselves things are there when they aren’t, just by thinking about it. As humans, it seems we believe what is easiest to believe; but easiest doesn’t necessarily mean good. Have you ever known something was unhealthy for you and wanted it anyway? Maybe it was hitting snooze on your alarm clock and sleeping through an important meeting, or procrastinating on a project. For some it could be as simple as breaking a diet, and for others it could be more impairing, like a toxic relationship or substance abuse. Some call it denial, others call it oblivion, but I like to call this illusion the silent killer. Think of your life as a work out. Maybe you’d like to improve your stamina or build some muscle, either way it’s going to take hard work. This is where many people give up, stop working out and either deny that they’re out of shape or stop caring altogether. Why? Because it’s easier to be lazy, it’s easier to ignore the issue. But without the pain and sweat of lifting weights or running a mile, no progress will be made. And this is exactly what makes denial such a damaging illusion. In this life, not everybody is working out, but everybody is facing things in their day to day. Communication, work, school, individual conflict, whatever it may be, we constantly have the option to ignore our issues or face them. Many people are trapped in toxic relationships, or addictions simply because it’s easier for them to believe what they want to believe. It would hurt to face the fact that the person they love is hurting them, so they convince themselves they aren’t. It would be hard to turn down temptation, so they convince themselves they don’t have to. This is a vicious cycle that can easily consume even the most dedicated and honest of people.

Perhaps the human mind is so advanced, that we’ll never be able to reveal all of its secrets. But noticing the illusions in your life can certainly make you think twice. From altered perception in the dark, constructing situations out of fear, and smiling in the face of our greatest weaknesses, our minds can trick us more than Harry Houdini ever could. Watch as the darkness steals your hand from under your nose, feel as the distant sound of wind sends your heart racing through possibilities, and stay cautious as denial shifts your eyes away from danger, sending you blind as you walk towards it. Do we ever see things as they are? Deciphering illusion from reality seems nearly impossible, but as proved here, our minds are stronger than we think.

The Brady Bunch From Hell

I never thought I would write about something quite like this, or even experience it for that matter..family. Now, don’t get me wrong, I wasn’t raised in a shitty orphanage somewhere in the hills of Serbia, but the lasting damage of my childhood and the stress of my adoption has seriously taken a tole on me. In my life, I never knew the abuse I was facing was..”abuse” at all. If you see the world with no color, your whole life, then you don’t know color to exist. You only know the pale shades of grey and black, blurring together and taunting you, like your life is being drawn before your eyes with a dull pencil that could snap at any moment. It wasn’t until recently that I’ve been introduced to the brightest of colors, and the happiest of dysfunctional families.

I was a child. Blinded by the normalcy of over exposure. How was I to know I was treated any differently or exposed to awful things when to me, those awful things were my normal day to day life. It wasn’t until about 3rd grade that I started to realize things were not going as smoothly for me and my adoptive family as everyone else. I remember walking back from recess one day at school, and asking my neighbor, “How many times has your mom been to the mental hospital?” and when she gave me that look…that look of concern that I seemed to get every time I spoke of my home life, it sent chills down my spine as I realized, she never had. As I realized that I was probably the only 8 year old girl in my entire town, or maybe the entire world who was dealing with the things I was dealing with.  And from that moment on, the fucked up spider web began to unfold, revealing the corpses of each dream, smile, and hopeful wish within it. Now yes, you read that correctly, my adoptive mother was hospitalized several times throughout my childhood for physical, as well as mental issues. Mostly depression, bipolar, and addiction to alcohol and meds of various sorts. That whole thing was a mess that i’ll get into maybe in a different post, but regardless of the issues she faced, my mother was the most loving, thoughtful, caring and inspiring woman I have encountered to this day. She filled me with a doubtless sense of confidence in myself and my safety even when threats were at hand. She was my voice, my song, my ear, my eye, and every beat of my fickle minded heart. When I was 13 years old, my mother passed away after a 2 year battle with cancer, leaving me with two souls that at the time, I did not relate to, nor want to relate to. I had lost my safe place, my comfort, my home, my mom.

After losing my mother, I was afraid that I would never feel that sense of belonging again. That I was now drifting, free falling through a world that I knew nothing about, and didnt want to be in. In the following months of my mothers passing, I stayed with several families a week, in search of a taste of love, belonging, safety, and comfort. I got my first tastes of functional family life in those months, and it all ended with my very first heart break. How sappy. that heart break was so bad and roughly timed, that I left the state, moving all the way to idaho to live with my grandma and grandpa. My stay with them was vital to my character, and lead me to meeting my first love. I moved back to seattle to be with her, I stayed at her house most of the time for the two years we were together, and though I loved her, I eventually had no choice but to leave, the same way I had to leave my family. She stabbed me. She beat me. She loved me, she hated me. Being as my normalcy growing up was as toxic and colorless as her soul, I allowed it, and I became almost dependent on her and her awful treatment. After leaving her, a world of new opportunity, a world of belonging and love and acceptance was quickly introduced to me.

halloween with the whole squad 20 of us fucked up
from the left, we have rachel, rosie, andrea, elana, alexa, crystal, me lookin like a drugged up cowgirl, taylor, and kira on halloween haha

I didn’t want to make this post to complain about my colorless past, but rather to express my gratitude for my new world of color. Color so bright I could honestly cry now and then, color that I can help others see, color that we’re all seeing for the first time together. It all started with my friend Kira. Such a sweetheart in all honesty, i call her the moon because she keeps everyone balanced and gravitates such good energy. She was upset one night over a charming boy she was conflicted over at the time (rip justin…we love you so much) so we set off on an adventure that changed my life forever. We found a group of people hanging out in the safeway parking lot just down the road from my house, and we were gravitated towards them. Out popped a young girl, with a million smileys and half as many bruises. She was beautiful, in her own way, which may just be what makes her so captivating. Somehow, someway, we ended up getting in the car with her and her friend Kaleb, and going down to the kent street races. We spent a lot of time together that night but I had no idea how muc more we would in the following months. As my circle of friends grew, shrunk, and switched quite often, our happy little family slowly began to come together. At first it was just the typical “safeway squad”, with everyone who would hangout there. Slowly, we met more people and I somehow brought them all together. I met rosie one night, after having a mental breakdown and getting a concussion from my ex…when one door closes, another one opens right? Haha, anyway, we became super close and our whole group started hanging out at her trailer. Previous to knowing any of these fools, I knew taylor. She was a friend of mine during the summer, and we kinda just fell away from each other. She hit me up needing somewhere to go, and having been homeless before hand I was egar to help her. I brought her in with her friend crystal, and decided to introduce them to squad. Fast forward a couple more months, and I have finally achieved something I thought I never would….a dysfunctional nirvana. Ironic isn’t it? I finally have a family, and can see in color again. So many of my friends in the group have recently reached out to me to thank ME for bringing them together and showing THEM color. One even said this year will be the first holiday season she can actually enjoy and spend with people she loves because of me. Honestly that makes me tear up just thinking about it….how could these beautiful people thank someone like me for such a glorious thing? They’ve done so much for me and IM so truly blessed. We spend all day talking to each other in our group chats, and we hangout all the time, going on adventures, kickin it in a parking lot, having parties or just talking and learning and goofin around. Even though some of us are truly damaged and crazy, mostly me LOL, we still have each others backs…I was shocked about four days ago. I felt at the end of my rope, and told taylor. I was sitting in my room contemplating things when i look up to see kelsie standing in my bedroom, and honestly i wasn’t surprised, that girl is wild. After talking to her for a bit I came outside to see my whole messed up family of hoodlums standing outside of my house with love in their hearts and arms wide open for my crazy ass. If only they knew how much that really meant to me…even the police officer that came that night said she was impressed.

Thank you Kelsie, Taylor, Crystal, Ryan, Andrea,  Elana, Alexa, Kaleb, Will, Trevor, Jamie, Zach, Kat, Tilly, Rosie, Rachel, Forest, Connor, and all of you beautiful mother fuckers for giving me something to smile about every day, something to look forward to, and a sense of belonging that i have spent my whole life without. Through thick and thin I promise to love you all, you crazy bastards.

17 going on..and on

In the 1965 musical drama “The sound of music”, nearly every audience adored the scene in which one of the most carried on songs “16 going on 17” was preformed. Of course i always sung this song, until i realized how pitiful this age really is, now i’d wanna think of anything but this cursed age of mine…seventeen. There’s a huge difference between the empowering age of sixteen, and the somewhat comically depressing age of seventeen. When youre sixteen, everything is still so new and intruiging, youre exploring yourself and exploring this world and you seem to have it nearly figured out. You spend all your life hearing glamorized stories of the age, first cars, sweet sixteen parties, first kisses and boyfriends and legal right to consent. Seventeen though? Dear lord who may or may not be in heaven, I’m confused. Theres no talk about this horridly in the dark age, no big party, no new abilities. It’s right smack in between the best year of teenhood, and the first year of adulthood. And boy oh boy have i gone astray.
Everybody made it look so easy, you just wake up, go to school, go to work, and bam you’re set and beautiful things unfold. But nobody told me it was gonna be..this hard. I haven’t even written a sentence in ages, which is making this wildly frustrating as my vocabulary has crumbled to that of a sixth graders and my organization seizes to exist. I guess I’m trying to write this now because i can be whoever I want when I write, hiding between the letters and the pages, blanketed between the lines I write upon, and within my words I’m safe, I’m accepted, I’m honest. Not that I’m not honest already, I’m just too blurry in human form to really know my own truth, but on the page I can reread until it makes sense, until i understand maybe even a fraction of my own unfiltered thoughts. I miss who I was a year ago. Maybe it’s ludacris to want to go backwards in progress. I always say “you can never lose progress, life is like a giant flight of stairs and going backwards is impossible. Sure the steps may take time and you can spend ages stalling on one of them stairing up ahead, but you can never go back”. But negative nancy over here doesnt quite agree with positive polly like she used to. I was so in my element, I was healthy, I was taken care of, I had what i needed, I was motivated, I was happy, I was…me. And ya ya i know im the only thing stopping me from being who and where i want to be but..IM so much more damaged now than i was then.
I feel almost as though I had finally conqured my past, all the abandonment i suffered as a youngster and the neglect and trauma that came with it, I had made peace with it and more so I was thankful that it all happened the way it did, because I had turned into such a grown and beautiful soul. I was wise beyond my years and I had full use of my mind and memory and more importantly my imagination. You know, I havent really felt human since the last time I was here, which coinsidentally was the first time i ever really wrote. Exactly a year ago, I was here, sitting in this same rocking chair in this same room that oddly looks like it was stolen from africa, writing and writing and thinking and thinking, taking breaks to call Abby and then going out with my family. I remember sitting in here on christmas last year on the phone with her for hours…talking about how much I adore this planet and everything in it, how beautiful all the animals are and hpw rich the untouched parts of this life are in soul and vibrancy. I miss who I was when I was with Abby. As deeply as I try to avoid the ever so complicated and constroversal topic, having her to support me and keep me in check and inspire me really was..beautiful. Sometimes I forget that, after everything she did to me. Because i dont think shes worthy of being dwelled on positivley. But she is, she really is and good god that new boy of hers better cherish her like shes the sun the moon and every other planet, like shes the stars, the gravity holding him down and also the wings holding him up. Anyway, forgive me for getting off topic, I just feel as though before, I could have conquered anything, been delt any card and made it my bitch. But now, I feel beaten down and slow, tired, scared, like i’ve essentially given up on this life. I have no plan for myself, no interests, no hobbies, all i do is get drunk. I was homeless for 2 months and I feel like somewhere along my beaten and cold path, “positive polly” is still there, just ost and maybe a bit dusty. Which is why i’ve decided that while I’m here, in this exotic room on this amazingly comfortable rocking chair, sober and desperate for a miracle, I’m going to write every day, whether it be on here or just in my journal, in hopes of finding some direction within myself, and reconnecting with the girl i know is begging for help. Help that only i have the power to give.
If i know anything about this girl, it’s that shes lost. She’s afraid of love, so afriad that it’s become completley impossible for her to show it, accept it, or feel it. And let me tell you, thats a lonely feeling. This girl has given up, and feels nothing at all. Not peace, not passion, not joy, not care, nothing but the slight sting of bitterness always pushing her mind. Theres a pressure somewhere inside of her building up by the second she just…i just dont know where to release it. You see, this girl was never lost before, simply because in her mind there was no such thing as lost, only exploration, which meant every unfamiliar path was a new voyage towards new discovery and adventure. This girl was so loving and so loved and she has so much of it to give, she loved to love so much that she loved even the darkest of creatures who did the darkest of things to her, and she would always forgive because she understood what darkness needed, just a bit of light, light that she had so much of. This girl never gave up, in fact in a way i suppose she still hasn’t. This girl felt everything so strongly, her peace could calm wars, her passion could write novels and symphonies, her joy was contagious and she cared so so so much about every living creature, every dead creature, every still creature, every thought and atom every ripple in space…this girl was 16 going on 17. Now this girl is 17 going on and on, into the darkness. And her light has been given to the one she loved and trusted the most, who selfishly ran with it to a new and beautiful life.
So I suppose I must find a way to find myself, and reegnite the flame that once burned so brightly, so freely, so that i may lead myself home. Ally, I love you, Im sorry i let you down. I promise I will run to you, and knock your demons down, and they’ll pay for what they’ve done to you, i’ll kick them to the ground, we’ll take to flight like we used to and get home safe and sound.