For the Long Haul

It feels like it’s been quite some time since I’ve last posted but in reality it’s only been a month or two.  Just to fill you in, I was diagnosed bipolar 2 back in early 2014 but last year I convinced myself that I wasn’t bipolar and didn’t need any medication.  It’s was a pretty rocky road from there but I don’t mind hypomania that much, it’s always easy to go off medication then because you never remember what the depression is like.  And here I am, crawling through each day, clinging onto what little strength I have left.  I went to the psychiatrist today and I’m back on a mood stabilizer, and she added an antidepressant as well.  I’m thankful because I know logically that this means I will start feeling better but sometimes it’s so hard to picture the future.  Most of the time I feel like I may not even make it to the future.

Today it really set in that being bipolar for me is something that isn’t a one and done type of thing, I have had depressive episodes before and each time they seem to be worse than the one before them.  My biggest issue this time around is actually allowing people to see what depression does.  I honestly feel rather ashamed that I’m back in this state, I charge myself with an impossible mission of trying to overcome it all on my own.  I suppose in certain ways I’ve made progress, I no longer cut myself, and I also no longer throw up on purpose.  Perhaps I need to take more stock in winning the smaller battles throughout the war.

This time around it’s been a lot of crying.  I’m pretty convinced that I had a never ending supply of tears.  No one has seen me cry though, besides on accident if I let my boyfriend see me this way.  I want to do it more often but I just feel like such a freak.  Why would he want someone so broken?  It doesn’t make any sense to me.  I feel like screaming all the time, I’m so angry and it’s simply exhausting.  I wish it didn’t have to be me.  And at other times when I’m feeling particularly vindictive I wish it upon others because I want them to feel the pain that I’m feeling, I want to cry and shake them because I need them to know how real this all feels to me.  Coming to terms with the fact that your mind is essentially trying to kill you is an odd one, well, part of my mind at least.  It’s like really want to swallow all the pills I got today, but also not letting myself.  I wish I was dead but it’s not because I want to be dead it’s just sometimes it seems a relief, a respite from this constant pain.  Unfortunately, it’s also permanent and I might just be a little too damn narcissistic to handle that factor.  I also feel like killing myself now would be like someone who is diagnosed with like stage 1 cancer killing themselves.  Like there’s a definite chance it’ll be manageable and you can live a happy life.  Just hard to get that clear perspective when I’m really down.

It’s really odd to say I’m feel very optimistic when I’m this depressed but I honestly am.  I’m sick and I got medicine today.  It will get better.  It also helps that my boyfriend has been an absolute rock throughout this, some of the most therapeutic, healing moments that I’ve ever experienced have been with him.  One in particular I won’t forget which is when he came into my apartment picked me up like a baby and set me on his lap and just let me cry.  It’s in moments like those, and moods like this, where there is so much pain but at the same time I know I can let go and talk about how much I’m hurting and I know someone is listening and someone will hold my hand while I heal.

I’m committed to this life, I want my future with him, I want my future with children in it and I want to be successful and I know that I can be.  It’s tough as fuck, and it hurts like hell but in a weird way I know that it will make me appreciate the good so much more.  What I figure is if I’m at the bottom, it can only go up from here, right?  I’m a fighter, a survivor and you can bet your ass that I’ll make it through this bought too.



Well, well, well, it has been quite some time hasn’t it?  For the record, I believe it has been a positive absence as instead of blogging out most of my negative feelings I have been talking them out, and expressing them in a healthy manner.  However, some emotions have been buried so deep within oneself it’s an adequate amount harder to express them the way one wants.  Before this, these experiences were only addressed when they showed up as undesired flashes, as fragments of unwanted memories.  I had strong feelings about what happened, but they’re painful, and sometimes the easier thing is to pretend that they don’t exist.

Unfortunately, or perhaps fortunately they cannot be evaded any longer.  Due to all the news and media attention about Brock Turner, and other criminals guilty of sexual assault and/or rape I have been forced to see the words more than once every day.  At first, I tried to ignore as I’ve always done.  Pretend it doesn’t actually happen, pretend it didn’t happen to me, pretend that I’m okay, pretend that I don’t have any feelings on the subject.  As a result of his early release, and for another individual a sentence much too short for the crime because “it would have too much of an adverse affect on them” my head felt like it had been scrambled.  Things I had hoped would stay buried forever began to surface and it’s time I talked about them.

I’m titling this post violation because that’s what sexual assault is, that’s what rape is.  It is a violation, a taking of an intimacy that is so delicate to a person that it has an effect on the rest of their life.  Out of curiousity I looked up synonyms for violation, those that came up in the search results included: ruin, defacing, dishonor, devastation, desecration, invasion, destruction, assault, and outrage.  The last one is what struck me, outrage.  Damn right it is.

Usually when these memories come around, I cower, I freeze, I am ashamed of what happened to me.  I blame myself, even though it’s not my fault.  However, as time has gone on these emotions that has been building and growing, and it’s time to allow myself to heal.  I know I may never fully recover from the flashes that induce the panic, or the anxiety when I’m near men but it’s high time I let myself dress my deeper wounds instead of ignoring them.

To the men who hurt me,

Yes.  You hurt me.  You hurt me.  If I have to type that a thousand times I will.  But what I need is for you to know that YOU hurt me.  I want to scream this at your face.  I want to grab your head and slam it into a wall because I know that’s just the beginning of what you deserve.  This is a concept that took awhile for me to grasp because I didn’t want to give you that power, the power that you affected the rest of my life.  As much as it hurts, and I have to tell you that you have no idea nor could you handle how much it hurts.

To the man who took my virginity without my consent.  You made me into a victim, you took something from me that was not within your rights to take.  How dare you.  You are a piece of shit.  You wanted to keep going, I said no, I said no, and I said no and all you seemed to hear was go.  You said that I’d like it, funny thing is- I didn’t.  I didn’t like how much it hurt, how I had to bike home and I couldn’t sit on the seat, I didn’t like when I got home and I looked down there was blood staining my underwear.  I didn’t like feeling so confused because I really liked you, and I thought you liked me too, then why would you use me like that.  The next day you acted like nothing had happened.  And that’s what I convinced myself had happened, nothing.  But something did happen and it broke me.

To the second man who sexually assaulted me you would not be able to handle how hard it is to breathe, how hard it is to stay calm when flashes are coming back of screaming, of you slamming my head into a headboard.  When you left, I looked at myself in my black framed mirror, and I will never forget that moment where I saw myself and I was ashamed.  I saw the blood on my head, and I felt the throbbing pain in my shoulder and as I looked around and saw the bite marks that drew blood.  And the aftermath, the part where I was aching in my most private places, how I got in the shower and the water touched the cuts down there from you, they burned.  I threw up.  How I looked down and I saw the hand prints from you hitting me, the red marks on arms where you held me down.  I tasted the blood from my lip where you bit through it.  I hated myself in that moment for being so weak.  Looking back it now, there was no escape, I can’t blame myself for something that you did.  How when I fought you got harder and harder, and when I actually landed a blow you said, “I get off on pain.”  And that you did.  You got off on my pain, and my blood.  You are the reason I have hellish flashbacks.  Flashbacks where the blood due to my cuts located inside my body, yes inside my body, was on your hand and you licked it off each fingertip and I will never be able to get rid of the look in your eyes as you did so.  You took the fight out of me as in a moment of dread I realized there was nothing that could be done, that you wanted me to struggle.  You put that washcloth in my mouth and I couldn’t breathe, I couldn’t scream because you knew that my dorm was out on an ice cream trip. And still you felt the need to put your hand around my neck and throw me down, you took the cloth out of my mouth and choked me while you thrust yourself on me, back and forth, back and forth, I can’t breathe, I can’t think, I can’t scream, you tightened your grip and as you thrusted you threw back my head to hit the board.  I wish I had passed out at that moment, to spare myself.  I thought I had never felt so alone in my life until that night when I crawled into my bed and I couldn’t close my eyes because whenever I did it was like it was happening all over again.  One of the worst parts was afterward I wanted you to like me, it had to be justified there had to be a reason to make it better.

Now the part that you men never got to see was the damage that had been done.  I became a shell of my normal self.  I started to think that sexual acts were only about pleasing a man, I let my next boyfriend use me for sex whenever he wanted to, wake me up in the middle of the night, fuck me till I bleed, I didn’t want to care.  I let him hold me down while he put himself inside my mouth whenever he pleased.  And even when I tried to pull away, it didn’t matter because he got what he wanted.  I was a broken woman.  I thought that I wasn’t valuable, that there was no longer anything special about me.  The light within me had diminished each time I was used and discarded.

And even after that, after getting rid of the negative in my life.  Even after I found someone who treasures me, I still had to deal with the aftermath of what you had done.  In fact, I still have to deal with the aftermath of your actions.  Not just me either, my boyfriend right now does not deserve to try and mend what you broke, he deserves someone so much better than me but yet he loves me unconditionally.  Now when I have those nightmares I have someone to hold me, when I get scared I have someone that promises to protect me.  When I close my eyes and have flashbacks I am strong enough to hold myself together.

But, to you men.  Screw you.  I hope one day you will realize what you have done, the hurt you caused.  And I pray to god that you have stopped hurting people.  I regret not reporting you, I regret feeling so guilty that I didn’t want to feel the judgement from other people.


Time to Heal



Counting Sheep

Hello, hello, my non existent readers, it has been awhile, hasn’t it?  Nearly half a year to be exact.  Now I suppose I should apologize for my lackluster skills at being a blogger, but then again have any of you been in your spring semester with 2 jobs?  Nah?  Okay.

Well right not it is 4:05am, at around 3:30am I literally got my shit rocked by a panic attack.  The shittiest part of getting them at this hour has to be the fact that no one is FUCKING AWAKE.  And then you’re left to just sit around with these thoughts, thus the title this morning of Counting Sheep, it’s a song by Safia and I highly recommend listening to it.

I would like to write a small piece about my anxiety now,.

The definition of anxiety is “a nervous disorder characterized by a state of excessive uneasiness and apprehension, typically with compulsive behavior or panic attacks.”

To me though, anxiety is so much more than “a” nervous disorder, it is “my” nervous disorder.  It is the cause of my panic attacks.  Over time I have developed a relationship with my anxiety that I consider supremely intimate, and visceral.  It obscures all sense of direction, and envelopes me in its midst.  It is the innervation of your heart thrashing inside of your chest, the debate swirls around in your mind if it would be less painful to just not have one at all.

Anxiety is the feeling of death, the collision of paradise and hell coming too soon for you.  It is a man’s hands around my neck driving my head into the wall over and over.  This apprehension causes me to flash back to a moment in time that no one should have to return to.  The mistrust between my mind and my body, why are you doing this to yourself, why.

A hurricane of emotions sweep through you, leaving you devastated, haunted.  The wildness makes you want to peel the skin off of your bones, the world goes dark around you.

Anxiety is the chills at the first blush of morning that leave you wondering if you’ll ever feel warmth again, it is how the chills turn into an ingrained numbness.  This numbness is a relief blessing you with a deadened haze allowing you to finally let go and succumb to the obscurity that is your mind.

In reality only 20 minutes have passed, but in the prison it’s been a lifetime trapped under a spell.  You try to pick the pieces back up but sometimes it is just easier to lay down and stop fighting.

Anxiety is a personal, overwhelming extinction of positivity.  And all it leaves in its wake is a crumbled wall, and a vulnerable frame.

What now?

On days like today I just don’t understand why some people are more broken than others.  I really should be grateful for everything in my life, I have a good family, a perfect boyfriend, good grades, good friends, a nice job, a roof over my head and yet when everything starts spinning I have nothing.  It makes it worse, the guilt that even though I have all of these wondrous things I’m still depressed.  As if, I need a reason, please, someone justify how I feel.  Please, tell me that this is real, and it’s okay that it is.  Because everyday that goes by, I feel it lurking in the background of my mind, and I fight it, god, I fight it.  I try, I swear.  But lately it’s been seeping into everything I try to keep it away from, tainting the happy.  Why do I feel like this?

WHY. Why do I feel like I need my skin to be peeled off, to be cleansed from all this darkness that chills me to my bone, and rocks me to my core.  The ache in my chest and the pounding in my head, the intrusive thoughts, and the feeling crawling through my veins threatening to tear me apart from the inside out.  The loss of appetite, the anxiety, the way exhaustion feels as though it will be a permanent condition, but nothing tops being scared of yourself.  When depression sinks its claws in, you feel detached from your body, as if your control is over.  When it takes control of you, you become capable of the worst things.  The fear of old habits returning, the need for a past addiction burning through your limbs.

Am I going to be okay?   Please, tell me I’m going to be okay, because right now as I look in the mirror and I see the other side of myself, I’m not so sure if I’ll make it through this time.  Each time it hits, it hits so much harder, it hurts so much deeper, and it gets so much harder to fight.  Yes, I’m stronger, but sometimes I feel as though it’s just going to overwhelm me.  The worst is when you feel it coming, and you don’t want to put your finger on it, I don’t want to confirm my worst fear.  It can’t be back.  Please take it away, it hurts so bad.  Easiest way to just brush it off as anxiety, it’ll go away, it’s just anxiety, it gets worse, it’s just bad anxiety, it’ll go away, but it doesn’t.  It evolves, wringing your stomach out like a fucking rag.

I know I’ll get through it, and sometimes that’s one of the most terrible parts.  That I have to continue to go through this, attain what is better, what is happy, and then be dragged down again. Many people categorize you as though you don’t fight it hard enough, but do you know what it is to fight with everything in your being and yet all you feel like is you’re only going backwards.  I hate myself, I hate that I drain the energy of those close to me.  And I could never apologize enough for the hell I put them through with worry.  I know this.  It seems like I can’t do anything right, I try to fight it, and I feel like the battle will never be over, I try to put it in the back of my mind but then the anxiety takes over my life, I try to let people in but I hurt them with what I think of myself.  I want to know the proper way to deal with this, how do you talk about feeling dead with your heart still beating?  How do you tell them that even though that emotional death seems to be taking over, they are the glimmer of hope, the thing that keeps you pushing the fog away, the thing that makes you forget about the depression.  The hope that gets you to the end of each bought, the thing that keeps your arms and legs clean of blood, the thing that gives you a smile, a real one, the thing that defines love.  They are the thing that makes you believe in yourself even after you feel like a part of you is uncontrollable.

I want to apologize.  I’m sorry I’m broken.  I’m sorry that this is me tonight, and that night, and more nights to come.  I’m sorry that this may be the way I am forever.  I’m sorry. I’m sorry that you people don’t think I fight hard enough, I swear I do.  I do.

Even on nights like this where my brain is working against me, and my tears have all dried, it helps to know you’re here.

The drunk truth.

I may or not be a slight alcoholic, when times get hard I open a bottle and lose myself.  Turn the music up and turn the thoughts down.  Thank god for this typey computer version of autocorrect.  Otherwise I’d look really really dumb.  Maybe I am, maybe I am not .  I suppose most of you will never know.

Ignorance is bliss, right?

As my head is spinning and I’m soon hitting the very drunk phase I just wanted you all to know that I love yall.

On the road to recovery

Well, it has been a little while since I’ve last written.  The sudden realization that people actually occasionally read my blog means I must meet my people’s needs.  By people, I mean about two people whom I know actually read my blog regularly.  Today’s wine hangover induced blogging topic of choice is recovery.  Now if you’ve read my blog from the beginning, you would know I struggle with having bipolar illness, having an eating disorder, a self harm disorder, and an anxiety disorder.  Quite the list, I know.  I suppose over the past years I have tried to recover and for the most part I feel as though I have reached the point in my road to recovery where I found my situation was endurable.  I stopped there, it was like making it a mile in a run and just sitting down, because at least you made it somewhere.  From that point on, no one ever really told me to get back up and continue on my road to recovery because everyone was content with the fact that I was no longer a large suicide risk.

Presently I have found that I am at the point where I am either going to spiral backwards, or I have to push forward.  In my past, I would have let myself fall back ignorant of those who cared about me.  Now, however, I have people to live for, I have a future.  Now, something is difference, I have this sliver of hope, this promise that it is going to get better.  That things will become easier to deal with.  And perhaps not easier, but the actuality of the matter may be that I am getting stronger.  I can either drive myself ahead, progressing in my recovery or I can walk back to where I started.

The issue with recovery is that hope is fickle.  I have been teased with the concept of hope before and quite honestly I do not know whether I would survive the crash if my hope disappears.  Another concept of recovery that most people are ashamed of, is that once you have lived with these disorders, these issues, this darkness for such a long period of your life there is a familiarity that comes along with it.   These obscurities have been a constant in your life when nothing else has, they have been there when you fall, to congratulate you, to put you in your place, they have been home.  You are in a toxic relationship with these factors of your life, and it is going to be painful to remove yourself from something you have been so intimate with.

I have made the choice to sum up what little gumption and feistiness I have left inside of me and move forward.  I know that life gets better, because my hope tells me so.  I need to recover for me, others, and for the future and what it holds.

A little life, a little Tolstoy

“Is it really possible to tell someone else what one feels?” `Leo Tolstoy Anna Karenina 

I find it fascinating that quotes such as this have perpetual relevance.  In respondance to Tolstoy, in all honesty, I am not quite sure if it is.  There is such a vast amount of words and yet, at moments, even the insurmountable amount of words we know cannot apptly describe the thoughts rolling around inside of us.

It’s hard to capture the surging waves that we call emotions.

I suppose that was one of the main reasons why I started this blog.  I wanted to have an outlet, somewhere where I was able to unearth the thoughts that I cannot even make sense of until they are sitting in front of me.  It helps, it really does.  I have found that blogging has become my preferred method of organizing the complexity of my madness.

Once the thoughts are out of my mind, I find it more manageable to describe my awareness and feeling to those whom I have deemed worthy of knowing my innermost thoughts, which is a miniscule amount of people.

There are many people in my life that would say they know me; that would be considered an apocryphal statement in my mind.  If I am to be truly authentic, I believe that I do not even fathom most of who I am.

Part of me is filled with passions, with pleasures, goals, plans, interests, and a personality.  But there is another part of me that I incline to ignore exists.  Therein lies my problem, I never actually deal with the alternative element that is key to my essence.  This component is dark, it is an abyss, it is deep, appalling, and grotesque.  It is a horrific piece of me that frightens me to my core.  It is the prison that I am locked in for the durations of my depression.  It will always be the darkness that swallows my happiness whole.  I find it disheartening to myself and I despise myself every single time I must chronicle my existence to someone because of it.

I finally have someone in my life that wants to join me for the long run.  It paralyzes me with fear to consider letting someone see the real me.  I cannot handle rejection again.  But alas, what is life if you do not at least attempt to allow someone to have seen the real you?  I suppose my flaw is I will never forgive myself for not being perfect.  And I will never forgive myself for not being able to be perfect for someone else.

“If you look for perfection, you’ll never be content.” ~Tolstoy

Fake it till ya make it.

There are some days where I am exceptionally sad; today is one of those days.  Now when these days happen, you have two choices, either you sit down, sob, sob some more and then lay dead in your bed or you can slap a fake happy face on and pretend to be happy because goddammit it is the closest thing to happy you’re going to be.  Today I chose to put my fake face on, it’s working, at least it’s fooling everyone around me.

I despise being a burden to my friends,  Better they think I’m happy than have them worrying about me slipping back into a bought of depression.  I know at this point it is almost inevitable for me to swing low, and suffer through manic depression for a period of time. God knows I hope it isn’t long.  They seem to get remarkably worse each time around.

I want people to think I’m happy.

At least they’ll think I can get better, and perhaps am getting better.

The new mantra is ~Fake it till ya make it~

One year

Approximately one year and two days ago I started this blog.  It was meant to be a news means of journaling, an introduction into the digital world.  Which, if I actually kept up with blogging everyday, it could have been.  Instead I swap back and forth between the occasional blog, and the occasional journal entry.  Perhaps I should start typing those suckers up.  Post them on here with the date and such.  There’s a lot of new stuff going on that I suppose I should fill everyone in on.  I was asked by an anti suicide campaign to be a guest speaker and share my life story, and a message of hope.  I’m one of four speakers, and I’m excited, nervous, and it’s still 3 months away.  A thought keeps popping into my mind though, how am I going to share a message of hope to this crowd of people when most of the time I have no idea why the hell I’m still here.  I’m grasping onto the thought that someday it gets better, that this cannot be the end.  I deserve a happy ending.

I picked up another job, I’m now a server at both Texas Roadhouse and Huck Finn’s on the Water.  Both jobs can be quite draining due to the extensive amount of dealing with people.  So tonight I’m quite exhausted both mentally and physically.  I started liking a boy even though I probably shouldn’t have because I know I’ll just end up getting myself hurt again.

Graham has a new girlfriend which I’m starting to be indifferent about.  As time passes, it’s getting easier.

I moved into my new place with Koop and Nic, the move has been one of the most monumental moments of my life.  I finally feel like I belong somewhere.  Just like my house back home, except this one is my house, not my parent’s house.

Well this is all the updating we get for tonight.  Hopefully, I shall be back tomorrow.  After all, I don’t work till 5pm.

Answers please.

Someday, someday we’ll all be okay, right?


Happy that I got to celebrate my adoption day with my friends 💕 Another candid from last night, I think the only difference from my red riding hood costume and Max's beer maiden costume was that my boobs were real and Max's were fake and filled with fireball 😂 Even though one of his fake boobs started leaking fireball it was still a great night out together 🎃 In honor of having an amazing date day and kicking ass at bowling; throwback to over 2 years ago our first summer of dating ❤ it's only gotten better as we go along

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