This took a turn

Don’t you hate that? How the night before, you feel motivated, have a plan for the next day, even feel a little motivated the second you wake up. But then, it starts slowly. Something feels a little off. You make up excuses for it. It hits you, you feel a little off.

That realization, that moment. The moment you realize it’s you, you’re the one who feels off. That’s when it happens. You start slowly spiraling. Not too bad at first, though. Not very noticeable because you’ve put it in the back of your mind. Well, at least you think you did. But it’s growing. It gets bigger and bigger. You start actively thinking about your anxieties, fears, mistakes, things that make you wrong as a person. Things you’ve decided are true, that must be true because why else would you feel this way. Why else would it be so damn hard, so damn exhausting to get yourself to make at least one phone call, check off one thing on your list.

You make up these things, these facts about yourself, convinced they are true but in fact are the complete opposite. Yes, maybe it’s exhausting to fight yourself to even get one thing done on the list but you did it. You, on your bad day, got something done. Even if you didn’t manage to get something on your list done, you managed and you know fucking what? That in itself is strength.

People don’t see mental illness, not all the time. They don’t see what we are fighting. How fucking exhausting it is. How the simplest thing makes you tired and ashamed because you can’t do it like the “normies” can but fuck them. You are, I am, so much stronger for it. We have to fight everyday. It’s not easy. Life’s not easy, but we do it.

So, this started as a rant but turned into a pep talk. I think mostly I needed to hear it. I needed to know it was okay. But if anyone else needed to know, know it’s okay to survive, it’s okay to just breathe. It’s okay. You’ll be okay.



What I really think about: texts to my boyfriend.

What’s happened to art? It’s not raw and real anymore. It’s all edited and photoshopped, now. No one cares to see the real beauty in things anymore. It’s so sad. We have this one life, this one place in the world and everyone is too busy trying to edit it to really see the true beauty of it all. There is so much in this world and people just don’t see it. It’s not enough for them anymore. I miss when things were so simple.

We have this innate need to complicate the world. To try and make it something that it’s not. To not see the beauty that’s already there. To need more. It’s so sad. Life is so beautiful and strange and magical. It doesn’t need a filter. We don’t need more.

I think I’m a really strange and rare soul. I have never met anyone who thinks the way I do about the world and life and the love and beauty. I wish there was a way I could touch the lives of millions, spread my words, my love, my art. Not because I want to be famous but because I want to save the world. I want to help people, I want to leave my mark on this world for the better. I want so much but if I can just raise children to see the world as beautifully as I, then that will be enough for me.



Surprise! Here’s a shit mood!

This morning, well it’s still morning… BOOM, out of nowhere, even still, as I’m writing this, the darkness is trying to drown me. No thoughts provoked it, no situation, nothing. The darkness, just said, “ Hey, it’s time to destroy you, consume you.” And I’m left here, paralyzed… suffering, screaming on the inside.

I went to the first thing I ever learned, CBT. Which is cognitive behavioral therapy. In easy terms, it’s basically changing your thinking from negative to positive. So, I tried really hard to think of good things, I really did but I realized how fucking exhausting that was.

It dawned on me, while I was doing this, just how exhausting it really is to actively try to cope. That it must be wonderful to be a “normie”. How they have these coping mechanisms built within in them, that just get used without having to think of them, for situations that are not so mentally draining, as a thing many of you know as the darkness.

I finally understood why my mental illness was so draining. It wasn’t that being in it was draining. I’m not saying it’s not because part of it is. But it’s fighting it. The actively trying to combat these horrible feelings and not just that, the natural instinct we all have to survive that kicks in as well. It’s all just so G-D damn draining.

On a dark note, it did not work. I ended up putting on ‘hurt’ by Nine Inch Nails and seriously thinking about life. What did help was and is writing this. Telling you this. Maybe, knowing that someone out there, fucking gets it, ya know? Or that a “normie” will read this, and it will finally get through their thick skull and maybe they’ll say to themselves, “maybe they aren’t just lazy”. Maybe this will help end that G-D forsaken stigma!

If it does any of that, even just a little, I’ll know I’ve done something good in this world. That all of this isn’t for nothing. That I can tolerate it just a bit longer to see it do some good in the world, even while it’s doing this… just maybe.




2017, pretty much a big fuck you but with a cherry on top. A very big sweet red cherry on top.

The highlights; I failed nursing school, I got back in, passed my third semester and made it to my final semester but not before the worst and best summer of my life.

The summer of 2017, started out amazing. I was ready to study for school, I had friends, new friends, I had purpose. Then I was all alone. Everyone fell off the face of the earth. I couldn’t study. I was all alone, all the time.

I learned a lot in my loneliness. I learned to take care of my myself. Become healthy. Even lost 20 lbs.

I got back into my art, in any creative outlet I could. Writing, photography, drawing, making jewelry.

I learned how to cope. Cope in a healthy way. Listening to music again, art, going to the river. I learned to be alone and be okay with it. I started to enjoy myself, my company. I have never done that.

I decided it was time to meet people, specifically start a relationship, and maybe make some friends. I set out on a few dating websites. I went out on a few meets.

But, the second to last one… July 30th… I’ll never forget. I made 17 cigarettes for that night. It’s funny the things you remember. That night, I was raped.

I didn’t think of it walking back to the car. Not until I started the car and an overwhelming urge to vomit came over me. The next weeks were hell. I was late. My period was late.

But for some reason, I kept talking to another guy I had given my number to. I remember the day after it happened, he texted me for the first time. I was skittish and I was not really into it but over the next few weeks he was persistent.

I eventually told him what happened. I hadn’t told anyone. Not even my mom. I trusted him. There was something about him. He had been touched by the darkness too. I just knew.

I finally got my period, day 40 of my cycle. A week before I had told my mom. She urged me to go to the police but in the past when I went to them about my past, they never believed me, there was no justice. So, you understand why I didn’t trust them.

Time went on, I was numb, depressed, drinking. I barely left my room, the chair in the corner by the window. Where I sat and smoked. But he was there to talk. He was the only person I spoke to.

I didn’t withdraw from school, I thought going would help. I tried to study before the semester but I couldn’t and my mother was not helpful. Always on me about studying.

In August, that guy and I got closer. He asked me to be his on the 15th. He knew I was fucked up, he knew I was not interested in anything sexual but he wanted me. All of me. So I said yes.

I was in a downward spiral. Looking for anything to help. I met him, he made me feel safe. In control.

School started but we made it work. He lived over an hour up north. He would come once a week and get a hotel room. School got bad, my home life got worse. I was drowning. It was worse than the summer.

I decided to leave my last semester at school. I just couldn’t. The PTSD had set in. My moms abuse was too much.

I had finally had enough. I left. At 28, I left. I stood up for myself and left. He saved me. I packed all my stuff up in my car and his. He took me home.

Then I went back. I thought it would be different but it wasn’t.

Days later, he saved me again and I never went back.

I don’t know what I would have done if I had never met him.

It’s 2018, now. Life is hard. I’m just learning to be an adult and I still take baby steps. I still ask for help with everything. Being under my mothers thumb, feeling feeble for so long, has damaged me good but I got this.

I guess what I’m saying is, it’s never too late. Follow your heart. Follow your dreams.