It’s not quite spring, but as February starts to come to a close I feel those feelings that I do every spring. I can’t explain it. People love spring and summer. They love the brightness, warm sun, the flowery air. The rushing water and chirping crickets. The smells of mulch and chlorine. They love it.

I don’t know how I feel. I can enjoy it separately if I look at it in parts. I enjoy the chipping of crickets. The smell of a bonfire. Driving with my windows down. I think that’s it.

This time of year feels overwhelming. Like full of life that I can’t quite connect with. That maybe my younger self found pleasure in but not safety. And how I crave to be safe. Spring is when I started experimenting too much. Spiraling into all the things I thought would make me feel good.

Spring reminds me of senior year, when I almost didn’t graduate. That was the first time my depression really crept up on me. Somewhere between junior and senior year of high school o plummeted.

Spring is when Eric and I broke things off. The guy I thought I would marry, the first one anyway. I cried for months. That was maybe the first time I didn’t have a filter for the pain, except in sex and other guys. I was devastated. I wanted to be a good Christian. But I hated everything.

Early summer is when I lost my virginity. I remember the day. And then a year later, 12 days after, I’d be raped by the same man I gave my virginity to. It was one of the first times as an adult I consciously knew I couldn’t ask my parents for help.

Spring is when a lot of people died around me. And all I could do was helplessly watch. And summer is when I gave myself away again and again. I didn’t want to be the girl that was so traumatized that I started acting out sexually. But I was. Time and time again. Spring summer fall winter.

I could cry writing this. I feel it in my throat, my head heavy and my eyes burning. But what would it do to help? I’m broken, maybe irreversibly so. I can’t forget. And I want so much to forget. I see people loving normal, whole lives and I wonder if i could have had that if my life had been different. If I didn’t go through what I’ve been through. I sort of feel ruined. I think maybe I am. Because every time I smell the spring air, I’m only reminded of the days that shattered me, beyond repair.



Two in a day? Who am I? How long will this last?!

Anyway. For the last year and a half or so, I’ve been mentally preparing to move. Renting a basement apartment I’ve known full well that I may need to move soon and have been agonizing that process. So I’ve been looking.

And looking.

And looking.

Not to much avail. After taking a break, my brother mentioned he also was looking to move and in my head I genuinely thought that if I couldn’t live where I live now, or by myself, then I’d want to live with my brother. We’re different, but cut from the same cloth. And we are finally friends instead of bickering children.

For the last few months I’ve been looking. My brother has been working his credit stuff out. I’ve been hunting for places and deals. Last week i finally found one, though, i wasn’t convinced. Then, as I’m leaving to go look at the place with my brother, the family let’s me know they probably aren’t moving for another year.

I am hit with a ton of bricks as well as joy as I try to work this out. Because living here has been so incredibly stable. How do I tell my brother how broken I am? How broken this man made me? And how I’m holding on simply by a thread and my living arrangement is the only thing that keeps me in place right now. Otherwise I don’t know what I’d do.

I can’t tell him I was raped… sodomized. Fucking ripped. I can’t tell him how my body was destroyed underneath the weight of a man who met my tears and my begs with gentle “shhhh”s and “stay still”s. That finally something inside of me broke. After years of fucked up shit happening I feel actually decimated.

I am broken. And I don’t know if I’ll ever get myself back together.

The guilt consumes me, and I wonder if I’d not spoken to this man, trusted him, allowed him in, would he not have done what he did to me. That maybe I’ve just failed my brother and myself, and that being raped, I’ve placed myself in a position where I can’t be there for my brother because I can’t even be there for myself.

The thought sickens me. I feel ill. And I feel angry with myself. I’ve let my brother down. My family down; myself down. Why did I freeze and beg him as if he was going to fucking stop? Why did this happen to me? What is wrong with me? What did I do? I wonder if i could have anticipated what happened better. Where did I go wrong?

The rabbit trail of guilt and self hate is endless. I’d never want to let anyone else know how crushed I actually feel to the core.

That thread is wearing and I’m holding on tight for everyone I’ve let down.

But I have to stay here. Where I live. Because even though I can’t say it aloud, I just don’t know how much more I can take.



To preface this, I don’t run.

It’s gross. Hot and sweaty. Well that’s how I feel about it.

But mentally I run. All day and all night. Looking for some kind of noise to fill my ears. During my drives music, at work, endless chatter, in the evenings audiobooks and podcasts. At night white noise.

I wasn’t always like this. I used to always challenge others to learn to live the quiet. To learn to sit with themselves, to not shy away from it. But here I am. Running. And the way I run… I don’t like it. It’s dark. But it’s all I know. And even though it scares me it still feels safe.

And I’m afraid. Afraid of memories. Afraid that everything negative that I think and feel about myself will bubble over, and that I won’t be able to breathe anymore. I used to not mind it. But now, I feel the nagging. The pull in my heart when I let things get to quiet. The pain I feel that I’m constantly avoiding because it feels like to much.

I don’t feel ready. Ready to step into what’s slowly killing me. I guess that sounds dramatic but my thoughts have been veering down that windy road.

My friend who knows what happened will ask me how I’m doing. I don’t think much of it. But when she asks, and when I have a moment alone, of quiet, I feel it all. I cry in and instant and I realize how broken I am.

But I never sit with it. Never let it sink in or last, because it hurts too much. But it stays anyway, sitting like a boulder on my chest. Waiting for me to find the courage to push it away.

Or die.



I went from tactile to nothing.

Lost in the embarace and the eyes of another. The warmth of intimacy. The breath of love swirling its way through and around me.

It was gradual. I didn’t really recognize the loss. I never had it much growing up. Touch. Hugs. Closeness. But I always longed for it. Found it in places my parents didn’t approve of, though now, they’d likely say they were being over protective.

Breath. Warm. Strength. Touch.

My shitty ex. He was there as I was pulling away from an environment and different season of my life. He was there to meet me at that door. He was a man baby, as well as he meant not to be. So he was the one that was held. Believed in. Comforted. Affection given. But I didn’t mind. Because there was touch. Was it safe? No. Was it warm? I suppose. Was it happy? Not at all. But it was close.

I woke up this morning wishing I’d had someone to hold me. Nothing sexual. I’d lose my shit. Just…close. There’s this feeling of grief being absorbed in the arms of someone who loves you even if there are no words shared. I like that. I like the not talking. I like the melting. The breathing.

I’ve spent the last few months hiding in books and novels and podcasts, an art of which requires absolutely no touch. I didn’t realize just how much I was hiding from. Until it gets quiet. And I didn’t know just what I was longing for until the air wasn’t filled with noise. I was lost in another audiobook, when I felt myself sinking. Literally as if my soul sunk back into itself. I felt like I didn’t recognize where I was or who I was. Then I realized that just for a moment, I’d left the dark space. When and for how long, I don’t know. But I felt it’s return.

I think maybe when I was holding my friends baby, I came back to myself. Came back from fear and anxiety, self hatred and distress. I was all smooth curves and caresses, sweet words and tiny hands. The warmth of a baby.

I was all too fondly reminded of how I’ve always loved touch. Showing affection in that way. I think I sank back, only to realize how much I longed to be shown affection. In anyway, but, mostly that way.

So this morning I woke, tears streaming down my face. Wishing someone, maybe anyone, would just hold me. Touch me. Absorb the heaviness. No words shared. No grief bared.

Just touched.


It Smells Like Spring…

It’s the beginning of January, but it smells like spring.

That scent of mulch and fertilizer in the air. The buds on the trees kissed to awakening by a simple caress from the sun, welcoming them I to fullness.

The buzz and the pop of excitement in the air, of warm weather chasing away the cold and all its dark, bitterly cold nights.

You crack your windows in the car, or the house, tempting the weather to warm up just a little as you welcome in the gentle breeze and the scent of tulips.

It’s the beginning of January, but it smells like spring.

If I knew that spring would be the prologue to my descent into all things dark and broken, I’d have prepared better. I wouldn’t have associated the scents and the sounds with joy, when in the end they brought me sorrow. I’d would’ve allowed them just to be. If only to enjoy it the years down the road.

But spring now haunts me.

It’s the beginning of January, but it smells and feels like spring. I hear the humming, buzzing in my ears as my heart rate picks up. There’s 365 days in a year, 366 this year, and my mind, my body remembers most of those days in pain.

It’s January, but my hearts already thawed for spring. The ache in my chest as this numbness consumes me. Death feels eminent, and joy a long lost estranged lover. Hope a fading flame.

It’s the beginning of January, but instead of looking forward to the promise of spring, I’m only brought back to the memories of just right before I lost myself. Lost it all.

For now I’ll welcome the bitter cold of winter, that beckons me to peace.

It Smells Like Spring…


Whenever I’ve written in the past, I’ve always wanted to be light and airy, never too dark. Always redemptive, always hopeful.

Wrap it all up in a big fucking bow.

Glad that my good friend reminded me, I hate fucking bows.

*deep sigh*

I feel like a shell lately. Teetering between spontaneous combustion and completely empty. Numb. I hate the spontaneous combustion. But the numb? Lemme get summa that. Because my emotions have been a rollercoaster.

My flashbacks and nightmares have been getting worse. I feel the pain of what happened. Like i was just flayed in half. I feel it. The panic is back too. I’ve got this disgusting habit of picking and all I can do is pick. And bite my lips. None of it is even slightly attractive. But I’m not sure I even want to be that anymore, or that I even care.

Another weird side effect. The other day I came home from work, and I could hear my heartbeat. I hate the sound. It makes me panic. Then I spiral. So I took 1mg of my Xanax. And holy shit. It was the most calm, most at peace I’ve felt in *months*. Maybe even years? I was numb. The kind that puts you right to sleep, a blank canvas of nothingness.

I feel awful that I loved it. Maybe more so that I crave it. Because I just want sleep. And peace. No nightmares, no shaking. No crying. Just a minute where I’m not on edge.

Because most days I feel like a shell. I’ve prepared myself in advance with conversations and smiles to keep people at bay.

But the other day? That was pure bliss. And I wasn’t wondering if I wanted to die or if I wanted to live. I just existed in that bubble. Feeling nothing. Being nothing. Not really existing. Just.




Happy New Year…

To the broken me. The confused me. The alone me. The me that isolated in the bliss of being safe. The me that craves arms to hold me but instead hold myself. Bruised and tattered and fragile and breaking.

To the me who is called survivor and cringes. To me who held on just a little longer while my peripherals became dark and my heart beat slammed in my ears.

To the me that never felt truly safe. Truly whole. Truly loved. To the me who plastered on smiles miles long if only to find warmth in the ones returned. To the me that believed the best because hope is so tempting to grasp but so devastating to lose.

Happy new year to the me that rings in with silence, in quietness, in solitude. With an ache as heavy as a boulder in my chest and words flying through my head like a file cabinet exploded.

To the me that’s decided a little longer. Just a little bit longer. Just a little while longer.

To the wringing of hands and tear stained cheeks. To the words left unspoken and to the fears still swirling in the pit of my being.

Happy new year to you, sweet girl. To me, sweet girl. Even though you don’t feel happy. Happy new year, anyway.

Because you deserve a little happiness too.