The last few months have been insanely hectic. With work, covid, and preparing and i preparing for changes that seem to happen when I least expect it. It’s been trying. And my head has, well, had to managed to stay on relatively straight for about 3 months of constant change. But. I suppose everything falls apart eventually.

About two weeks ago, with a stuffy nose, headaches, eye pain, body pain, the whole covid gambit, I felt myself deteriorating. Concerned that I was coming down with the virus, I saw my doctor and she recommended I get tested. Spoiler: though my results haven’t come back, I’m mostly confident that I didn’t contract the virus. But. That’s not what this about.

A few days ago, about a week into quarantine, I started feeling weird. Growing up in a Christian environment and professing the faith for myself, I’ve still massively struggled with the idea of God. Who’s this big guy in the sky? And the fuck won’t be do anything about the shit happening in our world. I run the length of anger and confusion and devastation on a daily basis. And I guess this week it was time for it to rear it’s ugly head.

I began to wonder about the impact of trauma and abuse on my abilities, or lack there of, to trust in this being called God. I looked back on my childhood, the few parts my brain allows me to remember and I began to wonder. Can Stockholm Syndrome be caused by a violent childhood? I tried a quick search on google, but after too many entry questions and not enough emotional wherewithal, I decided against it. I didn’t want to know.

I’ve spent a major pet of my adulthood and even childhood trying to force myself to move forward. To not hold grudges. And I genuinely, truly believed that I’d let so much of it go. I felt no anger to those who hurt me. But a compassion and love that made me cry my eyes out whenever I thought about it. But was it really love? Now I’m not sure. That night, I went to bed, and was immediately flooded with nightmares of my childhood. Things I’d believe to let go.

I woke they next morning, after a fitful night of sleep, in tears. Crying my eyes out in the dark, trying to make sense of my dreams. And all I could think was, why did you hurt me? Why couldn’t you be gentle? Why couldn’t you be kind? Why didn’t you love me? Love me enough to not hurt me? In my dream I’d lost my fucking shit. Screaming and crying and yelling. Willing them to hit me just so I could hit them back. I was so hurt. And I was so angry. I just wanted to be held.

I felt betrayed by the people who I thought were supposed to protect me. And when I realized this, I saw how that thread of betrayal wove it’s way through the entirety of my life. I’ve often felt betrayed by others’ disloyalty. It might be slight but it felt so crushing to me. Because I felt like I wasn’t worth loving. Wasn’t worth fighting for. Wasn’t worth protecting. And even after the abuse, all I’d want was for them to take me back. Accept me. Forgive me. For whatever it was. And the same hands that hurt me embraced me. And as I recognize now, really harmed me. My emotional maturity.

However, I also feel guilty. I feel as if I’m betraying them now. Because people change, and I’ve seen it with my own eyes. But it also hurts. It hurts to the core that this happened. And I don’t want to talk about it. I don’t want to shame anyone who has hurt me. But. I don’t know if I’ll ever heal if I never talk about it. My life goal has always been to not y’all about the people in my family who have hurt me until they’ve passed. That way I can’t hurt them, while truthfully communicating how I feel. But. I didn’t realize that I was letting myself die in the process.

The last few days I’ve felt a heavy pot on my stomach. Not focused on the feelings much, but not knowing where to go from here. How do I recover? Do I want to? Do I just want to end it all? But that’s selfish. I know it. And even though they’ve hurt me, I don’t want to hurt them. I guess the difference is, when they hurt me I was a stupid kid, on the receiving end on so much fluctuating emotions coming from adults who all I really wanted was to love me. Not for who I could be. But for who I was. Completely imperfect and confused and needing love. I was just a child.

I’m not sure what bruised me harder, the hands and the belts and the hangers. Or the words that were said when they were upset. Or the loneliness that crept into my heart. Desperate to know how I could get them to love me again…without hurting me.


TLC, But Not For Me.

It’s been a rough week. Maybe because I ran out of meds at the beginning? I wasn’t sure if they were helping but if this week has been any indication then I think they have been. Or it’s just been a shit week.

Without going into to many details, there’s been a change in my family. And honestly the level of fear and anxiety I feel right now is insane. And it’s got me thinking.

It’s really, really painful. The other day my friend joked about me being the black sheep in the family. I wouldn’t necessarily call myself that. But I’ve been feeling that. When I was younger, I went through a lot of fucked up stuff. My brothers didn’t. This led me to act out more I think. My thoughts even as a kid were always darker I just didn’t say them aloud. I didn’t have much help though. My parents didn’t know what was going on. And when they did, it was evident that they believed it to be my fault. Not ever asking me.

I remember when I was in 7th it 8th grade, I was on the school bus. It was right before Christmas. This kid on the bus came up behind me as I was putting up my window and began rubbing his naked… you know, on me. I froze. It hadn’t been the first time a boy had touched me without consent. No that started even younger, when I was a in elementary school by a family member. I was so distraught about the situation. One because I believed it was wrong, but also because I wanted attention, love and affection. That situation wasn’t even close to any of that. But I was 11.

I went home that day, writing in my journal what happened. A family member found my journal and consequently. I was spanked, arms out, then made to stand in a corner while my journal was read to me. I was then hauled to school, the boy was suspended. My parents were furious and I was wasn’t allowed to ride the bus for the rest of the year. In that moment, I made the conscious decision not to trust my parents, not to ask for their help for anything. And to never open up again. I’d take the affection I was given from boys, because at least it didn’t hurt. But I still longed for the affection from my parents. Aches for it. I was constantly haunted by the fear of them dying and leaving me. But so angry when they hit me. But so desperately wanting their love and affection even after they hit me. It’s fucked. I remember waiting and hoping they’d not be angry with me anymore, even though they hurt me.

My parents are different people now. They’ve grown and become better people. I don’t know if they’ll ever apologize for what they did, but it’s not like I’m waiting for an apology either. They didn’t help me much with any of the things that hurt me. The things I didn’t understand. But they made sure I never went without, supported my theatre and singing. And challenged me in school. So, I became successful in the things that mattered to them. Or I tried. But at some point I just realized I couldn’t come to them broken.

As I said, they’re different now. And as my brothers go through challenging times, they are the most supportive loving versions of them that I’ve ever seen. And I’m grateful. But I can’t help the sick feeling I get when I see them supporting my brothers through their stuff, knowing I never had that. Part of me is jealous. Part of me is angry. Part of me is so fucking bitter. Another part of me is deeply lonely.

My friends became my support system. But my friends are also a little batshit. And I love them for it. But as an adult now, it’s different. And life feels more sad. Because I have taught myself from a young age to be fiercely independent. To keep all family at an arms length. So if they hurt me it wouldn’t hurt too much. And if they died it wouldn’t crush me. But I am still crushed. Watching my parents champion my brothers, wondering why they couldn’t be that for me.

Fucked up sexual abuse as a child really changed the course of my life. But no one in my family talks about it. I was told that the person who did it isn’t in a place to have such a direct conversation. That essentially I’d have to move on. But how do you move on from a weight that sits on your chest that feels like a million pounds? From a fear that it will happen again to another child? I feel sick. I’ve cried so much about it the last few days. And I’ve distanced myself from my family. I don’t want to be like that. But it doesn’t feel safe. And I’m tired. I’m so so tired.

And I’m alone. Willingly and not so willingly Im alone. Because I can’t turn back the time. I can’t ask them to give me the love and support I always needed. I somehow have to create it for myself, even while watching everyone from the sidelines receive the care and support they need, while the hole in my heart grows just a little bit bigger.

TLC, But Not For Me.


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.



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.



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.