Death · Depression · Free Write · I Miss You · Melancholy · Self-harm · TW:Suicide · Writing

The Last Day 



After I saw your body, I shook her hand and said, “I am sorry for your loss.” it was the first time that she had looked me in the eyes since we sat in that room together, speaking of urns and how your body could be legally burned.

I feared this day since the moment we met. I could feel that demon circling around you. A dark cloud over a soft heart, so broken.

I used to have nightmares of your death, as you slept next to me. I checked if you were still breathing. I looked for vomit near your mouth. I would stay awake all night holding you. To make sure you were alright.

My entire soul wanted to save you.  I remember  you begging me not to give up on you and I didn’t. I wouldn’t. I stuck by your side until I tried to hang myself 4 years later. I never told you that. I never let you know the things you did pushed me that far, but you saw the cuts on my leg and I think you knew. I think you knew what you did.

You walked away from me and to another woman. I thought “what can she do, that I couldn’t?”I thought you were running away to a better life and leaving me in the dark but I watched from afar as you got sicker. 

Turns out no person could save you.

The last time I saw you alive, you said “I made a mistake,” as tears rolled down both of our faces. I tucked you into your bed, put the covers nice and tight. Made sure you had water. I looked down on your face and kissed your forehead.  I prayed for you to get better. I looked to the sky for strength. I pleaded with the stars to keep you here because I knew I did not have that power; no one did and I could finally see that clearly.

I sat by you longer than I should have and more than anyone else. I loved your chaos, I loved your sweetness that you hid behind sarcasm and a ‘’don’t give a fuck attitude.” You were my dream. Forever haunting me.

I whispered in your ear, blood dried inside, “I love you. I always loved you. I am sorry. It’s okay now and I am not mad. I know you were suffering. Now you are not in pain.” I stroked the stubble on your face. Your skin still felt familiar even when cold and discolored. I have so many memories of those eyes looking down at me. Our lips meeting in the middle. I touched your chest one last time and said goodbye.

Creative Writing · Dark · depersonalization · Depression · Free Write · Healing · Hope · Melancholy · Prose · Reflection · Relationships · Self-harm · Survivor · Writing

Moving Day

In march of 2015 I moved what few precious possessions I had decided to keep into this tiny studio apt that I would call home for the next 2 years. I did not have a bed. I threw out my dishes, clothing and books and gave away nearly all my furniture.

My first night in my little apartment was spent full of despair and confusion in my heart and mind. I was more than broken.  At the time I saw myself as hideous and unfixable. Undesirable in every way.  Though I sat troubled in this tiny room with my kitty wondering what possible terrible thing lay waiting for me next, I still had clarity enough to notice the quiet calmness around me. For the first time in several months I felt safe and the ton I had been carrying on my shoulders with chains dragging by my ankles were suddenly gone. I knew it was over and I felt guilty for enjoying that moment because I truly did not want any of it to be real.

I wanted to still be with the man I loved, even though his sickness was literally killing me. I did not want to feel peace without him. I wanted him and I wanted contentment but it was evident that those things could not coexist. Life with him was chaos. Unrelenting emotions at the blink of an eye. Unsuspecting pain and sadness that became a habit. Much like everything else of him, an addiction.

I struggled. I spent hours on that tiny bathroom floor sobbing. Sometimes putting slices in my thigh. Early into this journey it was late on a spring night and it was pouring rain and I just couldn’t be inside anymore. I took off down the street running. Soaking wet and panting. I walked up to the library. Everything was dark and dripping. There was a brick wall with a good ledge for sitting. I climbed up into the bushes and sat behind them. The trees above kept most of the rain off me, still I could not tell the difference between my tears and the earth’s weeping.

I lay there in the dirt for a long time. I do not know how long but my fingers became numb like the rest of me. I should have felt pain but I did not. I did not feel anything.

Around that same time. I had another evening. He called and got my mind all twisted again and I called my mom upset. I felt like I had no one anymore and she was far away and defending the others. I hung up and shut my phone off and climbed up the street and sat on the ledge looking down the cliffside. I could jump I thought. I could hope for a broken neck. Unlikely I considered and I sat looking into the dark tree tops waiting for this to end.

I spent my days working at my neighbor hospital. Watching mostly dead people roam by. It helped take my mind off my own suffering but watching people slowly die takes a lot out of one, one that barely had enough to give.

I never told my best friend that his anger at me pushed me over the edge. I called my boss in the morning and said “I’m not coming into work today. I haven’t slept because I spent the night pondering how best to kill myself.”  It goes without saying really that this did not end well. I panicked everyone and ended up naked on a ER bed with all my personal belongings taken away from me. I laid dead and numb for hours in that bed. I probably should have been admitted but I hated not having clothes and my phone so I played it off and instead got an uppage in my dose of medication and a leave of absence from work.

I never made it back.

My grandfather died a couple months later. I sat on that floor again. I wept until I passed out. I cried for hours, everyday for months. Sometimes the pain of missing him skips a beat of my heart and I find myself literally gasping and grasping at my chest. How does one recover from death? I do not think we ever do. One’s existence changes completely. You wake up a different person.

When you spend hours and days on days alone you learn things about yourself you previously thought incapable of. You forget the sound of your own voice. You have to talk out loud to remind yourself that you still exist. I would punch my skin to insure I was still alive. And indeed, this was all unfortunately not a dream.

Wake up. Go back to sleep. Forget. Remember and do it all over again. Write three papers, two at a time. Remember this is your purpose now. Just survive.

Today I packed up that tiny apartment, that hole I ran to as the world crashed all around me. I remember those days like a story, a novel of some other lifetime. Written and dedicated to me. I will not forget those days anytime soon but I look back as a proud mother. I nurtured myself along the way. I had to because no one else could or would.

Tonight you called me. I noticed a message four hours after. I do not listen. I do not read your words and I know you are waiting. Today I left the place I ran to because of you. Because of you I had to hide and I was begging for your calls.

Today I run only for myself. I despise what you did but I look back with a smile. Today you are begging for my calls. You long for what I used to crave. I go to bed at peace. 

Creative Writing · Dark · Depression · Emotional Abuse · Free Write · Melancholy · Poetry · Psychological Abuse · Reflection · Sadness · Self-harm · Writing

Beauty and the Beast

Tw:suicide, self-harm

It was New Year’s day and I sat curled up in the oversized arm chair thinking, “I deserve so much better than this.”

That’s when I knew it was the end. That it was over and there was no going back.

Reasoning these actions:

That I should not have to be up all night rocking back and forth. Wondering where you are and who you are doing. Fearing the possibilities of what the next horrible thing you will do, without a care  or second thought for me. Driving myself insane trying to decipher truth from your lies….deciding it would be better to die than to live through another day with your sickness.

This is the point I got to. I looked at the hole you punched in the wall. The mess of your clothes on the closet floor. Empty bottles all around our big and lonely apartment. Where did I go wrong?

A million answers and I can not find the only belt I own. I know the guns are no longer at home.

Swollen eyes. Gashes on my legs. I am shaking on the floor again and looking for a way. I watched my world crumbling around me as a natural disaster.  Too incredible and unbelievable to look away.  I could not conceive how you left me in such a state.

You are every broken piece in me.

And I decided a while back that was never going to change. You still rattle about inside of me but I keep you in a cage. You are the moster I run from. The beast I try to hide. 

Anxiety · Creative Writing · Depression · Poetry · Psychological Abuse · Relationships · Self-harm · Suicide · Writing

Blood Painted Skies

Sometimes this life

Being overly complex

I go in circles it seems

Dreaming of a fix

I could not write it down

These words are failing

As the time passes 

Thoughts always invading

I tried to love you

Enough to fill the sea

The value of a mother

And all that you will never be

Was patterned among the shadows

As I scraped my veins

Your inconsistency and madness

That slowly drove me insane

I inscribed you on the inside

I carved it in my thigh

I wanted you to see it…

To see my blood painted through the sky

Creative Writing · Depression · Emotional Abuse · Free Write · Poetry · Psychological Abuse · Self-harm


My favorite place to be is not on the bathroom floor and yet, I find myself here more than I’d like.

The cold cement isn’t soothing but it stings my skin right.

The way I remember I’m alive.

The space heater on and burning my shins, the shower in the back hits ceramic splashes.

I have cuts on my thighs and chunks missing from my feet.

Each step I take reminds me.

I remember crawling to your seat.

This movie plays on repeat.

Images pass in my mind, I push the colors down and out.

There are things I am afraid to remember but I sleep all day attempting to forget.

My body aches and I tell them all I am sick.

I’m afraid to see the outside and I want to be unmet.

I ponder about the last two years and fear I will never be enough….

I loved you without restraint and it killed me.

You break me everyday. 

Anxiety · Creative Writing · Depression · Free Write · Poetry · Self-harm · Writing

What is this?

I am bad.

I must be bad.

That’s what the words on the pages told me.

I have seen it.

The others and they are crazy.

So am I.

All this time was just called anxiety.

But it always felt worse…so much worse then others could understand.

I can not find the words.

I choke on the mumbling and every sentence comes up short.

“I’m not an angry person” I think?

What do I even know?

Perhaps nothing was ever real.

Nobody wants me.

Nobody wants this kind of broken.

Pieces of broken shells and scattered notes throughout.

I tried to write you a song, a sonnet to express this love.

I feel everything too deeply so I watch you make a cut.

My hands are numb like my heart.

Except I still see the crumbs scattered at beneath the top.

I dig down in.

Reaching for your loss.

Please don’t leave me.

Please don’t stop. 

Depression · Personal · Prose · Relationships · Self-harm · Suicide · Writing

Christmas Eve Nightmare

This time of the year brings back a plethora of traumatic memories. Pretty much every holiday is surrounded by some trauma but it’s worse because it’s also my birthday and the day after my birthday was our anniversary.

Two years ago tonight the narcissist and I had a huge fight. I was sitting at the kitchen table. He of course, had been drinking all day when he started to run his mouth. I believe I brought up going to work the next day (Christmas Day) when he decided to lay into me.

“Of course you’re working tomorrow. You always work Christmas. You never think of me.”

“I asked you two months ago If we were going to do something. You said no and so I signed up to work.”

“We shouldn’t have to do something special to spend Christmas together.”

“What are we going to do? What we do everyday? You will get drunk and I will watch and have to listen to you all day. Why shouldn’t I work?”

“You haven’t paid any attention to me all week. You spent the whole weekend with your family. This is our first day alone in a week.”

“I spent the week with my family because it was my birthday and we were celebrating Christmas early.”

(I hadn’t celebrated my birthday with my mom and sisters on my actual birthday in 8 years so it was pretty important and special to be with them).

I continued, “My entire life revolves around you. Everyday. Everything I do is in some way connected to you and for two days it wasn’t. Is that really all I get?”

He says,”Yes. You get your birthday, but your birthday is only ONE day, not a whole weekend.”

“So I get one day of the year and the rest are yours?”


Four days later he told me he was going on a romantic trip with another woman to a cabin at a lake. This woman was “just a friend.” Even though I wasn’t allowed to go.

I spent New Year’s Eve cutting into my body with a razor blade and in the morning I attempted to hang myself.

Merry Christmas and a Happy New Year!