Apathy · Chronic Illness · Creative Writing · Death · Depression · Free Write · Pondering · Prose · Suicide · Writing

We Are Waiting on Death

Often times, I do not feel anything at all, but when I do it’s raw and real and full of passion. I have been berated many times in my life for my intensity and sensitivity, which is why I am usually turned off.

I have hated this part of me for many years and pushed down so much of who I am. Yes, most have only seen the less extreme version. I have hidden away pieces of me, the parts I am told are too much, too intense, sad or crazy.

The ugly parts.

These experiences that made me real are the things the world is afraid to share, yet is the the thing we yearn to see, and when done can set one free.

We crave this vulnerability and yet run from it.

Afraid to show anyone we care, we hide from our truths, because caring means love, and love is eventual pain or abandonment.

It’s 3 a.m. and looking in the mirrior wondering why I couldn’t be his and why my stomach isn’t smaller, my legs not slender or my heart less fragile?

Why I was given this broken back with uneven shoulders? Why her arms could bring the comfort I no longer could but sought to give every moment?

The pain of inevitable loss is so immense that we can not even bare to look rejection in the eyes. So we don’t. We do not try.

We live only half in love and waiting for something that will fill us. Someone better, someone more than anything we could imagine.  Something to make us feel alive again…

But the truth is we are all terribly broken and we are all dying. Some of us at a  faster rate, but the end result is the same. We’re all looking for something to slow down death or speed it up. Or perhaps a distraction great enough to make us momentarily forget our human frailty.

I am, in fact tired of hating myself, tired of feeling like dying and done with trying to fight it off. I am genuinely trying to love who I am. But I have a lifetime of suppression of pain to work through. I look at myself and see crumbles of a person and I do not know if I can ever become more, except a greater mass of such.

Perhaps there is a chance out there. The piece of the puzzle I will eventually stumble upon. The moments to distract me from my own mortality. I wait for these times on bated breath and with a broken heart.

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

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!