Some days are a little harder than others. Then there are the days that are a lot harder. When the harder days stack onto each other to make more than just a few days it gets overwhelming.
I am going to try to take care of myself. Be gentle. Be kind. Be aware. I am going to try to not push myself to destruction but push enough for success. Success as staying at work, eating, showering, walking the dog, maybe wash some laundry.
I’m strugglin’ some today and that’s okay.


Outside part two-not superficial

I have this really cool app that does inspire me to think. As much as a pen knows what it’s writing. Whoa. My pen never knows what it’s writing. I don’t know most of the time. My pen sits there or moves and just keeps going.
How do I let it go? How do I become a pen? Life happens and it uses that part of you. You can’t get it back. It’s gone. Done. Over. Nothing you can do. You can either dwell on the part you lost or keep going with what you have left. I don’t know if you can do both at the same time. If you can dwell and move forward. I’m going to be 22 tomorrow. I don’t want to keep looking back at all the ink that had been used. All the things it would have been used for, saved for. That it could have been or should have been. It is what it is. That ink is gone. It was part of me. It is still part of who I was and who I am now. But what about the rest of the ink? Am I trying to save the rest for a special occasion? Don’t use the ink that’s left because then I might regret that? Out of you don’t use it the ink will dry out anyway and then you just have a shitty pen.
Let it go. Let what go? Everything? A few things?
I am still working on morning the loss of my idealistic parents. I am still coping with the rape. I don’t think I have a handle on my past relationships with depression and anxiety. I am very shameful and hold a lot of guilt. Which now that I’ve typed that out that seems ridiculous. Maybe that’s what I need to face head on and let go. Yes, I am who I am. I just happen to have anxiety and depression. It’s a part of me. It’s what makes my pen the pen it is.
What kind of pen would I want to be…
I would say colorful. Like the purple g2 pen that writes really smooth the click one. But that’s not very official and sometimes gets left in the drawer for special notes. While a black, fine tip, smooth writing pen with a lid is official and gets used for notes and signing important documents. Or I could be a funky color sharpie. I really like sharpies. And they aren’t used for everyday documents but when they are it’s pretty official. Anything written in sharpie is official in my book.
What kind of pen are you?

Outside post

The hassle of getting bird food. I just thought it might be nice if we would have a bird feeder. I thought I might like it. The cats might like it. It’s inexpensive entertainment.
I went to one store picked up the 2 dollar bell food, brought it home, opened the bag and 100’s of bugs are crawling. I called for pretty lady to come help. I took it back to the store, double bagged and bugs were still coming out. It has left me feeling violated and itchy.
I went to a different store because I didn’t want to let that experience defeat me. Why let it get the better of me?
Now Bella and I are hanging out on our patio.

I really want to move out of this apartment. I am really starting to dislike it with a passion. It really gets to me. Not that a new place wouldn’t get to me as well but I just want to be done with it here.
Tomorrow is my birthday.
I found a book today that had explore the world challenges. I also found one that was like hey take a few minutes each day and think about this. I thought about gettin them but the remembered that I have this blog. I really like my blog. It’s more me than a book that might prompt thinking about my childhood friends. I also guess that could be cheaper than going to therapy.
I haven’t vomited since Tuesday. Which is the longest I’ve gone since this started.
I guess this is the point where I either dig deep and let some thoughts out and try to let something go or where I just end this post. Maybe I’ll end this one but start the next one right now.

I didn’t ask to be raped

I’m scared. I’m scared to have my feelings. I’m scared of being on meds or off my meds. I’m scared it’s going to get worse. Or even worse, if it stays the same.
I’ve been off most my meds now for only a little while but I’m starting to have my feelings return. Feelings of more than just this baseline. I can feel the slight highs and the lower lows. The meds didn’t make me happy but they just set this line—–but now it’s more like–‘–,,,–”—‘—-,,,,–,–‘
I recently found a article that a girl I know wrote. You should check it out IT HAPPENED TO ME: I Waited Until My Wedding Night to Lose My Virginity and I Wish I Hadn’t
I am so proud of her! There have been response articles and it has sparked conversation in my life. I love it!
Then it got me thinking about the photos she took. She has beautiful photography. You should also check that out
I then went to find the photos. I found them and this wave of emotions came over me. I’m still not sure how to word it but I want to inspire myself again. I want to remind myself that I have the strength to do really neat things like this.

I’m amazed that it wasn’t that long ago that we did this but it seems like forever. I am actually okay with identify with myself in that photo. Im glad to see the woman I am. The child I am. The bravery. The courage. The sadness. The strength.
The survivor.
I am most proud of the survivor I see.
Maybe I am able to put it in words.
I want to continue being the survivor that is exposing this truth that I’ve tried so hard to hide. I don’t want to hide. I want to let it be a part of me but not something the defines me.


Do the numbers 69 ever get less amusing? They aren’t really that amusing in the first place but I smile or shake my head every time I see it. Does this go away with maturity or age? Or does it just always stay this way? My phone battery is at 69 and I chucked. Should I try to move forward or just except that these numbers combined just make me smile? 69

Renaissance Festival

Today I went to the Renaissance festival. I enjoyed myself. I went with mother, father and brother. Even though I’m having rocky terms with my parents I’m really glad I got to see my brother.
I think I’ve decided to take my therapist advise and try to come to terms with my relationship with my parents. I want to morn, I need to morn the lose of the perfect parents. The parents that I dream and hope for them to be. The parents that want to protect me. The parents who show they care. The parents that call because their baby girl has been sick for over 7 weeks. The parents that I keep trying to hold to the standard that can’t be met. I want to be able to have a relationship with them. Maybe that’s possible maybe it’s not. But there is no way in hell they can be the parents that I keep trying to dream them to be. They can barely be the parents that they are. I’m difficult I know that but it would help everyone if I could lower my expectations. If father text after a month saying hey just wanted to check to see how you’re doing. Take it as face value don’t try to make it something more or less. No he didn’t text for a whole month or try to see if I was okay. But fuck it. I’m taking care of myself. Maybe try to be grateful that he even said anything. Maybe try not to be upset that mother still plays as if nothing’s going on. Just be glad that I was strong enough to call her and ask if they wanted to come to the festival.
This isn’t settling well. I feel out of control. Not too far out of control but enough that it’s bothersome.