Category: Uncategorized

letters, lines, and wretched messes

Your lips taste like honey

Like summer skies and orange sunsets, 

Golden roses, midnight dreams 

Soak slowly, I let you drown me 

Your breath makes me twirly

Like swirling storms inside my stomach

Fluttering marigolds and yellow petals

rain down when you touch me

Our fingers, no, bodies are intertwined

Like messy strands of hair at 11 a.m.

Waking up to kisses and tea

I truly let you drown me

Scattered letters and bleeding pens

Carve their way into my heart

Harsh lines and soft edges stay

Until my sorrows turn into art

Molded and mended

I bleed and I breathe 

The letters that you wrote to me 

Made me realize suddenly

That we are not disorderly

We are a harmony

A synchrony, a symphony

A wretched mess of limbs, we are

Like folded pages in a book of poems

Entangled words all mangled up

And faded ink underneath the sun’s glow

But

We are not entangled letters

Or words or limbs

We are parallel lines

that were never meant to touch 

we matter

I’ve been thinking long and hard about whether or not I should delete this website, in fear of future employers seeing this and believing that I am unstable or incapable of a job. As senior year nears an end, my fear of being unemployed grows. And it keeps growing. This used to be my safe space — and it still is. I won’t let my fear stop me from writing about my mental health and my growth. Until I read a blog post my friend, Madison Griswold, wrote, I thought I would have to shut down my site forever. Because of people like Maddie, people who are unafraid to voice their deepest and darkest secrets, I realize that I too, am doing the same thing. I hope that this blog helps you feel less alone. Because there are people out there, just like you and me, suffering from the same silence. I will not delete my blog. I will not delete my words. I will not delete myself. Thank you, Maddie, for reminding me that my voice matters. I hope one day I can inspire someone to speak out about their mental health and share their experience that we all hide.

Maddie, I am so proud of you and I am so proud to be your friend.

Keep reading to see what Maddie wrote. Here is a link to her original post.

We have all been taught, either implicitly or explicitly, that our mental health is a private matter. I would argue that no, it cannot be. It has been for too long. You should share whatever you are comfortable with to the degree you are comfortable with, but this culture of secrecy is part of what has caused so many to suffer and silence and some to even take their own lives. This is a public health issue. We must bring mental health out of the shadows. That starts with each and every one of us.

A lot of good progress has been made in the public eye, with celebrities and other influential figures speaking out about their own struggles and many more resources coming to the forefront. But there is still so much to do behind the scenes. Besides the abysmal state of publicly funded mental health care, it is still taboo in many circles to openly discuss depression, anxiety, bipolar disorder, PTSD, anorexia and bulimia among other disorders. The only way to break the cycle is to be brave enough to share your own story and hopefully empower others to do the same. This is what I hope to do.

— Madison Griswold

My Friend

For seven months, I made excuses for him. He was my friend. That didn’t really happen. He’s a good person. He’s always been there for me. He was my friend. 

But friends do not pin you down on the bed. Friends do not hit you when you refuse to comply. They do not muffle your cries with their hands. They do not force your thighs apart to insert their fingers inside you. And they do not rape you.

The moment he forced his dick inside me was the moment I stopped fighting. I didn’t want to get hit again. He was 6”4 and weighed over 200 pounds. I was 5”3 and weighed 97 pounds. I do not remember much about that night. I remember shivering. Was I cold? In shock? Was I nearing a panic attack? I do not know.

I stopped fighting because I was scared. I had already fallen off the bed twice. Or maybe I fell because he hit me. I do not remember. I was screaming, pleading, bleeding inside. Only inside. I did not want to die. 

The clearest memory was the immense relief I felt after he left. I was safe again. But I no longer felt like myself. I felt… dirty. Like I had this disgusting poison spreading throughout my body. I just felt wrong. Something was wrong. Inside me. With me. Everything felt wrong. 

I took eight showers that night, trying to burn away the rot and shame he left behind. I did not cry. I did not feel. I did not blame him. My skin was scrubbed red and raw from the scalding water but I still felt nothing. I was nothing. Maybe it was my fault.

The next few days I functioned robotically. I didn’t think. I didn’t feel. I didn’t shower. And for a while it was okay. Until I had to shower again.

I finally cried when I saw my naked body in the mirror of my bathroom. Who am I? What happened to me? I tried to repress the memories of that night — whatever little I had left anyway — but I couldn’t. It was seared in my mind. His body crushing me. My stifled cries. His shushes of don’t worry just enjoy it. His hands around my neck. 

The next couple of weeks, I felt empty. A light had gone out of me. I had no energy. My eyes were dull. Lifeless. Bright fluorescent lights used to hurt my eyes. Loud traffic noises used to hurt my ears. But none of that mattered anymore. The world was muted and I was just a ghost.

I drifted in and out of sleep during those weeks, clinging to the warmth and safety of my bed. My clean sheets. I cried myself to sleep each night, taking sleeping pills and Xanax so I wouldn’t have to think. I was constantly crying when I was awake. So I self-medicated during the day as well. 

Every night, I gripped my blankets and whispered sorry sorry sorry for hurting you, thank you for being here for me, thank you for wiping my tears away, thank you for keeping me safe and warm. Thank you for not touching me without my permission.

The tears in my blanket have seen the world hurt me. They’ve seen me hurt myself. And they have felt me tugging and ripping its seams as if they were my veins.

He claims he had no memory of that night. He still texts me every now and then. And I respond. After all, he is my friend. 

Every text from him was a reminder. Shame. Hurt. Guilt. Maybe I deserved this. 

After months of therapy and support from my boyfriend, friends, and my sister, I realized that I was not defined by what had happened to me. I was worth more than I knew. And I was loved. Unconditionally. Every single day. 

I am not broken or empty or lost.

I love every day and I am loved every day.

And I know now that he is definitely not my friend. He is only my rapist.

naked truths iv

i haven’t been doing well lately

i’m cold all the time

i just want some peace and quiet

the days are bleeding into each other

it is getting harder to breathe

i could drown if i wanted

i starve myself sometimes so i can pretend the emptiness is from my stomach and not from my soul

i am hurting inside

but i’m also numb and… really angry

i am so angry it scares me

i want to destroy things myself thingsmyselfthings myself

i don’t want to die

there is so much hate in my heart and guilt in my veins

i want someone to punch me really hard in the stomach so i can throw up my feelings my guilt my hurt my emptiness

the world is moving too fast and all i can do is stare blankly

i am screaming inside

i just want to fall asleep but i’m afraid of waking up

i’m angry and scared always so fucking cold

it is 5:19 a.m. and everything is blurry and muted and distant

i think i am lonely

there is an immense sadness inside me that i cannot shake

saying nothing

My head is spinning. I have so many thoughts. So many dots that don’t quite connect. All I’ve ever wanted was a sense of clarity. Why is everything so muddled?

It’s been almost a year since the incident. Almost a year since I’ve posted on this blog. I think about writing, about posting nearly every day but I can never think of anything to say. So here I am, saying nothing.

I’ve had really really good days. Days so good I didn’t want to ruin them by writing thinking feeling all my thoughts turn into words. Does that make sense? I’ve also had some really shitty days. Those are the days I want to write the most. My fingers itch and mind longs to write to post and scream and shout and tell the world that I am not okay. But I also didn’t want to disappoint.

People are so happy for me when I am happy, I cannot bear to tell them that I still get sad sometimes. It’s all so disappointing.

So, I am writing today. It’s not a great day but it’s not a terrible one either. It’s like the weather here in Revere. Foggy. Misty. Cloudy but bright skies. Overcast. The smell after it rains (there was a thunderstorm last night, the lightning was crazy).

I can’t think too much about the words I’m spewing or I’ll get scared and delete it all. So here is me, saying nothing. But also everything. I’m going to stop writing and publish this before I lose my nerve. Thanks for reading.

pointless

I want to be a good writer. I want to tell the truth and be honest with the world. But how can I do that when I’m always lying to myself? I’ve been writing and re-writing this post, but the truth is, I have no idea what I’m going to say. I want to say something but nothing is worth saying. My life is at the point where I’m sort of flatlining. Not in a bad way, but not in a good way either. Too many things have happened between the last post and this one. Even though I want to be as transparent as possible, some things just aren’t meant to be shared with the world. So, I’m sorry. Is withholding truth the same as lying? I should stop writing now. I don’t know what point I’m trying to make.

getting high these days feels easier than ever

help! i’m drowning

my lungs full of liquid guilt –

guilt. guilt. guilt.

why am i so damn guilty?

it’s like my heart doesn’t pump blood, it pumps guilt

i float when i’m high– ohhh i get it now hIGH hahaha–

off-rhythm heart beat

why is my breathing so irregular?

a million shards caught in my throat

i can’t swallow my broken-glass words

it hurts too much

i’m drowning and i’m floating and i’m choking

this is my life

naked truths iii

i’ve never been on wordpress while high, i don’t think. so if there are a couple of typos, i’m sorry. since i am high, everything said will probably be unfiltered. so here’s the truth of truths: i think i might possibly be addicted to pain…? i’m not sure why but it fuels my art. but i am tired of feeling so hurt all the time – why don’t i allow myself to feel happy? i’m always punishing myself… guess it’s all the guilt i feel all the time. pulsing beneath my skin, drowning me. help me! i scream at the world but the world is too hard and i am too soft to be living in it. i worry sometimes about the world ending because we don’t think climate change is real. i’m 20 but i feel as if i am still 13 and clueless. i was hopeful and curious when i was 13. now i’m just sad. but that’s ok too, i think. i like eating ice cream when i’m sad that’s why i’ve gained weight because i’m always sad and wow this got more intense than i intended it to be somehow i’ve lost my punctuation even though i feel pretty sober actually. i’m so fucking sober all the time. i’m all out of juul pods and that makes me sad too. i can’t wait to live alone so i can cry loudly and no one will think i’m insane except maybe the neighbors. i always talk about being sad sometimes i wonder if there are any other components to being me? it’s a lot easier to write and read when i’m high for some reason. i worry about the future. i worry that i will never be able to experience true happiness because i always put others’ feelings first. who knows? we’ll die from global warming anyway. ok anyway my fingers are getting numb (idk why) so i’m gonna go. thanks for reading my nonsense. stay tuned for more ramblings!!

wishes

Some days, I feel like I’m slipping again. Turns out, 20 years of self-loathing is hard to get rid of. I spend most of my days sleeping, and wishing I were asleep when I’m awake. The world is too hard and too loud.

naked truths ii

  • i am trying to love myself but it is so hard
  • especially when i feel like i am a failure every day
  • i wish it were last summer
  • i still think about hurting myself sometimes
  • self-medicating sounds more than appealing
  • i haven’t seen my friends in a while
  • i’m scared that they’ve forgotten me
  • life moves on, y’know? i’m not fast enough for it
  • rawr!! i’m a dinosaur. i wish i were 5 again
  • i’m painfully sober right now

those days are the hardest

tumblr_onwblkhEce1w0l6yoo1_640Depression is a disease – a sickness that doesn’t go away with just chicken noodle soup. When the world is spinning and I feel like I can’t get back on my feet, I cannot tell people how I feel.

Sadness isn’t a feeling. It is a state. A constant mind-numbing state that drapes over me like a scarf that is too big – engulfing me with useless thoughts from the past. Remnants and echoes of “why are you here” and “you aren’t worth it” hang heavily around my neck, around my head, in my mouth and under my skin. Sadness feels like I am sitting at the bottom of the pool, watching the world go by in slow motion. You know that feeling when you’re underwater? When everything is muted, rippled, and stuck in time? Watching people wonder why I am just sitting and not swimming. Hearing people yell my name in frustration and tell me to “just swim.” How can I just swim when I’m stuck in a ripple?

Those days it’s hard for me to breathe. Those days I want to stay in bed all day and stare blankly at the ceiling in a dimly lit room. Yes, I would rather be wrapped around in blankets, than go out to parties because these blankets did not lie to me. These blankets did not leave me. And these blankets did not touch me without my permission.

The ruffles of these blankets have wiped away my tears, pushed away my fears in the dark, and hugged me until I fell asleep. The tears in the corner of these blankets have seen the world hurt me, have seen me hurt myself, and have felt me tugging and ripping at its seams as if they were my veins.

I want it to stop. I want this feeling of constant nothingness to go away. I want to stop breathing because, with every heave of my chest, I am just breathing in more water.

Those days it is so hard for me to breathe that I just want to stop breathing. I want it all to stop. Those days are the worst. Because no one ever gets it. “You were fine yesterday,” someone will mutter, and “It’s all in your head,” someone will state, with that matter-of-factually obnoxiousness that I have learned to ignore since the first day.

Those days I want to run and run and run away from the noise inside my head, from thoughts that trail after me like my shadow. I don’t want to see. I don’t want to hear. I only want to feel the thumps of my beating heart under my skin reminding me that I am alive.

The only thing depression taught me was this: people will say they love you and they support you and that they understand. They don’t. I realize that when I talk too much about my depression, people get uncomfortable. They try to butter me up with awkward ‘don’t you feel so much better today’s as if they can try to make me whole again. As if I’m something broken they think they can fix. But I’m not.

I am not broken. I am a person. I think, I feel, I am normal. Just a normal girl with perhaps too many feelings, too many thoughts – but a normal girl, nonetheless. Depression is a part of me that I’ve come to accept. Some days it’s easier to manage than others. Some days, my friends act like lifeboats and bring me above the surface. I can see the sun again. I can breathe again. Everything is fine again. But there will always be those dark, high tides that I cannot escape. I will plunge underwater and I will be pulled deep down again. But I will always find my way back to the lifeboats. I will always find my way to the surface.

To everyone: Just because you don’t see it, doesn’t mean it isn’t there. And just because you don’t understand it, doesn’t mean I don’t feel it.

Think before you say something. Your words might be the last thing someone hears.

to my 12-year-old self, please stop crying

tumblr_o43352OCkH1s3jg9qo1_1280Dear me,

I’m sorry you feel so scared. I want to tell you that it gets better – that with each passing second, your heaving chest will feel lighter and the voices around you softer. But it doesn’t get better. Not really.

Remember when you thought it was the end of the world when they chopped down your favorite tree in the park? You felt like you lost yourself and that you won’t ever feel complete again. It’s kind of like that. A part of yourself will always be missing, and you’ll always wonder what you did wrong. You will wonder why men and women try so hard to impress each other only to spend the entire night staring at a lit up box, concentrating on virtual people that aren’t in front of them. You’ll wonder why girls sprint to the bathroom after dinner only to stick their fingers down their throats. You’ll wonder why your parents argue in the middle of the night.

And then you’ll stop wondering. You’ll become one of them.

Nameless, faceless, lost. Your eyes will sink lower and lower into your skin, and they will lose the hope and curiosity they once held. You will scream and cry and question why you are never enough. You will drown over and over again, but no one will notice even though the walls are so thin. And you’ll worry. You’ll worry about the way you look. Society has ingrained into you that pretty girls are skinny girls, pretty girls are perfect girls with perfect teeth and long hair. You will spend many more years worrying about the way you look and questioning why you don’t look like girls in magazines and movies.

Your mom will tell you to stop eating. You will look down at your plate, trying to choke down a mouthful of tasteless leaves while you choke back tears. You will spend many hours sitting on the bathroom floor, your head resting against the door, wishing you were as cold as the tiles beneath your feet. You will hurt, and you will cry, and you will wish you didn’t wake up. There will be scratches on the pale walls made by metallic rulers. Names of crushes, dates of first kisses. Tally marks of days spent alone and nights spent lonely. You will spend time on the corner of your bed – curled up and alone, staring at the artificial fluorescent glow, wondering when it would all get better. There will be late night phone calls and tears that ended up with scars not on the walls.

But you will learn, and you will cope.

You will learn to drown out the noise, the endless whisperings and reminders of “you are a disappointment” and “no one loves you.” It will be difficult, but you will try. If I could give you advice, this would be it: Stop looking at your feet. The world is much more beautiful when you actually look up and notice the things around you – the skies, stars, people. See those old books and novels that line your shelves?

Read them. Live a thousand lives among warriors and princesses and dare to dream as far as they do. Stop focusing on what other people think of you – they don’t matter. Find a group of friends who will not judge you and who will love you for who you are. Trust in them and trust in yourself. But most importantly, love yourself. I know it’s difficult- I’m still struggling with it today, and it will still be a struggle in the future. Keep trying. Accept the love you receive, and give as much love back as you can. You are worth it.

Love,

20-Year-Old Me

i am enough (i think)

I don’t like myself.

I never have. I can’t seem to remember a time where I wasn’t full of self-loathing.

I don’t like myself and I don’t know why. Everyone has good qualities and I do recognize my own. I’m a pretty good writer. I’m empathetic and kind and I care about other people. I have awesome friends and an amazing boyfriend – surely, they must love me for a reason. I try my best and I try to do everything with love. But, deep down, I don’t think that I’m worthy of anybody’s love. I don’t know why I think that.

I know that I’m okay and I’m enough and I’m worth it. To other people, that is. I just want to be enough for myself and I don’t know how. I’ve only come to the realization of how deep my self-hatred runs inside me and I don’t understand how I can possibly fix it.

I also know that I’m not a broken toy that needs to be fixed. I’m just a girl, no, a woman, trying her goddamn best. I just hope that it’s enough.