being raped ruins lives

being raped ruins lives

i didn’t ask for it, you know that best

so does he

and him too.

i shouldn’t have to say that it hurts, what you did

the way my confidence drips away every time i speak your name

every time i think it’s fine

it’s not.

i put everything into somebody, i put everything into a box and i saved it just for you

all of me; thoughts, beliefs, all of it

i can’t be normal now

normalcy melted when you took everything i had from me

and i cried, but that didn’t stop you

i am empty


I spend a frustrating amount of my time wondering why I am not “enough” for certain people in my life. Anybody, really.

I am by no means a perfect person. I shut off. I cease to communicate. I am alone with my thoughts a lot. I don’t reach out when I know I need to. Yet, with all of these faults and many more, I don’t deserve to feel less than I am. I don’t deserve to question why people don’t want to be in my life. I am more than what people think of me, or don’t think of me. I am so much greater than I allow myself to be.

I am alone an awful lot. It’s emotionally exhausting– my mind like a broken record, begging to know why I don’t have anyone. I have my mom, yes. But who else? No one. I have no one.

It’s pathetic to admit how happy I am when someone messages me to ask how I am or what I’m up to. Lately people haven’t reached out to me at all except when they need something or when it’s convenient for them.

I try to remind myself that it’s their loss.

I always forget.

I have done so much with my life thus far. I could have found myself down a different, more destructive past. I didn’t. I pushed through. I graduated high school. I went to college. I made the dean’s list. I worked full time. I joined an honor society. And soon, I’m graduating. I’m continuing my education, and most importantly, moving away from the toxicity of this area and making a life for myself outside of my comfort zone.

There’s days I don’t want to crawl out of bed because the only thing I am capable of doing well is crying. When I’m in bed at night, engulfed in the deafening silence, I question why I am so alone. I should have friends. I should be having fun. I should be doing this, or doing that. I am not.

But there’s also days that are pleasantly surprising. People in general can be so sweet and thoughtful. I try to be one of those people. I’m not always successful, I can be a real bitch– but it’s a progressing endeavor. I try to compliment people more. I try to smile more. I try not to let the intimidation or insecurities of others define the general population. I’m not religious or spiritual by any means, but I try to ask God for better days. He doesn’t owe me anything, but I ask anyway.

At the end of the day, I know the only person I have is myself. I know that she is strong, sweet, and powerful. But she has bad days too, sometimes bad months; but she’s allowed to have those. We all are.

I try to remind her that the only person in the whole world that she has to impress is herself, but she’s forgetful and sometimes messy. But every day is an accomplishment. Every day is a work of art, even the grossly bland days.

And eventually all of this will seem silly and laughable, because life will be beautiful–just like her– and she will owe it to no one but herself.

loss 5/16/18

I’m tired of loss.

Not tired in a way that can be mended with sleep, no.

Mentally exhausted in a way that doesn’t seem just. It’s not just.

I miss my dad. Actually, no. I miss the thought of having a dad, or a normal life, a normal family. Every day I ache because of a past I had no control over. I was only a kid. Why did this happen to a kid?

I miss my friends. The dead ones, the far-away ones, the dead ones that are still living and breathing. I miss what it’s like to be cared for. I miss laughing and playing and causing trouble just because.

It seems like the only friend I have is writing. She’s the only thing that keeps me safe, sane. She lets me be who I am without judgement. She is what keeps me strong.

I’m sick of being strong, you know? I’m repulsed by the hand that life has given me. I am thankful for the opportunities but sickened by doom and gloom that has followed me since my childhood.

When tragedy strikes, being strong is the only option. It is what keeps us going in the dark. We are the light, begging to be shone. What happens when the light fades out? Who will carry us out of the dark?

Nothing about this makes sense. I can’t seem to put the pieces together, because the ends were sawn off and nothing fits right.

I want things to be clean-cut, I want things to make sense.

Most of all, I want to see hope in a time of darkness. I want to pick myself up out of the rubble and dust myself off. I want to scream into me, “It’s not supposed to make sense. Life isn’t meant to be lived with certainty, only spontaneity.”

One day, when it’s my turn to follow suit, I will understand. It may not make sense, the puzzle pieces may not be perfect for one another, but everything will be okay. We will be happy with the outcome, because we tried. We fucking tried.

And that’s beautiful.


I have too many emotions and not enough ways to express them outside of crying or writing. I’m mad, mostly. I want the anger to go away.

I’m mad because I’m an adult now and it’s substantially difficult for me to accept my childhood, or lack thereof. It wasn’t normal. It wasn’t great. My family didn’t take vacations, we didn’t spend time together. Mom and Dad didn’t really love each other. Our house was messy and my dad didn’t care. My mom worked a lot, so my sister had to raise me. She did a good job, but it wasn’t her responsibility. She had it rough too. They had it worse than me. I’m mad because when I think back to my childhood the only thing I can think about is my father’s suicide. I can only think of the days after I learned he took his life. I was mad at my mom for awhile. Why did she have to leave dad? I know why now, of course. But it all came too quickly. I didn’t have time to heal. I am not healed.

I am mad because I was doomed from the get-go. I am constantly sad. Depression–it’s killer. I think it’s killing me but I am trying not to let it. I’ve come really far and I don’t want to lose myself now. But it’s true, I don’t really feel like I ever had the chance to be normal. I never had the opportunity to be “like the others,” which I guess can be a good thing if you’re one of those “glass half-full” people. I’m mad because for once I just want normalcy.

I’m mad because the relationships I have with my family are next to non-existent. I’m mad because some days I really don’t want to be on earth anymore, and so I cry out for help, but it seems like no ones listening. People have their own lives, I get that. But I need help sometimes.

I’m mad because I’ve taken pill after pill after pill and all they do is make me tired and sick. I can’t sleep at night. I’m mad because I’m exhausted and I have to go on with my days smiling and laughing and pretending like I don’t want to die but honestly, I’m tired of fighting. But I’ll continue to smile and laugh because I don’t want people to worry about me. People have their own lives.

I’m mad because I don’t know if there’s reversing the damage that’s done. I am an angry person. I do my best to be positive and uplifting and bubbly, but my soul is tired. I hope that one day I can feel loved beyond anything I could fathom. I pray that I can keep going, even on the bad days. I refuse to transform into a product of my past; but things are becoming heavy, now more than ever.

I need someone now more than ever.

An Open Apology to Myself

First and foremost, I’m sorry for all the intentional pain I have physically caused you. I am sorry for all the sleepless nights. I know its hard on you.

I’m sorry for all the times I’ve talked poorly of you. I know you are doing your best. Sometimes its hard to see through the immense pain. I am sorry for all the times I’ve put my two cents in on your weight, the way your stomach looks in any pair of pants, and how much I’ve taunted your face. I’m sorry I wasn’t nicer. I try to be uplifting towards strangers, its a shame I can’t be that way towards you.

I’m sorry for all the times I’ve wished death upon you; even now. I don’t really want you to die. I want you to feel something other than uncertainty, something other than emptiness. I often associate those with death. They are not synonymous. I really want you to live actually; as hard as it seems lately. Its hard to find things to live for. Its hard to feel cared for and loved. I know you are working on it. I should cut you more slack.

I’m even sorry for the things I cannot control, the unexpected parts of life we do not see coming. I’m sorry about your dad. He didn’t kill himself because of you, you know. I’m sorry that because of his death, your childhood was less than memorable. I’m sorry about your mental health and the passing of your friend and the dread that consumes you daily. I’m sorry that you’re tired of smiling for people to make them think you’re okay. I’m sorry for the poison I fed you; with good intentions, to help you. It only hurt you and I didn’t know. I thought I was doing you a favor. I won’t do that again.

I’m sorry you feel like you don’t belong. You do, somewhere. We both know its not here. I’m sorry you feel like you don’t belong at home or at work or anywhere. You will find your niche but you need to stick around long enough to find it. You have come a long way, no doubt. You’ll pull through but you’ve got to want it.

I’m sorry you feel guilty for being you. I know you aren’t social. I know you’re a bit awkward in some situations. I know that you don’t like being this way. You are not a nuisance though. You are you for a reason.

Most of all, I’m sorry you can’t see your worth right now. Its weird, huh? We go through patches where we think we’re okay. We might even be good! But we aren’t right now, are we? If we stick around we might be okay forever. Its worth it somehow. I’ve heard, anyway.

Please remember that even if no one does care about you, I am always here. I am your best friend.


Because I am you.



one day

Maybe one day I’ll be able to feel something softer than dread. I’ll be happy to live my life. I will look for the good in people, in things. I will be happy. I won’t feel like I don’t belong. I will belong in my own home, it will be a place of peace.

Maybe one day I’ll stop cancelling plans with friends because I’m anxious and tired. I will want to be social. I will want to go out and enjoy myself. I won’t feel guilty. I will have fun.

Maybe one day I’ll be cared for and cared about. Someone will check on me, they will make sure I am okay when I know I am not. I won’t be on the back burner of anyone’s life. I am priority, not secondary. I am worthwhile. One day.

Maybe one day I’ll stop using my mental health as a crutch to spew excuses, though they are valid and true. I’ll own up to the fact that I often struggle. I will get better. I won’t be so hard on myself.

Maybe one day I’ll look out the window and feel comfort and warmth, not sadness nor emptiness. It will be reassuring. I won’t be sad anymore.

Maybe one day someone will be proud of me. I have come a long way. Most days I don’t think I have anymore fight in me. I am tired of fighting. I would like to rest. There is no rest.

Maybe one day I will sleep and feel content, I will wake up and embrace my day. I will not be scared to go to bed. I will not be paralyzed. I will be whole.

I will find a healthy outlet to express my anger. I won’t take it out on myself or other people anymore. I will be more considerate, nicer.

I want to get better. I want to be cared about. I want to be whole.

I am not.

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