Rambling…

My reason for starting this blog was to have a place to write everything down and know that it’d still be there in the rare occurrence that things may turn out for the better, but this blog just causes me stress. Knowing that anyone – especially people who try so desperately to squeeze into mine and my families’ personal lives – can read all the things that I’ve always kept so deep inside. How am I suppose to comfortably write, blog, share when I’m so concern with who or what is reading my thoughts? I use to find comfort in that thought, the fact that people around the world would read my blog posts and in their own ways connect with me, or perhaps find comfort in knowing that their pain wasn’t abnormal. Now, every time I begin to write my anxiety spikes. My mind shuts down and I am unable to write anything.

But really, what more can I say? What else can I blog about that I haven’t said before? My life is just so repetitive, so boring; its comparable to writing the same sentence over and over again, and yet I do nothing to make it better, nothing to make my life more exciting and more worthy of being called a “life”. I just exist, that is all. I do not live life, or embrace the unpredictable, yet beautiful chaos that life brings. I idle, neither going forward nor backwards, in a place of unhappiness and entrapments. I often feel as though I am living in a glass box, able to see the glorious life that lays just feet away from me and yet I am unable to break, or escape from my enclosure and so I run in circles. I continue to run in circles, day in and day out, to incompetent to see that my glass house has no roof, to” comfortable” in my routine to see what is literally just above me, just feet in the air. I fear that if I do not begin to climb, jump, or reach for a way out I will be in this place forever. Stuck in a life that I am not happy in, stuck re-living the same day repeatedly and calling it a life.

I’ve always had so many excuses, whether it be my dad or my nephews, it was an excuse. I barely visited my dad, and my nephews didn’t need me as much as I made it seem, but saying I couldn’t leave because of my dad or nephews was easier than accepting the fact that I was just too scared. But fear is normal. Being scared means your stepping out of your comfort zone and making progress in your life. What isn’t normal is how unhappy of a person I am, how I haven’t had a relationship sense tenth grade, that I haven’t been in love sense Brandon, and that I haven’t moved on from things that happened so many years ago.

Why haven’t I moved on?

Why can’t I find the strength to learn from my mistakes and move forward, why haven’t I been living like a typical 20 something? I can’t continue to blame other people and past mistakes for why my present is such a mess.

                      How easy is it for me to say what I know needs to be done yet I am here still, still in the same place I was a year ago; the same place I was in 3 years ago.

I need to stop caring so much for the wellbeing of other people, because lord knows no one cares about me as deeply as I care about them, and begin to focus on me, on what will make me feel better. No matter how hard its going to be. I’m tired of being the person who is always there for everyone else, and yet I am constantly lonely. I am tired of crying in the shower or late at night because I am lonely.

I’m so lonely.

I’ve been so lonely sense the death of my best friend. No one understands, and I don’t know how to explain to people, why her death has messed me up so much. I don’t know how to tell people that she was my comfort. I don’t know how I’m suppose to tell people that she was the 17498646_10158508230045381_4974498748359248487_nonly thing on the planet that could calm me down when my anxiety was beating me down, how she was the only reason my depression didn’t consume me – she always knew when I was depressed and she’d curl up in my arms and gently lick away the tears from my face. She was the one thing in this world that I couldn’t imagine losing; and then I lost her. It was so sudden, it was so painful, I didn’t even get to sit with her, tell her I loved her one last time, and comfort her while they ended her suffering. I’m still so angry that I didn’t get the chance to make the decision whether I saw her pass away or not, and I resent my mom because of it. I love my mom, so much, but I hate what she did. I hate that I had to be in the dark about my best friend, and that I was at work while my bug took her last breath. I wish my mom would have allowed me to make the decision, I wish she knew how angry I am at her for taking that away from me. Jayda was more mine to me than just a dog, and I thought my mom knew that; it hurts so much that she doesn’t get it. I wanted to be there, that’s why I stayed up for 3 days making sure she didn’t die alone – yet she still did.  She died in a place that was unfamiliar, with nothing and no one. That breaks my heart more than anything, knowing she was so alone, and I hate myself everyday for it.                    

I just wish I knew why I lost her… She was my baby…

That’s another thing…

I’m almost 27 and I’m no closer to having a baby than I was 5 years ago, actually I was closer 5 years ago, and yet it appears everyone around me are having babies – my sister included.

I love my sister, but she never wanted to be a mom and here she is a mom of almost 3 and I have nothing. I use to dream of being a mom, I use to play house – imagining that I was a house wife and my husband was working – and care for my dolls as though they were real. I took care of my parents friends son when I was 13, and dreamed of the day when I had one of my own – all the while my sister locked herself in her room and would stay far away from children. So why is she the one who gets to have babies, and I’m the one who has Polycystic Ovarian Syndrome? Life’s not fair I suppose…

Ugh, I guess I’ll end this here since I’m rambling..

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Mental Health

We all have demons, things that keep us up all night. We all experience grief, anxiety, phobias and stress – even at a young age.

The shame a lot of kids feel due to their parents belittling, hurtful words, and the “harmless” teasing so many millenniums think is funny, sticks with the child and often become irreversible. Constant self-doubt, keeping secrets, and being isolated from family members can manifest in a child’s brain and the consequences can be deadly. Mental and verbal abuse may not leave physical marks but they definitely leave scars. Sadly, the mental health of children often go unnoticed; outsiders label the child problematic or hyperactive and advises the parent to get the child tested.

The problem, however, isn’t fixable by Prozac.

To often, especially working where I work, I see women yelling at their children, calling them monsters, brats, and dragging them by their little arms out of the store. I understand that sometimes being a parent can be overwhelming and frustrating but imagine what those children are feeling. Imagine the pain your inflicting on these tiny little humans.

Mommy and Daddy, your suppose to be their safe place. Your arms are suppose to be their shelter from the big bad scary world, you are not suppose to be part of that scary world. Mommy your words are slowly killing your baby, telling him to clean up or you’ll throw away all of his favorite toys. Daddy your tough love is doing nothing but making your little princess believe that abuse is okay, that its okay for a man to yell and scream and throw things when they are angry. Mama can’t you see that your mini me is watching you every minute of everyday and hears you constantly complaining that your fat, or ugly, or imperfect in someway; she’s growing up with self esteem issues, she’s growing up feeling all your insecurities because if you are fat and ugly she must be too. Papa, where did you go? Why is your son growing up being the man of the house? Where have you been? Do you know that your son now thinks women are all bad, because that’s what you’ve ranted about around him, how he disrespects his mother because you do? Now he’s 15 and gonna be a daddy cause he had no man to look up to. Do you understand how your dysfunction hurts the babies you brought into this world?

Maybe that’s the real problem. Maybe our – this generation is so dysfunctional and mentally (excuse my language) fucked up that they can’t process what they are doing and maybe it’s not completely our fault, although we aren’t doing anything to change it either.

Perhaps it started long ago, even before my mom was born.

But beyond the “blame game” we need to focus on something that has always been so taboo, so unspoken – Our mental health.

IF we are not well enough to get out of bed, If we cannot go a full day without wanting to retreat to a quiet space, if we cannot find a reason to live, if we have more bad days then be2b6354e00e93a79f0d7a8137383d9cgood days – we are not our authentic selves; We are not able to be productive citizens let alone good parents. Why are we so afraid to be truthful. Why are were so afraid to ask for help, or seek counselling. Why is there a stigma around mental health even when we KNOW its a chemical imbalance in our brains? Why does it still indicate that we are weak, or crazy or imperfect in some sort of way? I am not weak for saying that I have mental health issues, that I have anxiety and depression and that I am taking medication to help better myself. I am not crazy for needing a medicine to re-regulate my serotonin and dopamine levels, just like a diabetic isn’t crazy for needing insulin.

Lets break the cycle our forefathers started, lets rip down the walls and hang the dirty laundry on the line for the world to see. Lets focus on helping the mentally ill, find treatment that works. Lets remove the stigma, the bullying, the word crazy when referring to a mentally ill person. Lets raise respectful, well mannered, healthy children.