It was like you were the light; Bright, vibrant and attractive 

      And I was the unexpecting insect; curious and in awe of you and so, I risked my life just to be close to you. 

But I soon realized that, the closer I flew towards your glow, the more damaging you became. 

    Your touch sent fire to my veins and restricted my air. Your guiding glow became my home. No matter how much you hurt me, no matter how many times your power knocked me to the ground, I would collected myself, wipe off the dirt, and fly back to you hoping that this time would be the one time you wouldn’t scorch my wings. 

It’s been years since the first night I laid eyes on your light, I am all but a body now. My wings have been burnt to ash and my legs are broken. However, I’m still here, Im still clinging on to the unrealistic hope that you will lift me up with your powerful light and love me the way I love you. 

But all I am is a bug, and you, you are a radiant and powerful light. 



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..



Sometimes I wonder why I even try to beat this, this overwhelming self hatred isn’t going to just disappear because I am popping pills or because I am admitting to people that I am depressed or anxious or that I have been sexually assaulted. I am never going to be happy, and I know that sounds so emo and unproductive but let me finish. 

I am never going to be happy stuck in this place, stuck in the exact place ive been since the day my innocence was stolen. Surrey, yes I am finally admitting the place I live, always felt like home. This is the place I was born, the place I learnt to talk, walk and this is the place my life evolved in. I have walked the same streets over and over again and it always felt safe and like nothing could possibly hurt me here because the faces of people I trusted filled every corner and every alley of these streets I now fear. I use to feel safe walking to the mall with ear buds blasting music and my mind in the clouds or walking through the short cut in the forest to the pool. Not because I was naive or unaware of what could happen but because I knew I had places to run to if anything happened. I trusted the people I knew, I trusted the neighbors and the faces I grew up around and then my life up and changed. When my dad got sick I still had my “safe” neighborhood, my familiar streets, a person I could run to on every street corner. When my grandma died I had people close enough that I could call them to come over and chill so I didn’t have to be alone with my thoughts. When my ex boyfriend came out I had people around that would meet me at a park or mall or a random parking lot so I didn’t have to dwell in my sadness and pain. 

But then we moved. 

Life happens; things that are completely out of our hands get thrown at us and I understand why we had to move. I understand that housing was hard to find and increasingly harder when we had to factor in that my dad was gonna need a wheelchair in the near future. When we moved I lost more then anyone else. I lost my ability to call up someone and meet them down the street, I lost that sense of security. I couldn’t see my friends as often because it was out of the way & no one drove. Getting to school was almost impossible and I ended up missing a lot and regretfully dropping out. I was alone with my thoughts, locked in my room alone for the better part of my day because I couldn’t just sit in the living room watching my dad deteriorate. I lost most of my friends because it was always a fight to go hang out with them. I lost everything that kept me sane and slowly I began reliving the painful experiences alone and so I drank. I drank to forget the pain, I drank because it gave me a reason to leave the house, I drank because if I drank enough I could fall into a dreamless sleep. I drank with people I didn’t know which lead to the sexual assault I speak about often. The sexual assault that I had to deal with alone because the people I told didn’t believe me. 

What I always failed to share was that it happened in the same area I grew up in. That the streets and mall that once seemed so safe became a reminder of the night I wish I could forget. I would be on edge every time I stepped foot into my old neighborhood fearful that I would see him. Fearful that I would run into people I knew before the assault, people who knew me before the depression and anxiety lead me into an inactive, unmotivated, sad and tormented person I allowed myself to become. A huge part of my insecurities come from losing my safe place, losing the people I always had to run to, losing my angels that helped me keep my demons away and then, from losing the good memories of my safe place to the torment the assault left in its place. 

This house, this neighborhood that homes the faces of people I have nothing in common with, people I do not know, has taken more from me then the good memories we built in it. I am resentful, resentful that this house took so much away from me. That within the walls of this house my heart has been broken so many times. That this house has more bad memories then good memories hidden within the walls. I feel like I am living in a prison, locked in a nightmare reliving all the pain and suffering this house has made me deal with. I feel unsafe behind these walls or walking these streets because I have no comfort, no safety, no one I can run to if something happens because they would rather turn a blind eye and pretend they aren’t home. 

I sit in a house my dad use to sit in, but he never lived in this house. He deterioted here, he suffered here. He adapted to life here, he choked and almost died here; the ambulance took him from here and never brought him back. ALS stole him from us here And now his ashes are here. But he never lived here.. He never worked on cars or spent hours trying to repair something in the drive way here, he never made memories here that were positive; no, he didn’t live he existed here. 

I lay in my own bed in a room my nephew was conceived in, in a room that my sister brought him home to but that wasn’t a joyful time for me. I love my nephew more then I could ever explain, his intelligence and his attitude makes me both proud and amused everyday and I am grateful to have him in my life, however my sister never wanted children and everyone always said I’d have a baby first. Yet she was the first one to have a successful pregnancy and there I was dying inside, unable to be touched or trust a man watching my sister live my only consistent dream. Watching her prepare for her first born and seeing my moms excitement to have her first grandchild killed me. I didn’t want my pain to show, but it probably did. I didn’t want to show my jealousy, but I know it radiated in the way I acted. I didn’t wanna admit how much pain her pregnancy brought me and how much it killed me. The birth of my nephew, a happy time, was one of my lowest and most painful times. It’s still such an emotional and painful topic for me. I still cry because I took out my pain on an innocent baby. I wouldn’t bond with him because I resented the fact that he was hers and not mine. I hated these feelings, I wanted to be happy for her, to be excited that I had a nephew but I couldn’t. I wanted to be okay with the bond my mom had with her first grandchild, but I was jealous that it wasn’t my child.  I wanted to put aside my resentment but I had no one to vent to because moving to this house took my ability to maintain my friendships. 

I have dealt with so much suffering in this house that I can’t possibly fathom ever being happy here. This was the house I came home to after being sexually assaulted, the house my heart was broken in, the house my favorite uncle stole from. I can’t blame my short comings on a house, I know that, but moving here didn’t help. 

If these walls could talk they would share stories of a broken family, share stories of fights and arguments, tears and hopelessness. They have witnessed our downfalls and trapped the memories within the drywall and studs. I don’t know how much longer I can live here, how much longer I can relive the painful memories this house holds. 

I’m homesick for a place I’ve never been;

Where my heart is full and my mind is at ease.

Everything I loved became everything I lost.

All of the above...but make that coffee a hot chocolate, please.:

Stress – You self absorbed, attention seeking jerk of an emotion, I hate you so much.

I hate the way you are always right there demanding my full attention. Screaming and crying like a two-year old that wants something they cannot have; pulling and tugging on my clothes, hitting and punching me and becoming ‘dead’ weight leaning on my entire body.

I’m sick of pretending to be happy all the time, I’m sick of having to cheer everyone up when I can barely stand getting up in the morning. It just does not seem fair any more.

How, honestly someone tell me, how am I suppose to get over, or rather live with the stress of feeling empty. I am coming undone, and unable to live past the loss of my dad. They never ending reminders that seem to plague my home and dreams. That haunt every inch of this city and every mile of the world. I am stuck – in a theoretic way of course – in the past, in the life I had. I think 1998 was still only 10 years ago, my entire life froze the instant I learned of my dads illness.

How do you overcome that?

How do you begin to live again? Especially after all this time in limbo.

I want – more then anything- a happy life. One thats full of adventure and of love. Which seems nearly impossible with the self-doubting, stressed out, frozen in the past personality I’ve developed.

So, Dear Stress.

PLEASE Leave me alone.