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..



In the process of finding myself.. 

My family moved to Canada less then 70 years ago, which seems like a long time but really Im only 2nd generation Canadian and in that sense we’re pretty new. My grandma was born in California where she lived until they moved to Canada in 1938. My great grandparents, grandma, great aunt and uncle never became citizens of Canada and so my mom, uncles, second cousins and so forth are all children of immigrants. 
I was raised very close to both my great grandma and grandma on my moms side, I’ve picked up a slightly southern accent and never understood why a person from Califonia would have a southern drawl. To my surprise I found out my great grandmother is originally from Kansas (no wonder I love The Wizard of Oz)

This is my great grandma’s tree, my great grandfathers cut off after his father, who arrived to America from Ireland in the 1800’s. What surprised me even more was that there are pictures of men that look so similar to my immediate family. 


my dad and mom at a childrens 4×4 toy run

I have traced my maternal grandmothers family line all the way back to 1612 and I’ve discovered many dead ends and undisclosed information. 

I also researched some of my dads lineage. Again immigrated to Canada from the United States, Iowa to be exact, on my dads mothers side. Her mother’s family is from England and her father’s family is American. Other then that I haven’t found much. 

 Nor had I really wanted to because of a tormented relationship I have with that side of the family. However I was extremely intrigued  when I came across a picture of my 2X’s great grandma on my dads grandfather side. 

The older woman looks a lot like my sister and father while the younger girl has a forehead and hair similar to mine. 

my natural hair


my dad and sister (her hair is naturally straight)

I have a lot of dead ends on both sides, mostly due to little or no information about the fathers on both my mom and dads sides so I’m still awaiting the results of my individual DNA test through ancestry. I think it’ll help me identify with myself better. Not knowing my ethnicity had bothered me for way to long. 

In 2-4 weeks I should have the results. So I’ll blog about that when I have the information! 

Feeling.. Misplaced 

A Broken record, a playlist with only one song, that’s how I feel but this isn’t just about hating where I live, and all the memories and pain it brings. 

I feel like an outsider in my own family, there’s no first Christmas pictures or videos of me, very few pictures of me as infant. I was never really photographed with my parents. I feel like an alien in my family, my morals and attitude is so much different then everyone around me. I don’t curse, drink, party or sleep around. I do not find comfort in the arms of strangers, I do not think farting, burping and blowing it in someone’s face or slapping someone in the face with ham is funny. I am not loud, usually, I do not like attention, I do not seek sympathy. 

Maybe this why I always feel so.. Sad. 

Where do I belong? Why am I so different then the people I share blood with. I’m not doubting that I am my parents child, I look like both of them, but I wish I knew who I act like. I wish I knew where I get my curly hair from, my bottom lip. Why do I get chills(the good kind) every time I hear traditional Native American music? Where did my grandfathers come from? 

I don’t think I’ll ever find my real grandfathers, I don’t think any of my questions will be answered, but I hope to find out at least a little of who I am. 

About 3 weeks ago I purchased a Ancestry DNA kit and it came in the mail 2 days ago. It takes about 1/4 tsp of saliva and some blue stabilizing liquid and then you send it off to Ireland to be tested. I’m not sure how truthful it will be but I’m hopeful. In 6-8 weeks I’ll have the results. 

We shall see. 

“God is in the midst of her; she shall not be moved: God shall help her”‭‭Psalms‬ ‭46:5‬ ‭KJV‬‬

Every single being on earth has fears and anxiety, whether they admit it or not. My dogs have anxiety when they hear fireworks, or when they’re left alone to long. My dad had anxiety around needles; everyone fears something.

But how do you overcome your fears or ease your anxiety when literally anything can turn you into a giant ball of worry and anxiety. 

I remember a lot of firsts; my first kiss, my first heart break, my first day of school & my first time experiencing an anxiety or panic attack.  

I usually refer to them as panic attacks, but medically they refer to them as anxiety attacks. Mine are frequent, often lasting only a minute or two. They take my breath away, and not in the good way, and make my heart race; I get sweaty but cold, my ears buzz like they would after listening to very loud music while wearing headphones and I begin to loose focus until I’m basically blacking out. The first time I experienced a full blown panic attack was the scariest time in my life. 

I was either 8 or 9, it was during the SARS outbreak and I became so ill that I couldn’t eat or drink anything without getting sick. My mom took me to a local walk in clinic, there I was surrounded with people just as sick as I, I don’t remember much after that except going into Shoppers Drug Mart to get cold and flu medicine. I guess I was still unsure, or maybe I was just scared in general, but I remember a terrible smell that sent me into my very first panic attack. I was standing with my mom while she was paying for the medicine and became extremely hot, then cold but sweaty. I remember telling my mom I was gonna go get some air and feeling like I was going to faint. My heart was racing and my stomach was in knots as my vision faded. It was the worst thing I had dealt with at that time. 

Following that day anything and everything sent me into a panic attack. 

I was always a “shy” kid, Still to this day I have a quiet soft voice, but once the anxiety took over I was completely broken. I worried about everything, I became self conscious and scared. I avoided conflict and kept my opinions to myself. 

Anyone who’s dealt with anxiety will know depression usually shows its ugly face eventually. 

My anxiety doubled the day my first love came out and my entire school knew somehow. Tripled the day my grandma died and It quadrupled the day my dad was diagnosed with ALS. Depression pushed its way into my life that year. 

The longest ten years of my life was spent battling depression, the constant nagging and put downs coming from inside my own head drove me, many times, to harm myself. I’ve written so many sucide letters, I’ve been close to dying many times. It’s kinda ironic that my anxiety stopped me each time; that my constant worrying about what other people would think if I did kill myself was what made me put down the pills, the knife. I hid it so well that no one really knew how desperate I had become.

My breaking point was about a year ago. 

In 2012 I backed out of one of my closest friends wedding because my anxiety, I felt as if everyone would be judging me. My depression made me gain weight I’m still trying to lose and I felt disgusting. I went to the doctors and he put me on a benzodiazepine, basically a pill that would calm me down. It worked, I guess, but I became so addicted and dependent on it I would have multiple panic attacks if I didn’t have them on me at a times. I became so unmotivated, I just got high and laid around all day. I had no motivation to go back to the doctors after the prescription ran out so I didn’t. Leaving the house, seeing people and living completely stopped a week later. My depression and anxiety hit me harder then a cement wall and I had no way out. It took me a lot to finally call my doctor again, I was so desperate for help that I was going to admit myself into the psych wing at the near by hospital. I was home alone for a weekend and so emotionally and physically lonely that i believed I had no reason to be alive. I searched and searched my entire house looking for a bottle of old anti depressants so I could take them all and be done with it. I searched everywhere and felt so defeated that I couldn’t find them. The one thing I wanted to do was die and I couldn’t even do that. 

As I went to dial 911 I automatically dialed my doctors number, I tried to sound as calm as possible and when I got off the phone I broke down in tears. 

That week was the longest week of my life, I tried so hard to keep it together. My entire body shook in the waiting room, I was so scared, so terrified of admitting how broken I was.

High risk. 

Due to my depression, irritability and anxious behavior I was classified high risk. High risk for what I wondered out loud in my doctors exam room. He explained that I scored so high in both the depression and anxiety tests that I had to be put on some sort of antidepressant or be admitted into the psych ward. I didn’t want either; the thought of needed a pill, being clinically depressed, made my world spin. 

I walked out of the doctors with a prescription for Zoloft and Ativan. 
It took a few weeks but Zoloft was my saving grace. 

I still get anxious; unsure of myself or my life but I’m able to live. I’m able to talk and interact with people, I work and love life. I never thought I’d feel that way. 

My life isn’t easy but I’m glad I’m still here. I’m grateful for my doctor, he was the first person, other then family, that cared about my well being. I’m blessed. 

Anyone struggling with inner demons I want you to know it really does get better. I know reading that doesn’t help now, that you can’t picture your life getting better I was the same way. I know the pain and the anger you feel, angry that you can’t seem to find the strength to be happy. My love we have more strength than any “happy” person. We struggle to get out of bed everyday, our brains are lacking serotonin and yet we still fight the pain and that’s why, my dear, you are a warrior. Please don’t leave this life before you experience all it has to give. You are loved, needed and important.
Love always