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..

untitled

FEB 25TH

Perhaps one day, I’ll wake up and know what it feels like to embrace the day. I’ll know where I’m suppose to be and what I’m suppose to do and my heart will be full.

That’s not today though, I wish it was but it’s not.

Today I woke up angry and sad, feeling belittled and taken advantage of from my work and the people around me. Jealous of the people who are able to put a smile on their faces and img_0710allow love into their hearts. Jealous of the women that are pregnant and in love, jealous of the little families that make their way through the door of my job everyday. Envious of the sweet soul my co-worker has, and the fact that without even trying has landed herself a man who loves her for her. Today I woke up and begged the universe to “not make me” do today. Today I woke up with the feeling of stomach acid and pent up emotions rising up from my stomach. Right now I am unsure of where I am suppose to be, who I’m suppose to be, and where I fit in to this crazy world we live in. My fight or flight instincts are in high alert today and all I want to do is run; run and hide like a small animal trying to escape a hungry lion that wants nothing more than to eat me up in one bite. The world is that lion, my anxiety and depression is that lion, and right now, it’s winning. My head pounds and my eyes hurt from holding back tears, my throat burns with the pain I’m afraid to show because no one understands.

So, I guess once again today won’t be the day that I wake up and embrace the day.

I wish I could explain to everyone how I actually feel and how the emptiness is almost unbearable. I need something or someone who’ll help me get over my past. The things that happened to me, happened so long ago and it’s time for me to move on.

The worst part is that no matter how hard I try to cope with the things I’ve been through, no matter how much I talk about it or how much “power” I take from the situations that haunt me I can’t seem to move on. I can’t seem to look forward into the future, I can’t help but remember the situations and memories that fill every street in this city. I hate that places, smells, and features remind me of the moments I so strongly wish to forget. One day, hopefully, I’ll escape from the hell this place keeps me in. 

Maybe One day…

untitled

Goodbye my sweet girl

Rest In Peace Sweet Jaybug.

You have been such a constant loving soul in our family. You taught us more about love, life and unconditional love then you ever knew. My sassy princess, my beautiful baby dog, I miss you more then I ever thought possible. Your attitude, your bark, your little img_4332“tough” stance. I miss your snuggles and your adorable head tilt; I miss your gentle licks and your “give me attention” bark and scratching. I miss you so much and its only been a day.

On June 8th 2016 you went to be with God, Dad, buddy and beaner.

I can’t imagine what was going on in your tiny little body, what kind of pain you must of felt. I’ll never know if we could of saved you because your warrior soul wouldnt let you be weak. But I remember the day I knew I wouldnt ever see you “normal” again.

Sunday morning you got sick, a white foam all over the couch – which you NEVER have done before – that seemed to never stop. You wouldnt drink, you wouldnt eat. I went to work unaware of what the day would unfold. Mom said you werent doing well when she came to pick me up, her worried expression scared me beyond belief. My tiny baby, so small and fragile looked so dazed, so confused. I took you into the bathroom, thinking maybe you were just to hot, and cooled your tiny body down. I dried you off and kissed in between your ears, tried to  make you drink, and laid you down in your bed. Out of the corner of my eye I see you fall over on your side – Watching you have a seizure was the img_4337worse thing i’ve ever seen in my life. The rest of the night I worried about you, worried about if you would live through the night. At 2am I heard you having another seizure. Your lifeless body laid on the floor of your cage, your tongue hanging out of the side of your mouth. I begged for you to breath, to get better. I took you into the bathroom again, trying to calm you down; It didnt really work, your eyes were hazed over and you were zoned out looking at the door and then you had another seizure. I knew I couldnt be selfish anymore, I told you I would never leave you, because you never left me. I lightly patted you, I told you, you could go. I brought you out to the living room so you could lay on your bed, and laid there with you. All day monday you paced and circled, you didnt bark, you didnt eat, you couldnt walk or stand. I knew your body was tired. Late into the afternoon, right before 3pm, you laid down on the floor looking at the ceiling while I lightly patted your side. Your eyes slowly closed and your breathing labored, I was sure, again, that it was time. But you jumped up and “shook it off” and tried to hide behind the television. Mom came home and told you not to go, that you were to young and I saw – for a moment – your strong spirit glimmer in your eyes. You didnt have a single seizure all that night, you woke up and tilted your head when mom said good morning, you looked into your food dish like you wanted to eat and we knew we HAD to take you to the vet to try to fix whatever was ailing you. At the vet that night you had two more seizures, your kidneys and liver were in acute failure, your little body was infected with bacteria; Sepsis they say,  an infection of the blood, from what we’ll never know. We had to make the hard decision to end your suffering. You said goodbye to mom and slowly fell asleep before they even administered the medicine, and it dawned on me. All those times I thought you were gonna leave, you couldnt because you had to say goodbye to mom.

It feels like just yesterday that you were this tiny little puppy; who cried to be snuggled andimg_4333 was to scared to jump off the couch. My little tiny baby dog that dad knew I wanted so bad.
Your tiny little tail – or lack there of – that took your entire backside with it when you were happy in its wag. I can’t help but remember The way you slept on my dirty clothes when I wasn’t here, or how you would curl up in the corner of my single bed at night and sleep next to my head. You brought so much happiness into my life, and I hope you were happy too. Your snuggles cured even the deepest of hurt and I loved being greated by your “where have you been” bark. You are the best dog I could have ever asked for, your patient and you were so content sitting on my lap, in my purse or hidden in my jacket. You are such a beautiful dog, and I hate that you got this sick, I hate that I couldn’t help you, and I hate myself for that. I’m sorry jaybug.

I love you so much, Rest in sweet Peace.

 

So this is where we part, My Friend,
And you’ll run on, around the bend.
Gone from sight, but not from mind,
new pleasures there you’ll surely find.

I will go on; I’ll find the strength,
Life measures quality, not its length.
One long embrace before you leave,
Share one last look, before I grieve.

There are others, that much is true,
But they be they, and they aren’t you.
And I, fair, impartial, or so I thought,
Will remember well all you’ve taught.

Your place I’ll hold, you will be missed,
The fur I stroked, the nose I kissed.
And as you journey to your final rest,
Take with you this…I loved you best.

 

 

 

I’m hurting 

This is a different side of the person you guys have been experiencing, I’m finally allowing my anger out. Please excuse my language.

Why the fuck do “men” these days act like teenagers still!? Like your almost 30 and your still acting like a 16 year old? Playing this fucking I love you shit after a god damn day? You love a person who lives 3 provinces away? How the fuck!? 

In grade 5 I would have pulled that crap, in grade 10 I would have pulled that shit too. But once I turned 17 I understood that love, real love, takes time. You can’t love a person you don’t know, you can’t love a person you’ve never seen angry or sad or sleep deprived. You can’t love someone who you’ve never seen stressed, you can’t love someone based on the outside. Do you know her demons? Or the things that lurk in the back of his mind at night when it’s quiet? Do you accept his insecurities or encourage her to be better? NO you probably don’t. Will you be there when they are experiencing loss? Can you stand up and be their backbone when they’ve lost their nerve? 

How can you love someone when 2 weeks ago you were sleeping with another girl? 

Or messaging me telling me to come cuddle? Or inviting me to meet your son?

I’m angry because I am hurt

I’m hurt because I let my walls down to allow someone new in and it back fired on me. 

I’m hurt because I told you about my insecurities and you listened, you told me about yours and together we bonded over the sorrow we’ve both been through.

I’m hurt because we shared so much in common, but I should have known. I should have known from past mistakes that drugs and alcohol will always be stronger then any bond or shared interests. 

I’m hurt because for the first time in 3 years I wanted to break my sobriety and drink until I felt nothing. 

I’m hurt because I cared about someone who had absoultely no intentions of caring about me. 

I’m hurt and I’m angry 

And I hate that I have to deal with this again.

Home

  
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.

Acceptance.. 

I have come to accept the fact that I will never completely be cured from my anxiety and depression, or be able to settle my self conscious mind. I have began to accept that I cannot play God, I can’t save people who do not want to be saved and I can’t put other people’s problems and needs before my own. I have accepted and made peace with my dads passing, my grandmas passing and the fact that my home no longer feels like home, but rather a giant reminder of pain and loss. 

But there’s one thing I cannot accept. That my ability to carry and have my own children is compromised by evil little sacs that contain the beginning stage of my unborn. 

Tiny, and not so tiny, cysts fill and crowd my ovaries and my endometrial walls. Holding hostage my only dream. 

I have longed to be a mom since the day I began playing with dolls. I loved all babies, minus my shit head cousin, and enjoyed interacting with them throughout my entire life. When I became sexually active at 14 I dreamed about our baby, how proud I would of been to be a mom; yes proud at 14. I prayed and hoped that I would fall pregnant and have someone that I could teach all the things my mom taught me. I know how far fetched and unimaginably stupid that sounds & I had so many things to look forward to at 14 but a baby was my biggest dream. While it was never confirmed, I believe that for a while a little baby lived within the walls of my womb. I remember the intense pain and nausea, I remember the heavier then usual “period” that soaked through every tampon and pad I tried to use and the “clots” that stained. At the time, young and stupid, I had no idea what a miscarriage really was but I knew something wasn’t normal. I was experiencing stress that was nothing like I ever imagined, my boyfriend coming out, my grandma dying and my dad getting sick controlled my only thoughts and I assumed the unusual period was because of that. I know that God has plans for us that we cannot understand, and maybe he knew the confusion my baby would go through, or the father B wouldn’t be and decided to take my baby back home. Whatever the reason, I know he is safe in the arms of the Angels and that God is telling him all about how much I loved him then and how I think about who he could of been everyday. 

He is my only angel baby, my body gave up after him I’m sure. I began to have my period less and less and finally last year I talked to my doctor about it. Being thrown into an unstoppable tornado of emotions and prescriptions and doctors and blood being taken and ultrasounds my biggest fear came true. “You have PCOS” she said, “Re-test your levels in 3 months” was the only answer I recieved. No medication or ways to get rid of it, just a print out of what PCOS was. I had no answers, no reassurance that I could still have children, just a diagnosis. 

While I am not sexually active at the moment my heart still breaks thinking that my only dream will never come true and that’s something I cannot begin to accept