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..



Writers block?

I’m so preoccupied in my own self doubting, self conscious thoughts that I am unable to write about anything.

cropped-img_1343-0.jpgHundreds of millions of Americans and Canadians feel overwhelmed and stressed out everyday, we believe that our stress and our minor problems are crushing and numbing; Myself included. While I know people have it worse, I also know that people have it better.

I know I was a blessed kid, ‘santa’ always got me my wishes, in moderation of course, My parents were together, I had clothes and a home, and more love that surrounded me then I knew what to do with. I saw an appropriate amount of affection, but I wasn’t raised with men and/or women in and out of my parents bed’s. I knew what love was, I knew what happiness was, I knew what so many people don’t; and because of that I should feel beyond blessed and grateful for the life that I live.

But for some reason, unknown to even myself, I am not.

My inability to look pass the past; the time in my life that I wasn’t in the midst of depression, or an anxiety attack. I wasn’t this angry, this sad; this radical. I did not do things out of anger, or because I ‘couldn’t deal’. I did not know what a panic attack was, or how hard it is to look someone in the eyes because something about them, or the person before them, sends me into an anxiety attack. I am not rude, or unkind; I do not avoid eye contact, or small talk because I think I am better then anyone. I know I’m less then many people. I am 25 years old, and I am unable to be a productive part of the world. I feel like I have jumped into a fire, or a freezing cold lake, and I have to try to live through all the consequences of that one mistake. I still don’t know what mistake I made, if I am being punished for being dishonest and drinking without telling my parents, for having sex to young, or maybe all of this is just a test; something only god knows the answer to.

If this is a test, father, please show me a clear sign that this is teaching me, or leading me to something far better then the pain and suffering myself and my family have gone through. tumblr_mc6pf3dKAb1r1iv4bo1_500

I am, I have been for a while, clinically depressed. Following my fathers passing it resurfaced, not exactly in the way it has in the past, I am not suicidal, I do feel hopeless. This hopeless feeling is what cost me my job, I know this. I am in need of a change, a drastic change that will make me happy. That’s all I ever wanted, you know, happiness.

I couldn’t care less about material things, a huge house, or lots of money as long as I was happy. 

Maybe this is just a chapter in my book, maybe this ‘closed door’ will open another one, one that will provide me with happiness. Maybe everything does happen for a reason.