I recently had the pleasure of someone being totally honest with how they felt about me and telling me what kind of future they wanted with me.

They didn’t want an actual “future” with me, per se, but they knew that our relationship was going in a certain direction and they decided to be honest with me.

The information was conveyed in a logical way, and I found myself somewhat disappointed because I had spent so much time learning how to trust someone and have them know me better than almost anyone.

At that time, I was in a particularly vulnerable position; I was emotional, feeling somewhat strung out because of school and my career, and I was using them as an emotional crutch that was basically keeping my pieces together.

It almost came as a relief, shutting the door, because I finally had a real reason why I didn’t belong with them: they didn’t want me, and that was okay. I ended up living, anyway. I don’t think I could have given them what they wanted from a partner, and I don’t think that I would have been happy either.

Recently, I have been thanking my past self for making the conversation happen. I’m not the most subtle of people, and I know myself well enough to make sure that honest conversations happen. I really care about this person, and I care enough to make sure that if the door is gonna be closed, it better darn well be closed for good.

It is always difficult for me to get to a point where I trust someone completely. And this person, while I do trust them, has begun to have a certain amount of power over me that I am beginning to be uncomfortable with. I have done trial periods of separation, like ignoring them for more than a few days, and have been met with nonchalance. So, naturally, I feel hurt that my absence does not generate any feelings for them.

Of course, the more stress I experience, the more I feel like I need the crutch of having someone that I feel comfortable and safe with. And the idea itself is very attractive; however, I have become increasingly more uncomfortable and it’s causing me distress. Part of me wants to just move on, but another part of me is holding on for dear life and it’s becoming unacceptable for me. I can’t even look them in the eyes. So, I suppose I am back to square one.


While the need for honesty I crave has been satiated for the moment, there is always going to be the lurking dishonesty that reminds me I can’t totally be myself.



A thank you letter to the boy who lied

Dear boy who lied:

Thank you, for saying you didn’t have time for me. By telling me you couldn’t commit the time, it helped me realize I didn’t have time for you, either.

Thank you for saying I was sexy and that my body was amazing. I think it is, but I’d never seen anyone so enamored with me before. It helped me to hope that someone else may eventually feel the same way.

Thank you for telling me you were too busy to send a text, while being not too busy to post to your snapchat story. It made me appreciate the friends who do have time to text me, and the ones who are honest when they don’t have time.

Thank you for making plans with me to go places, but never following through. You not only inspired me to go to new places, but also helped me learn how to go with the flow and not be mad when promises are broken.

Thank you for showing me affection, even when it was for such a short time. I felt safe and cared about. And while now I don’t feel cared about, I do understand that in the long run, you weren’t anyone I needed to be with.




In response to The Daily Post’s writing prompt: “What a Twist!.”

I sat at the window watching the rain hit the glass. It wasn’t very hard rain, just hard enough that it made that tapping noise. It was both soothing and frustrating at the same time. I preferred silence to the rain, but it reflected how I felt inside. My wedding is tomorrow. I thought. I stared at the ring on my finger, bleary-eyed and a little nauseous. I hadn’t eaten that day. I hadn’t eaten the day before, either. Too stressed, I guess. That’s what happens when  you meet the love of your life. Too bad he wasn’t even in the same city. “Called away on business,” he said. Any other girl would think that he was cheating. Classic bridezilla thoughts, of course. Not my thoughts. I’m the calm one. The collected one. The “cool as a cucumber, won’t yell ‘fire’ in a movie theater” one.

I am afraid of the future. Not that I have any doubts. I was sure that I wanted this. I’d weighed my options, and at 27, I’d waited long enough. I wasn’t settling, either—Paul was successful, caring, and loving—and he never failed to tell me that I was special to him. So I sat watching the rain, clearing my mind and twisting the ring on my finger like nothing was wrong. Because nothing was wrong. I’m getting married tomorrow.

Paul and I were waiting for our wedding night. A tradition that has become less traditional as time has gone on, but we both have careers. I have rotten luck and I have no desire to have children. Maybe never. Not that I want to adopt, either. Some people don’t want to have kids naturally, but are fine taking someone else’s. That’s great, I’m all for adoption. But I don’t want to take care of anyone other than my husband. Men are enough like babies as it is. Sure, every woman has baby fever at some point, and I’m not saying I’ve never felt that way before. I’ve had my fair share of baby fever. And then I think of the fact that you grow one inside of you and I kind of want to throw up. But who knows, maybe I’ll decide that with Paul, I can weather any storm. I can even handle birthing a child for him. But since my teens I’ve always been unsettled by babies. I can handle ages 2 to 7, but unless they can do things by themselves, I don’t really think of them as anything other than gremlins.

I’m the last of my friends to be married. Paul and I dated for a few years before he asked me to marry him, but I knew about 6 months in that I was settling in for the long haul. I’m not the easiest person to love, but he understood me. He could calm me down when I got upset and made me feel safe and protected. When someone understands you, you feel on top of the world. Validated. It’s exhilarating.

Before now, I never thought someone could love me. Each day is a toss-up: will I feel well enough to even go to work? And he calls and asks if I’ve taken my pills today and I say yes. He asks again and I say no I’ve hidden them in my drawer and he says take them or you won’t be able to function today you know you need to take them and I say okay. I open the drawer and take the little pill out from the confines of my socks and get a glass of water. Someone stops my hand for a moment, but I fight to remember the concern in Paul’s voice, so I take the pill. Swallowing is difficult when your brain forgets how.

I’m so trapped inside my head that I don’t realize my mom is at the window with me. She shakes her head and hands me my pill for the day. “Have you eaten?” She asks. I shake my head “no.” She pinches her nose and says something unintelligible, turns and heads to the kitchen. She returns 7 minutes later with a sandwich cut diagonally. “Did you remember to put three chips on each half?” I ask her, avoiding her eyes. “Yes,” she replies, handing me the plate. “Paul is lucky to have you, you know that, right?”

I look at her, and my eyes take a second to focus on her face. I nod slowly and take a bite. After chewing thoughtfully, I venture one more question before she walks away: “Will Anna be there?”

My mom turns to face me, and pain twists her face. “Rachel,” she says, “I want to talk to Anna now. Paul is marrying Anna tomorrow, not you.” My eyes go unfocused for a moment and I look at her with confusion, “Mom, I know I’m Anna and I know I’m marrying Paul. What..What did I just ask you?” Relief floods my mom’s face and she puts her hand on my shoulder. “Rachel came back. Please take your pills, Anna. Please.”


Five minutes at a time.

That’s what I’ve been advised to do. Take each day five minutes at a time.

When you exit a relationship with someone for whom you’ve developed a great deal of strong feelings, a sense of grief overcomes you. In this case, I have a looming cloud of sadness that follows me. All the pain of loss and the despair that comes with loneliness just floods over me. Often when I least expect it.

It feels like an elephant is sitting on my chest. I can’t breathe, and don’t feel like I have the will or the means to do anything.

I feel tears leaking from my eyes every time it comes to mind. I don’t have anger or injustice to cling to. He didn’t wrong me. He just was honest with me, which is what we had established from the start and I couldn’t be angry with him for that. I wouldn’t feel right if I was. But I feel like I don’t have the capacity for happiness. Not right now. Fun is fleeting to me. It happens, but at the end of it all I feel empty and alone.

My family and friends instruct me to pray about it. I have, and I do, and I cry and cry and send prayers up and all I feel afterwards is even more alone. I don’t feel comforting arms. I just feel despair.

I lost a friend for a while in this breakup. I’m sure that I’ll get him back, but it hurts too bad to just act “business as usual”. He’s the friend who understands me. And now that we broke up, I don’t have him there. He’s the friend that I would talk to when I was going through a break up, but now that he’s the other person, I’ve lost my confidant. The things about which I would usually talk are left either handled incorrectly or unsaid. Being told that I should just get over it or roll with it doesn’t help. All I feel is more and more alone.

I wish that I could say that God is helping me so much right now—that I feel so comforted and safe and protected—but I can’t. I can’t say that truthfully. It doesn’t mean that He isn’t capable, or willing, or even that he doesn’t want to, but it’s not what I’m experiencing right now. All I feel is alone and invalidated and hurt. I just want someone to hold me; to make me feel safe and protected.

But I don’t have that someone. All I have is the next five minutes.

One minute….

Two minutes…

Three minutes…

Four minutes…

Five minutes.


Well, I’m alive. Sort of.

Have you ever felt that weird phenomenon known as FOMO? “Fear of missing out.”

Sometimes I experience this with people. Where you want to let someone go, but then realize, “Wait, but then I won’t get to _____” and fill in the blank with whatever deserves to go there. Parties, dates, blah blah blah.

It’s a really odd thing to feel, when you’re caught in between people that you want to invest in equally, but you’re afraid of the ramifications; e.g., not being indulged in your drinking habits, or trashy music, or allowed to watch really odd movies (or even accompanied when watching said films.)

But you don’t know which you’d rather sacrifice for the other; there isn’t really an indication of movement in either direction, but you feel hesitant to take the plunge and go all in with one versus the other. All-in meaning actually investing the most time and getting the feels.

This is a ridiculous thing, because I should be able to enjoy myself and not try to sequester myself away with one person who may or may not even want me. “Want me.” That’s another messed up thing: it’s not that someone doesn’t want you, it’s that they just want someone else instead. So does that, in effect, mean that they don’t want you? Or is the lack of emotion indicative of negative emotion?

That’s something I don’t ever understand. And probably will not be able to figure out. Is the lack of something automatically indicative of the negative? Or does it indicate neutrality? In physics, it means balance. But I don’t know if the lack of feeling for someone indicates that they just don’t feel anything towards you. I suppose that there are people in my life that I think of and don’t feel anything. But I’m not 100% sure. I’m sure that I will name that one “Clotho”. The thread of life. But I digress.

FOMO is a real issue, people. It affects many people daily.

Help stop FOMO. Donate now. Save a life.

Aquarius, the water-bearer

If a child is made in a lab, is it still a child?


with the increasing awareness about ALS, comes the increasing controversy among the Pro-Life movement. It’s known that ALS researchers use embryonic as well as adult stem cells. It’s a controversy because laymen are outraged that people are donating embryos to be used for testing. They’re saying that a life should not be saved at the cost of a life that hasn’t even started yet.

This is a cause of struggle for me, mainly because I am first and foremost a follower of Jesus, the Christ. But secondly I am a scientist, and believe that science can be used to help others. So where does life begin? Where does a child become a child? I don’t think we should play God, as I am against abortion; but I don’t know if we should stop searching for a cure for a disease that literally entombs sufferers in their own bodies.

Where do we draw the line?

I am a supporter of adult stem cell research–the stem cell is a pre-differentiated cell that is a great treasure trove of potential knowledge. Embryonic stem cells are even more so. So is there a way that we can morally obtain such cells? I don’t know if we should boycott the entire ALS research movement, as one article I read today suggested. To halt research for a disease that cannot be prevented is just cruel. ALS patients didn’t obtain the disease through poor diet, poor life choices, or anything they did. 1/10 of the time, it’s genetic. The other 90% of the time, it just happened. So what are we to do? Usually the patients are nearing or past 50 when they get the onset of symptoms. Should we just euthanize them, and save them from an excruciating death? No, I don’t think so. That would be unethical. But what kind of sacrifices are we to make? Snuff out the life of test-tube embryos? That’s unethical, too.

I don’t know the answer, and I don’t think anyone does right now. I think that we should always be aware of the causes to which we donate. But I don’t know if we should just not help fund a research movement that could potentially change the lives of those with ALS. I can’t just not help. I’m caught between a rock and a hard place, and that’s a hard place to be.

Degenerative disorders are horrifying. They’re cruel, and at this point, incurable. Should we try to cure them? Or should we let the natural Malthusian scissor do its work?


Food for thought.





PSA: I think I’m going crazy.


Another PSA: I talk to myself. And my computer. And my phone, and the kitchen, and the air conditioning.


I wish I talked to people. Just kidding, I totally talk to people. I made a new friend today! And I made pancakes.


This is turning into a silly blog post. Which is fine. We need a little silliness in our lives, especially since I have a ton of work to do and no time to do it. Or motivation to do it. Which is also fine. Not really though.

I think I want a compadre.


Today it is pouring rain.

When it rains, it pours.


I’ve watched a lot of Divergent lately. Literally, twice in a day. Still never gets old. It brings into question a lot of things I feel. I wish I was brave. I always have wished that. But if I’m honest with myself, I’m a coward. I’m afraid of being hurt. And not just hurt–devastated. Because I’m over it. I’m so done. I’ve waited so long to feel normal, and to feel fine, but even with the medication I still feel empty and lonely. And I don’t know if it’s because I, in fact, did not take my medication today that I’m feeling this way, or because I’m just so tired of being tired that the loneliness starts to creep in.

I have an issue: I get really insecure about my friends and then I don’t talk to them, and then get depressed when they don’t talk to me, and then I feel even more insecure as my hands hover over my keyboard, and I start to write plays and stories about how I wish things would be instead of the dreariness that is my reality. Literally, like the Titan, Atlas, I feel like I’m holding up the world and no one can relieve me of the burden.


I know this to be false, of course. I have a Savior. Cast all your burdens upon him, for His yoke is easy and His burden is light, but it’s really not. I mean, it is, because we don’t have to have the responsibility of our eternity anymore, but at the same time, we have to make choices according to what we believe. What I believe. And the fact that every other word out of my mouth is saturated with bitterness and anguish and hopelessness is just one that is very hard to ignore. Or get away from. I’m pained to look at myself in the mirror, or listen to myself speak, so I just have learned to disassociate myself from my reality; to walk like a zombie and have a bored look on my face, like Margot Tenenbaum. But no amount of cigarettes can help calm me down or take the edge off. I’ve stopped craving them. I’m such an addict. To everything, not even cigarettes. To life. To love, to school, to knowledge–everything. I get so obsessed with something, but then a few weeks later, I’m off to the next thing. It’s about the novelty of it all. I like monotony, sure, because it’s reliable and familiar. My worst nightmares aren’t going to school naked or falling out of bed–they’re of abandonment and divorce. They’re of being left out of the loop or forgetting my lines.  They’re of change, and of me not being told that something is different until I fall on my face in front of the crowd.


Embarrassment. Shame. Discovery. Loss. Abandonment. Commitment.


I’m not afraid for people to be aware of my demons. Most people know that I’ve struggled with anorexia, or suicidal tendencies, or anxiety, or depression, but the funny thing is that I really honestly don’t care what they think about me afterward. Unless it’s pity. Then they can get out. I made it this far, I passed my 14th birthday and made it out alive, I’m 20 years old and I haven’t tried to throw myself in front of a bus or a car or a train, and I’m mildly scarred from my childhood, but I’m working on getting over it. I’m haunted by the possibility that my Prince will never come, that I will never succeed. What do I want to do with my life? Who knows. I like helping people, I like germs, I like restauranteurs, I like managing things, I like being the boss, I like being in control, I like ziplining, I like crying, and reading, and singing, and dancing, and laughing, and sleeping, and burping, and cooking, and kissing, and cuddling, and blankets and warmth and chill and rain and sun and twilight when the sky turns pink and I like writing letters, even though print is dead and the Internet is king, I like myself, even though I hate myself and my stupid, overactive, wonderful brain. I like cookies, and pie, and chocolate, and hazelnut, and pizza, and burgers, and chorizo, and experiencing my food and my life and looking at it not through rose-tinted glasses, but through a magnifying glass, saying, “This is what’s wrong, let’s make it better.” Even when I lack the willpower to actually carry it through. I’m full of ideas but many are left unfinished. I get bored. I don’t take boys’ coats even when I’m freezing. I tough it out.


I am woman, hear me roar.


Hear my sobs in the bathroom, or my cries on the pillow. See my makeup running down my face as I slip out quietly to weep in peace.