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.


The Party – 50 words


Shocked I stood like a statue and stared suspiciously at the sojourners in my small apartment. “This is my Fortress of Solitude, so what makes you suppose so naively that I would seriously want you to sneak here and surprise me?” I snapped, sharp after a stressful afternoon.



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.


This has quite possibly been the worst month of my life.

Jan. 2, 2014: My grandmother, at the age of 74, dies from congestive heart failure.

Jan. 6, 2014: I return to school. Four days later, I board a plane for the funeral.

Jan. 14, 2014: I contract a flu-like virus that debilitates me for a week.

Jan. 31, 2014: The man I thought I was having a successful future with breaks my heart and says that I’m more committed to our relationship than he is. Newly single after little over 2 months.

February comes with a numbness that is bolstered with copious amounts of alcohol and angst.


I think that I’m ready for a break. I want so badly to get my life together and read my bible and get things together, but something is laying on my chest like an anvil. I don’t know why I don’t want to. I know my only relief will come from there. Alcohol isn’t the answer. It’s never the answer. More often than not, it’s the problem. I just want to curl up in a ball and not talk to anyone. I want to leave and go on a sabbatical somewhere where people will forget I ever dated Andrew. I feel like it was over so fast that it didn’t even happen. Is that bad? I thought I was in love with him, but apparently not. Or maybe my grief is so deep that I forgot how to care.

Darkness falls, and the night’s begun. A river of light glows as bright as the sun.


There has been a development. I really think that this boy in one of my classes is really shiny. I want to hang out with him so bad!!! He and I are friends and all but I don’t know how to talk to him like a normal person. He’s really funny and nice and I feel like we would get on great. Oh, did I mention that he is SUPER HOT?? Like mm, mm good. I really want him to like me, but I don’t know if he would ever consider me…it’s very sad. I don’t know if he’s out of my league or what, but if he needs a break from hot sorority girls, he can call me any time.


I think I’m going off the deep end.

I feel like there are so many things that I want to do and so few ways to do them effectively. And I think I’m a budding alcoholic. Possibly. When you drink so much you are almost sent to the hospital and you realize that you didn’t care about the ramifications of your binge drinking, you realize that something is a little off. I didn’t care. Literally. Didn’t. I took my meds practically with alcohol and I didn’t stop to think, “Wait what if I get alcohol poisoning or injure myself because of these pills?” Nope I just wanted to pour a liter and a half of wine down my gullet.

I really need to get myself together.