We went for a walk, my therapist and I. It was nice, out in the sunshine—what little there was. I feel like I’m living little flits of life between blocks of appointments and traveling. I’m gone all the time, it seems. Hours of staring out into white snow on the mountaintops, and then down into the valley in a sea of trees, and it seems like forever.  The time alone is good, but there is never enough. Too much talking, I think.

I don’t stay with my friend anymore, I stay with my godparents. It’s farther away and has its own share of drama and intrigue. Although, if we’re being honest, I consider those things to be annoying inconveniences at this point. I’m bored, but not so much so that it dulls everything, but enough to mean that I stare at my phone more often than not.

I’ve been avoiding the dramatic, though I’ve been angry and yelling at strangers, exploding at the slightest provocation and sending them scattering. My flare ups seem to happen most often in parking lots and with particularly stupid professionals incapable of performing the most menial of tasks. I feel like some sort of advanced species that been tossed in with the shit-flinging, finger-and-testicle-mauling apes. It’s a constant shit show and I’m thrust into it no matter where I am, it would seem.

The truth is, I just want the quiet. And permission from myself to throw plates and kick doors like a tantrum-throwing child because I’m pissed off and completely fed up with everyone else’s shit.


A welcome escape

So it’s done then. It’s strange how talking to my therapist was like talking to myself; I appreciate his ability to sit there soundlessly and let me speak. I talked and talked. I feel like I share more with the walls of my room than with any human being. But in that office with a stranger, far away, where the light shines in through the window and I watch the trees sway outside, I feel like I can say whatever flits into my brain, and it feels definite and solid for once. Real. I’m real, and I’m a person, and I’m sitting on that couch staring out the window, like I do every week.

I saw her when I was leaving, and her eyes were wide and red like she had been crying. She denied all of her lies, of course. Told me that her boyfriend and I had a misunderstanding, and that her “normie” friends have never had any issues with him. I’m curious to know if she actually told the therapist anything at all. I read him all the texts, mostly to prove my point, but partially out of spite, because I know that any words I said to her will be twisted into something over time, manipulated and changed to suit whatever new agenda she has. And she wants more than anything for the therapist to believe her, to think she’s a benevolent soul that cares about others before herself. I told him everything that was relevant, although there is more. It’s my parting gift to her.

Her boyfriend said, “it wouldn’t be fair if you lived with us because you’re attractive and [she] and I don’t have sex”. Yeah, that was all me, doing all the misinterpreting, I’m sure. I read it all wrong, obviously.

There’s relief, but the fear of not being believed keeps floating in my head, this heavy feeling on my heart. It’s not new, this feeling. It’s almost as old as I am.

I’m not sad I’ve lost a friend. When I think back on it, she was never really a friend to begin with, just something convenient, that I knew wouldn’t last. I wonder often if it will always be this way, if I will perpetually step through life plucking at threads of attachment that don’t exist to me. People latch on, I grow bored. I move on. I’m in a room of strands that hold nothing and mean nothing, and maybe, if I live long enough, it might stretch on for forever, just me, alone, looking listlessly out a window onto the street, watching all the people walk by.

This life is a lie

I’m on antidepressants now, because, why not. I feel like I’m tucked in between some fuzzy cotton, all up in my ears, clogging up my brain. It’s like I’ve been neutered and now I’m taking the drugs to make me care about it less, to make me think about killing myself less, to make me jerk off less, to make me fuck my ex boyfriend less. But I don’t know if that’s what I really want. I don’t know if I want to get better in the same way I did before; something is different, changed. I saw the other side in a brief moment of clarity and now I hide away in the shadows, away from it all, from that blinding light of reality that I hate so much, but influences every step I take through life.

caught in the rain

I left the city early. Once again, my friend was being difficult and I grew tired of her bullshit. I left in the middle of the night, got home in the early morning. I slept for a few hours, then drove to meet my ex. We put the seats back in his car and talked for awhile. I forgot how much I missed having a real conversation with someone, not one where I have to censor what I say, or constantly assume that whatever is said is yet another extravagant lie. It was overcast and smokey from the fires. Even the silence was companionable. It’s easy to forget how much you hate someone when they become more or less a staple in your life. You don’t have other options that are even close to as palatable, so it always feels refreshing, different.

We fucked in the woods. There was a lot of pain to it, but it was good and grounding. Easy to get lost in. When we drove away, we went by a field where the sprinklers cast their beams of water onto the road. The windows were down and my arm got wet. But just as we passed by, the drops got heavier and numerous. Instead, the sky was raining down. It smelled like dirt and wet grass, and despite everything, and the fact that it will never work again, it was a good moment to share with him.

There’s so little that feels good anymore. I want to drown in goodness, breathe it all in until I pass out and slip away.


People make baseless statements, on things they don’t understand. They like to lord themselves over others, feeling a sense of superiority while pointing out all the things they believe to be true. There has been a lot of it lately, from every corner it would seem. Lots of judgments have been passed, thrown about until they stick to something. The insecurity is so thick and palpable, that it’s hard not to retreat to my corner and stare listlessly into the wall, waiting for all the stupidity to be over.

They make it a contest. Who has the worst life? What sucks more? I’ve fallen victim to it too, at times, using it scathingly because I tire of the whining and the untrue proclamations, spewed over and over again to anyone who would listen.

I want to hide away, disappear, but I’ve resisted. Everything feels like a mistake right now, and nothing seems like the right answer. I’m caught in the middle, indecisive, waiting for the moment when I reach a peak of clarity and can see out into the world, beyond my little bubble.

I reach this place at night sometimes, looking up at the ceiling in the dark. I remember everything and think to myself that there’s no reason anymore to bother, not after everything.

It’s a cruelty to live in those moments, but I do. I’m stuck, stuck between, with nowhere to go. Suffer and live, or wallow and die.

There isn’t any real answer to any of it. I’ll make choices, regret them until the sting dies away, then carry on, like this was always what I wanted.


I’ve been staying home. I came right back from my appointment in the city 3 hours away because I didn’t want to have to be with other people. I didn’t want to have to put on a face and grimace and deal with it. I’ve been overwhelmed and tired.

I told my therapist about what I did during the week. He asked me if it was a quickie because we were in the car, and if it felt good. Then he questioned if we had been fooling around while driving—all weird, seemingly inappropriate questions. I answered because his sudden interest in my sex life after months of more or less glossing over it and avoiding it, was intriguing. I assume he has some reason for asking those questions, but maybe he’s just a man and he doesn’t. I don’t know. Maybe he wanted to know if it was an impulsive act, or more thought out. Or maybe he was just curious and wanted to know how fucked up girls cope. Or maybe he’s a pervert. Fuck, I don’t know.

I met up again with my ex boyfriend, on a bridge out by a reservoir. He fingered me while I sucked his dick. He bought me a bunch of things, gave me money and I went home. Like a fucking hooker.

My therapist asked me if it was just sex, and I felt almost…insulted? How do you explain something—a feeling—to another person who has never experienced it before? Do you tell them it makes you crazy, this feeling? That without the other person, you suddenly feel like less, like a part of something that got shattered?

Then there you are, broken pieces held together, but it’s not enough to be anything. The good parts are gone, and you’re left alone, holding onto fantasies and daydreams because you’ve finally realized that everything was an illusion. You made this person out to be what you needed them to be, but when you stop and look, you realize that you were avoiding all the things about the relationship that were never going to work. He has parts of what I want, but only parts. The whole is riddled with addiction and anxiety and lies. Nothing will ever be true.

I could cut it all off and turn away. But then, there I am, left with nothing. I gave everything away already, and I guess looking back, there’s none left for me. I can have the fragments or I can have nothing and move along. But what’s life without some fire, without some pain? It already feels like what I get from it isn’t enough. I’m jaded.

I feel cheated. He gets to go home to someone else, and I go home alone, just like I wanted. I don’t know. I don’t want to be with him, but I don’t want to be completely without him. I want to fuck him and touch him, and be held for a few minutes. I want to be able to tell someone the truth about my life, to their face. He serves all those purposes. But is it worth feeling like this? Like everything is dark and hollow and terrible now? I don’t feel desperate or confused anymore, just tired. So tired and worn down. I want away, but I feel stuck in place. I already know how everything will turn out. It’s written in stone, the story told a thousand times. I’ve told the story myself.

Change. I keep asking myself who I want to be, and I think back to all the times I had to cower in fear and hide away. It’s been years, but even now when I think back to it, I flinch in disgust and self loathing. Whatever that was, never again. I can’t afford to go back. Making it out alive seems like some kind of distant, unattainable future, but there it looms. And so does the power to end it at any second. Everything, every problem I have ever had, it can be gone.

I can be done. Sometimes that’s the only comfort you get.

Whatever it takes

Remind me to stop taking trips down memory lane. There’s no use now, really.

Time has given me a different perspective. I’ve changed—not really wiser, but more world weary and suspicious. I’m not sure if either of those things are positive. Maybe in the sense that I’m more prepared, but it’s also probably safe to assume that it limits my abilities to reach out even more.

I spend too many nights on a blank document, staring at it like something will suddenly appear on the page, some kind of answer to all my questions. Nothing will ever be adequate, so I tolerate my half measures, suck it up like the adult I’m supposed to be.

Suffering is like a badge of honor in my universe. You’re not really living unless you’re hating it, right?

How much have I done, really? Why does it always taste like failure? Because nothing’s good enough? That’s the truth, isn’t it: nothing is good enough. I can mourn and lament, but I’m still stationary, stomping my foot and not moving on. Stuck. Stuck in the past, stuck on my old ideas, stuck on people that shouldn’t matter to me anymore, but they do.

Somehow, those people matter, what they said matters, even the ones that are dead. I remember all that they said. I took it in, soaked it up, because I’m not one to turn down a lesson. And now those moments are the only ones to cling to, the only ones that made anything worth it. Worth another breath, another slash across flesh like I’m marking off the days, just to keep going. A deal sealed in blood.

One more day. And then what?

I accept my punishment. Pain is the only thing that defines me anymore. I seek it out, I run from it, I plead for it to stop. What more do we deserve? What more should a person be allowed?

People say they’ll do whatever it takes. For me, that’s just not good enough.