i like the ivy and the ink blue

i think it all started last year when a fuck named brian pulliam killed a local woman, kirsten darlin, and her nephew. i didn't know any of the parties involved, but a sick, sharp feeling rose up in me when i heard the details. brian was a skinhead with a temper (to say the least) and a serious criminal background- he and his friends had beaten a man so badly that the dude sustained brain damage and had to learn to walk again. brian went to prison for a couple years for that. kirsten was a member of the duke city darlins, a group that does fundraising for community non profit organizations, and was into body modification and pin up style. her friends didn't like brian but had no idea that kirsten was afraid or that brian was capable of such violence. he killed kirsten and her nephew after she broke up with him. i was transported back in time to my own escape from a dangerous relationship almost 8 years ago. i was flooded with gratitude and somehow still-fresh fear stemming from those memories. i felt so lucky, because i knew kirsten's ending could have been my story too. the parallels between brian and my ex were jarring to me and all in all- i felt a deep sadness and connection to this woman whose life was cut so short. i understood her secrecy and attempts over time to present a normal, upbeat front in the midst of growing discomfort and threat. i imagined her last moments and my whole body responded- my hands shook, i tasted metal. last week i glimpsed a kitchen knife behind a client's bed- i understood so intrinsically that even when a threat is not visibly present, our traumatized minds and bodies are always prepared for one. friday i worked with a client on domestic violence issues and a restraining order. i told her that i had been through something similar and had come to the other side of it. in this business, we tend to compartmentalize things till there is time to deal with them, but i honestly didn't think anything was wrong. that night, i fell asleep on the couch. i began dreaming of HIM, my ex, and woke up covered in sweat and shaking. i pulled myself off the couch and stumbled to bed. all night i had nightmares, with different mythology and content. woke up over and over, jerking myself out of the dreams and letting my hot sheets and pillow come into reality once more. when i'm on call, i can't take the sleeping aids that allow me to go black when things like this happen. i had a nagging feeling i needed to look up my ex on the court website. last night i couldn't find him under probation and parole- my heart started thudding in my chest. is he off paper? does he know where i am? i don't always trust my intuition when it comes to myself- it's compounded by the racing thoughts that accompany my triggers. i don't trust that i am always right- when i worry and perseverate about something, it's not necessarily because my instincts are warning me. fear and past trauma play a role in all my actions and thoughts- sometimes a role of strength and pride in my survival- sometimes feeding the pain and anxiety. so anyway, i began crying- silent but tears flowed down my face. my heart beat so loudly that my chest ached. i decided i needed to reach out. that is something i find so difficult to do, but i owe it to myself and to the women i serve to be a healthy and stable individual. i emailed my boss and asked her if she knew of DV survivor groups in the area, because i am not aware of one. i want to connect with other women and learn from them. i want to know it's part of my healing to feel this stuff when i'm triggered, and it doesn't mean that i'm lost in my trauma. most of all, i want to feel like i own my feelings, my skin, my life, my experiences- that a person who means nothing to me does not pull my strings or control my fate. it's so hard for me to reach out- but my heart slowed down and i was able to fall asleep. jerked out of a deep sleep at 4:30 AM this morning. been up since, but i don't mind, cause i get to share this with the unknown, mysterious readers of this blog and i know my voice is heard, by someone. i think of that book "dont hurt laurie", about an abused girl finding her voice and calling out her abusers. i read it when i was kid and relief and hope gushed over me. someone understood. it gave me courage that carried me through the darkest days of my life. so much of my life was dark but i fought for happiness and peace. i won't give it up so easily. so now, i speak.


liz phair was such a rock star. i had endless admiration for her. fuck and run was my favorite song for a long time. she was totally punk but had the most melodic, sweet voice. but i was really dissappointed when she took on a new sound, new look, etc. that was very geared towards breaking into the mainstream. she was even in fucking maxim, from what i recall. however, today one of those songs popped into my head today and i realized i really liked it. the lyrics are so fitting for my insecure days. despite the change in musical direction, i really respect the way she can twist simple words in such a lovely way.

You think that I go home at night/ Take off my clothes, turn out the lights/ But I burn letters that I write/ To you, to make you love me

Yeah, I drive naked through the park/ And run the stop sign in the dark/ Stand in the street, yell out my heart/ To make, to make you love me

I am extraordinary, if you'd ever get to know me/ I am extraordinary, I am just your ordinary Average every day sane psycho Supergoddess/ Average every day sane psycho

You may not believe in me/ But I believe in you/ So I still take the trash out/ Does that make me too normal for you?

So dig a little deeper, cause You still don't get it yet/ See me lickin' my lips, need a primitive fix/ And I'll make, I'll make you love me

I am extraordinary, if you'd ever get to know me/ I am extraordinary, I am just your ordinary Average every day sane psycho Supergoddess/ Average every day sane psycho Supergoddess

See me jump through hoops for you/ You stand there watching me performing/ What exactly do you do?/ Have you ever thought it's you that's boring?/ Who the hell are you?


here's a post that shows the true depths of my confusion.

when someone is overtaken by any kind of addiction, they become false. They might phrase that state differently. "my demon." "my worst side." "my evil twin." whatever you wanna call it, it's a false self, a false life, driven by something so removed from who we truly are. that's the definition of fake- living a life where i didn't hold the reins. repeatedly letting people do horrible things to me, and lying about all of it, so i could keep up a facade. when the justifications and rationalizations and suppressed feelings were exposed, the pain of the truth nearly killed me, a couple times over. but i chose that path, because i wanted to be honest. i wanted to be real.

and recovery is about being real. being honest, getting to the heart of the matter, being yourself. no more lies, no more stories to have to keep track of. no more incongruence between words and actions. there are many beautiful things about this process, but a lot of shitty parts too. . . and sometimes i think it's too awful to be worth it. alternately too painful, too boring, too neutered. . . it doesn't feel right. when i think of being "real", i remember moments of feeling electrified by life and my existence. listening to music, a first kiss or touch, certain textures, bright colors, rebellion, the beauty of nature, the shock of a beautiful voice. i guess i think life should be a rock and roll ride through the countryside that makes tears pop into your eyes every so often because you're fucking happy. and yeah bad shit happens, but you can navigate through. you will be ok because you're "really living." you're dealing with shit as it happens, and not hiding from it. and it becomes part of the journey.

true reality and life feels stifled and trapped, afraid and lost. but on the other hand, i don't think i've had a moment of true peace in my entire life without the aid of drugs and/or alcohol and/or sex. so how the hell would i know what is real? it is all perception? is it about appreciating the fucking "little things" in life, or is that just a distraction from how miserable i am?

my recovery from a lifetime of abuse, mental illness, and trauma is exhausting, even all these years later. i'm tearing apart the meaning of words like "real" in a fucking blog. i'm trying to live the best i can, but i feel so fragmented. i think it's because i did everything i was supposed to. i got a good job, a good man, a nice home. all things i wanted and still want. but i think i was so committed to leaving behind the old life that i lost some pieces of myself that were still pure and still me. thus why i feel so fucking fragmented. the battle in my brain is endless and makes me laugh sometimes.

there's so much to live for/off yourself.

run away/work harder.

think about the difference you are making in the world/think about your fucking self and have fun.

don't go to work today/be reliable.

and my heart screams, be who you are. such a fucking useless cacophony that consumes me.
the truth is, one of the only times i know who i really am is at a punk show. i feel free, i feel excited, i feel happy. i feel appreciative of my life. i feel motivated, connected, and whole. and when the show is over, i ride that high for a while. and then comes the crash down to earth. yet in the past shows were a huge part of my life, so i wouldn't have to wait too long till the next high kicked in. now, i don't get much exposure to punk shows. albuquerque isn't really all that for shows. losing my music feels like an empty hole in my life.
i went to the punk rock bowling festival in las vegas this past weekend. i had such a good time, i felt everything i just described to you. afterwards, i didn't keep it going with any of those vices i used to. i just got tired and went to sleep. i almost felt robbed of the richness of my experience because i didn't annihilate myself (there's that lovely nihilistic brain talking again!). there was drinking, yes, but i kept it in check. i didn't want to get sick and ruin the whole weekend. i played the tape all the way through. i have been waiting for that weekend for so long- a little island of hope in my otherwise responsible and dutiful life. it was wonderful. it was so fun living so much sound again.
i saw rancid, one of my all time favorite bands. i remember hanging posters of tim and lars in my room in high school. they inspired me, they spoke to me and they made me feel like i would escape one day. they made me want to pursue a strange and exciting existence. every time i see them live it's a revelation, and i feel as passionate as i did 15 years ago listening to them in my bedroom all night, clinging to their voices for comfort when the walls would close in on me. in vegas, they looked exactly the same, their music was as beautiful as ever. i screamed and danced and jumped up and down. i felt the rush. and now i've crashed down to earth. physically i have a sore throat from a weekend of smoking, and i still haven't caught up on my sleep. mentally i feel alone and disconnected from everyone.
i kinda feel like my life has been a series of crashes. i don't feel like i belong on this earth, but i'm stuck here. i want to live, but i can't figure out how to live in this world. i still have that pit in my stomach that probably should have dissolved when i first hit the ground and popped outta my spaceship. maybe that feeling is always going to be present if i choose to live real. so do i accept it, or do i fight it? i'll let you know when i decide.



today i cried a lot. more than i have in a long time. it was that kind of really ugly but cathartic gasping sobbing just tearing out of your chest. it was triggered by my boss leaving our agency. i am very attached to her. she's been a mentor and a friend, and we are kindred spirits. i have had so many wonderful conversations with her about our clients, our dedication to the work we do, and how we can continue to improve our agency. we have had even more conversations about our lives- i have felt total freedom to discuss my mental health issues, my past, and my struggles with her. the thought of not having her in the office next to me really breaks my heart. i guess i just don't do well with loss. another unnamed co worker said, "i don't get why everyone is crying. it's not like i'm never going to see her again." because it's going to be different now. and we don't want it to be different. i couldn't sit in while the clients and staff told my boss how they felt about her. i was in full on sob mood, and didn't want everyone to see me and my broken heart on my sleeve. but i always remind myself- try to think of your tears with pride. i cried all the time growing up. i was afraid of my father, and my life, and basically everything. my father screamed more when i cried, so i tried to suppress it. over time, that fear morphed into self hatred, and bitterness, and nihilism. sometimes i would cry during my panic attacks. i learned that the tears stopped when i sliced my skin open with razorblades, letter openers- whatever was sharp and could make me bleed. i was a raw nerve, violently exposed, screaming fuck you. the years i was with my ex, i didn't cry. i was brimming with fear and rage, but i held everything in. or it came out through methods like drinking, or cutting, or drugs. he would get angry when i cried, so i never did. i was in so much pain, but simultaneously so numb. i missed the old rawness that had shaped my feelings for so long. one time i remember crying was when we couldn't get the gas turned back on in our apartment. We had a huge back balance from some other place he and these other kids had lived-i stupidly and regularly offered up my precious social security number for whatever he needed- plus whatever bill we had racked up on the current place. so anyway, it was 20 degrees outside. here was no hot water, and i could see my breath all th time. we bundled the dogs up in my sweaters during the day. at night, me, the boyfriend, and the 3 dogs would pile onto a twin mattress and huddle for warmth. this had been going on for a while, and i was desperate. so that day of tears, we went to apply for a utility assistance program. i was ready to ask for help. and then the blow fell. the case worker told me our balance was too large, and i had to come up with $700. i had been waiting there all day, allowing myself to hope, and i just lost it. i burst into tears in front of everyone, and staggered out of the building. i didn't know what to do and all i could think was "i'm so fucking cold." the tears shocked my boyfriend, who didn't get angry this time, but told me he was going to fix everything. i knew better than that. amazingly, this piece of my story had a happy ending. the 5 ladies i worked with, who were my pittsburgh moms, pooled their money and got my gas turned on. i'm still blown away by it. i was so lucky to be around such angelic and good people, trying to dig me from the hole i had buried myself in. i will forever be grateful for the kindness shown to me by the people i have worked with. thus, many tears today. yet every tear i cry now is brilliant and radiant to me, like tiny diamonds hidden away in my lost heart. Whether from happiness or sadness, or just the ache of living - the fact i can cry, and show emotion, means i am living free.



"As Scurfield (1985), describing his work with adult survivors of various traumas, suggests the final step in the stress recovery process is in the integration of all aspects of the trauma experience, both positive and negative, with the survivor's notion of who he or she was before, during, and after the trauma experience."


good therapy.

today i had a really awesome therapy session. i have been in therapy on and off since i was 18, and have cried three times in total.

1) 2003-The first time I cried was when my therapist asked me to imagine my life in 5 years. I saw nothing except despair and misery. I literally visualized black. When I say cried, I mean teared up profusely, but would not let myself fully cry.
2) 2004- saying goodbye to above therapist. He changed my life, and I will always be grateful to that wonderful dude.
3) Today, 2012- I told my therapist something really awful that happened to me, in like 2002. I guess I'll tell you too. it was something i remembered after watching this adorable and lovely movie called neo ned. in this movie, the chick wets her bed after having a dream about the man who molested her.

That night I had taken my boyfriend to a party with me. I never knew what self he would show to people. He might be charming and goofy, he might be sullen and aloof, he might be angry and flip a table over. What a dreamboat, right?! Yikes. So anyway, we went to a party. I was working at the library at my university, and the guys I worked with had become my bros. The party was great. My ex and his friend Nomad went with me and for the most part behaved themselves. My library bros were like. . They are really nice but kind of scary! My guys were punks with boots and braces and spikes and alcoholism. And I was all, they are just a bunch of teddy bears. It's all good.
And it really was.
We walked over to the bus stop on Carson and 18th. I was living on the slopes then in a rundown piece of shit house, on a street where my neighbor fed his pit bull gun powder. The alcohol must have finally hit my ex for real, cause he suddenly flipped on me. He called me a bitch and a whore, blah blah, lifetime movie, blah blah. This was all in front of like 20 people. Poor Nomad, who died of a heroin OD a couple years ago, didn't know what to do. He tried to calm my ex down, but I coulda told him there was no calming him down once he got started.
So we got on the bus- they sat in the back and I sat in the front. I wanted to be close to the bus driver, who looked kinda gnarly and maybe would try to help me if something went down. My ex screamed at me from the back of the bus. I had tears pouring down my face, but I stared calmly ahead of me. trying to disassociate, instead connecting even deeper to the terror i was feeling.
And then we got off the bus, and started walking home. it was a winding road that seemed endless, as I walked as fast as possible, desperate to get home. My boyfriend screamed at me while I raced forward. Across the street, a young black man called out to me. "Are you ok? Do you need help?"
"I'm ok" I choked out. My entire body was shaking from fear. My boyfriend really showed off his stellar personhood then, and began taunting me to "go fuck that n*"(I'm not typing it out, you know what i mean) and other equally sick shit.
we got home and for some reason we had a red bulb in our porch light. everything i remember is hazed in red. he said he was going to leave, he was sick of this, sick of me, etc. i can see his face, tinged with red like the anger that made him such a monster.
and i BEGGED him to stay. red like a valentine. red like lipstick all over my face.
thinking of that broken girl still kills me inside. i cried myself to sleep that night on the couch. when i woke up, i had pissed myself.
secondary enuresis, brought on by trauma, but i call it one of the most fucking brutal reality checks of my life. it was like a punch in the face, trying to wake me up from my nightmare.
i chose to soldier on, but the bruise remained for years, and i never forgot it.

so today i told my therapist about it, and i cried. and i said how awful it was that it happened to me, and how sad i feel for the person i was (and still am). and i breathed a little easier today.


9/11 . . . here we go again

i dread 9/11 each year and all the outpouring of manufactured grief (from the media, corporations, etc), all focused in on one event in the grand scheme of horrible things. it all comes down to such a narrow focus- no consideration of how these events affected people globally.
i remember where i was on 9/11/01, as so many facebook posts have implored me to do. that morning i was woke up by a friend in my pennsylvania dorm room, banging on my door. i was dead asleep and my roommate was at class. he told me that the buildings were being evacuated because of a terrorist attack. a plane had crashed in shanksville, PA. i didn't know where that was.
i remember throwing on some clothes and forgetting to put a bra on. i eventually found my friends and we sat on the grass. everyone was outside . .. i remember thinking, weren't we all sitting ducks exposed like this? i called my boyfriend a bunch of times, wanting to hear him. . . i tried calling ali and another friend i had in ny but couldn't get through to any ny people (from what i recall). i felt strangely peaceful despite all the chaos, people crying, holding hands, praying. my atheism felt stronger than ever at that moment- i told the group i was sitting with, "Just because we might die today doesn't mean I'm suddenly going to find God." I still stand by that statement. I got some dirty looks for that one.
At that point in my life, i cared very little for myself- death didn't seem frightening to me. i had spent the majority of my 19 year old life wishing i was dead, so it wasn't that overwhelming to me on that level. i had believed in a anarchy since i was a young teen, believing in revolution on a political and societal level. riot grrls. punk rock. that was my life. i spent the next years wholeheartedly supporting the many musicians and writers who critically examined this event. i was at huge anti-war protests, with a black bandanna around my face, marching with the anarchists. i had my "fuck racial profiling" sign. i had such passion for change, and it wore me down when i saw no results. it hurt me to know the suffering that still continued in the world. i lost hope in anything getting better for a couple of years. my personal life didn't help one bit. i was hopeless, in many ways.
10 years later, i still feel that dissent and need for revolution. the difference is that i treasure every day of my life now. i don't hold the same degree of nihilism i once did. i care if i die- and hope i get the chance to be a grumpy old cat lady, scaring the neighbors on halloween. i will always fight for my beliefs, but not just out of anger. i feel some of that hope again after advocating for and truly helping the clients i work for, on a micro and macro level. i've gotten back that genuine desire and belief that things can get better- if we make them better.
9/11 pisses me off for a variety of reasons. i think it was a tragic event, of course- some fashion mag i was reading recently had a whole section of letters from the families of 9/11 victims to their loved one. it brought me to tears.
i get pissed by the naivety of most Americans, who thought we were somehow special and would never have any repercussions for our own aims of world domination/exploitation/destruction. none of those people deserved to die. . .but none of the people who have died everyday for years due to stupid and misguided wars do either. remember the individuals who have been detained and abused for being brown in a fear-fueled country (some of them kids). and of course, remember the many people tortured by American soldiers.
i despise the politicians who have exploited the deaths of Americans and ignored the deaths of thousands of non-Americans to keep or gain political office. See the Family Guy- 9/11 on hulu.
And finally, stores make me sick with their 9/11 merchandise. Remember Veronica Mars? When the kids went off the cliff and Kevin Smith was selling miniature buses and tee shirts commemorating the day in his gas station?
Some critical thinking never hurt anyone. . . there is a lot to "never forget" about today.


ive been thinking. . .

i want to bring this blog back. i am going back to pittsburgh in a few weeks for a visit- i am so excited because i left big pieces of myself there. i think back to how starved i was for the duration of my residency- food starved at some points, love starved for years, just DESPERATE for something. always walking on the razor's edge, falling off occasionally, pulling myself back up. sometimes i felt high without being high- just from the music, and my friends, and the streets that felt like home. life was just SO brightly colored and alive for me there. that's partly due to a lot of pain and suffering (which makes every moment sharp and loaded and humming with fear/adrenaline)but also due to the love i received from my friends. once i left my abusive relationship and was able to ask for help, i would get it. that was a dark time for me, even though i got my freedom back and was having FUN for the first time in years. my heart was so alive with anguish because of my breakup and my new codependent crush on someone that didn't feel the same way about me. oh young love *barf* every phone call, every night, every show was so full of promise, anxiety, craziness, elation. i think back to all the nights i drank myself into oblivion and could have gotten into some gnarly situations- and amazingly, i was mostly safe and whole. i remember all the bands with older people i used to hang with- i must have seemed like some skittish, drunk mess of a lost kid and they were all SO kind to me. i get why people have a hard time doing the normal life thing. i have a tough time with it. no night was normal there. that year after i left my ex was stunning in its complexity and wildness. i also met my now husband that year :)i love my life now and would not trade it for the world, but i would like to move this life back to pittsburgh.
i'm grateful for the friends there that have stood by me. its a beautiful thing to know that i am going home to susan, my true heart friend for the past 11 years. and bryce, my brother/friend that has always looked out for me. punk rock has been a huge part of my life since i was a teen, and i was really able to live it in pittsburgh. i miss it so tremendously. after several years of being isolated in albuquerque, i long for those times. i know they would never be quite the same, because i'm different, but i'm hoping to recapture some of those feelings there. just that feeling when the band starts playing and you feel the music in your stomach- you look next to you and you have a friend just as excited as you are about music. shoving, dancing, singing, just losing your stress and pain for a couple hours to the scene you found a home in. the feeling of talking for hours with someone and never getting bored, or anxious- just feeling whole. that is pittsburgh to me. i want to write about all those memories before time takes them away.
anyway, i leave in a week and a half.
being somewhere you truly love is a priceless gift, and i can't wait.


grieving a house?

i have been crying on and off the past 2 days. so confused.
last week we found our dream house- seriously, a house i would want to spend many years in. we paid our security deposit and were SO happy- i had already started envisioning what different rooms would be for, and where furniture would go. . . then sunday i got an email from the future landlord saying she couldn't rent to us because our references didn't check out. i called her and was like WHAT? the only references were my boss and our landlord. both said they had given us a great reference. well it turns out my landlord was lying. he said we live like pigs, that we are lazy and can't take care of the house, and that we pay the rent late. NONE of which is true- he has never complained about us at all in the 2 years we have lived there. fuck him, hes a two faced piece of shit- but i'm just so deeply sad about losing that house. and i'm afraid whereever we try to go, he will never give us a good reference.
vic and i called him on his shit today. he was super passive aggressive- first tried to deny it all, then flipped out and said that we were asking to have our house robbed and spent so much time whining about it to him- he said some horrible things. basically every time i asked him, why didn't you just say something to us if you had a problem with something? he was silent. he was not apologetic whatsoever and refused to take blame for us losing the new place. he said he would give us a decent reference and that he would let us move by May 1st. i dont know if he really will give us a decent reference. . . i just want to get out of here. vic even asked him, why didnt you bring up any of these issues about our supposed lack of cleanliness when you renewed our lease? why didnt' you just be honest? he was literally silent.
i just feel sick to my stomach. it has been so long since i met someone i think is genuinely a truly awful person at heart- i feel like i was robbed of something i desperately wanted. . .and that is where the suffering comes in, from the attachment to earthly things. i have so much left to learn. i know the answers to some things, but don't know how to live them.
i think another thing that just makes me sick is that 7 or 8 years ago, probably everything he said was true. i lived in terrible places and saw terrible things and probably essentially did "live like a pig." which is a retarded expression. and to know that i have turned my entire life around, and been stable for so many years- to have totally false shit thrown in my face hurts. and to know it cost me a beautiful home that i KNOW we would have been so happy in. .. makes me want to throw him through a window or something.
i hate feeling so angry. . .


4 weeks!

its been 4 weeks since my surgery. it has definitely been rough. this is a major surgery that is taking a long time to recover from- i dont think i quite realized what it would be like afterwards. some days i think that i am back to normal, so i push myself to do my normal level of activity- and then i pay for it later with swelling and soreness.
the first week was an emotional roller coaster, coming off the general anesthesia and just being totally taxed by the painkillers/antibiotics. 2nd week i went back to work part time. it was really draining. week 3 was pretty good- i am back at work almost full time, and feeling much sharper. so we will see how this week goes!
week 1 was incredibly stressful for a couple of reasons. our landlord is a dick and never responds to anything, so our heater had been out for like 3 days, no response. he kept putting it off, putting it off, and it was wednesday of week 1 with no heat. so i pretty much flipped out and cried hysterically, and straight away developed a fever. that was a good indication to me to chill the fuck out. 2 days later, i found out that my former co worker/current classmate had told other classmates about the nature of this surgery. ok . . . i had no interest in my classmates knowing ANYTHING about this. the majority of my classmates are a bunch of weirdos who make me fear for the social work profession- with the exception a few really cool women. but anyway, i was furious at her lack of common sense and basic ridiculousness. i dont think most people can understand what a life changing experience this is, and while i am happy to talk about it, its also very private- and i dont want OTHER people sharing my personal business. this person is not even my friend. . .ugh. so i called her on her shit in an email and she pretty much wiled out on me. she told me that i had "violated" her by telling her how it is. . . my fever shot up again that day.
another thing that was difficult was the lack of support i got from my friends. anna texted every day and my coworkers made me care package- kwals even sent cookies. my sister brought me magazines and treats and spent a day with me. but the majority of people who i think are my friends didn't call, text, or email at all that first week. after a surgery, the patient feels SO vulnerable and out of sorts. if someone you know has a surgery, contact them right away!! sent a text or a card. . .just so they know you care. your body has been literally opened up and put back together, you are emotionally a mess- all you crave is comfort.
luckily enough, i have SUCH an amazing husband. this experience has brought us even closer together- he has taken such amazing care of me, and met my every need. i genuinely feel the partnership of marriage- it is a beautiful thing. and its a really wonderful experience to be married to your best friend. so despite any loneliness or hurt i felt, i am not alone. . .
now im gonna watch some lifetime movies and chill!



i am having my breast reduction in exactly 2 weeks!! i am really freakin excited, but nervous as hell. i have a horrible fear of general anesthesia and just never waking up. im not that worried about the actual recovery, though it will suck. . i am just going to be so relieved!! i feel like i am making huge steps to having a less pain-filled existence. i have been having prolotherapy shots done in my back for the past couple of months which has greatly decreased my chronic back pain. and im hoping chopping the boobies off will continue to decrease the pain. i already feel a difference in my capabilities, just from having less pain. tomorrow i have my preop visit!!



stress definitely exacerbates my MH symptomsl, and my ability to cope. i am just aching all over and incredibly uncomfortable in my skin right now. school is SO hard, work is so tiring- i love this field but not sure if its the right one for me. or rather, how long will i survive this field?? im looking forward to valentines weekend with my husband, who puts up with my endless agonies and laments, and loves me nonetheless. when i think of that i feel profound love but also a great deal of regret for what he has to deal with. i will NEVER EVER pass this shit on to a child!!! hell fucking no. ive been dealing witht this now for 15 years and im so sick of it. meds, therapy, they all help- but i just want to be better. so badly.


PTSD. punk rock remembrances

You and me

“Now here I go,
Hope I don't break down,
I won't take anything, I don't need anything,
Don't want to exist, I can't persist,
Please stop before I do it again,
Just talk about nothing, let's talk about nothing,
Let's talk about no one, please talk about no one, someone, anyone

You and me have a disease,
You affect me, you infect me,
I'm afflicted, you're addicted,
You and me, you and me

I'm on the edge,
Get against the wall,
I'm so distracted,
I love to strike you,
Here's my confession,
You learned your lesson,
Stop me before I do it again

You're clear - as a heavy lead curtain want to drill you - like an ocean,
We can work it out, I've been running out, now I'm running out

Don't be mad about it baby,
You and me, you and me,
I want to tie you, crucify you,
Kneel before you, revile your body,
You and me, we're made in heaven,
I want to take you, I want to break you,
Supplicate you, with thorny roses,
I want to bathe you in holy water I want to kill you,
Upon the altar, you and me, you and me”
- bad religion

DC and I live in a dollhouse framed by a garden of beer cans and weeds. We’ve lived here for almost a year. The last place we lived in was so infested . . .

Roaches used to crawl over me at night in my bed, so I didn’t sleep much. I couldn’t take it anymore. We found our dollhouse, and made plans to leave.

That last night, we came home and flicked the kitchen light on. roaches fucking POURED out of the outlets and cracks. I stood frozen, watching them as my heart pounded so loudly. We hurriedly finished packing, and left at midnight with our shit and our dogs.

Keys had died a few days before of an overdose, and after his funeral DC got jumped by drug dealers he owed money to. I screamed as they put a hole in his face and stared at his blood on the Burger King sidewalk.

The only problems we have at this place are of our own invention.

Our house is filled with piss and shit, and memories of wounded dogs slinking along the bloodstained walls. Broken glass lies on the dirty carpet like snowflakes. Music is always blaring, and it sounds so far away to me. It means nothing to me. DC’s band practices here sometimes and he screams along with the three chord guitar mess. I imagine him becoming the next henry Rollins. My pit bull lays next to the amp and taps her tail. DC’s dog lives in the basement, where she cries until he decides to give her some semblance of care.

I cried every day the first 6 months here. Now I just go blank.

We have left our damaged imprint here.

We only have 1 neighbor, Mr. R. I barely ever see him, but I hear him welding things in his workshop every day. I wish he would talk to me.

I wonder if he ever hears me screaming.

I know he heard us once. That morning I ran out the door in my pajamas, clutching a handful of meds. DC chased me and threw me on the ground. I stumbled and hit my head on the front stoop as I fell. My fist opened and the little blue pills spilled out, mixing with dirt and gravel. i could feel every tiny pebble under my pajamas. DC yelled at me to get up and get in the house. I started to go blank. But I looked up, and everything was blue.

It had been so long since I had simply looked up.

It was painful to see what I had been missing.

I glimpsed Mr. R watching us, just for second. Then he left me, again.

I should have shoved the pills in my mouth like salvation.


DC has been locked in the bathroom for the past hour. He went in with a piece of broken mirror and his needle, and hasn’t made a sound for a while. I pound on the door and beg him to let me in. my heart is thumping in my chest, and I don’t know what to do. I feel this way most of the time, that ache in my throat and the sinking in my stomach. Sometimes in passing I contemplate if I have an ulcer.

I pick up my phone and tentatively dial 911. I know he’ll kill me if I hit dial. I press the phone to my stomach and will an imaginary person on the other end of the line to save him, to save me. I haven’t gone blank yet.

The door flies open and DC storms out, pushing me out of the way. he screams at me to fuck off. I follow him like a beaten down dog, and tell him I’m sorry. He shoves me into a wall. He tells me

“you are the reason I want to die.”

He holds his arms out to me, as if he wants to hold me, and starts laughing.

He has carved “HATE” into his arms, the jagged letters still bleeding. I taste puke in my mouth. He stares at me until I look down, shamefully. He’s still laughing as he turns and walks back into the bathroom. blood drips into the sink as he starts to brush his teeth.

I sit on the couch and shake. I could leave right now. I could run out the door to the welders workshop, and ask Mr.R to help me. He might wrap me in a blanket and carry me to his car. He might take me to the hospital, where I can sleep. They will station a police man outside my door, and I will never see DC again.

I could run out the door to the welders workshop, and Mr. R might take my crooked spine and weld it to his front gate as a warning, or a prize.

I know there is no one that hears me; I go blank.


I remember the shards of glass in the corner from last week when DC threw a picture frame at me, and missed. I’ve left them in the corner, carefully covered with a torn sheet. The frame used to hold a picture of my sister and me. He set it on fire in the trash can. The dogs and I cried together for a few minutes, and then I went blank. I go blank every time he fucks me. Some people might call it rape. I probably would too, if it wasn’t me.

I take a piece of glass and cut my thighs, two times on each.

The last time I cut was my first year of college, in the bedroom of the boy I was in love with. He and his friends had just snorted lines of oxycontin off his math book. I lounged in his bed and watched adoringly. He talked to me for hours, his words rambling and beautiful. I told him how I used to cut myself so deeply that I would bleed for hours. I told him how in the Georgia summers I was the only girl wearing a long sleeved shirt. I had to, to hide my cuts. i would feel the fabric rubbing against the raised lines etched in my skin, itchy and raw. It hurt so much.

He asked me if I still was a cutter. I told him no. but I had to show off and I grabbed the razor off his desk. I made 2 small cuts on my wrist and looked at him for approval, or love, or something. He smirked at me and rolled over to sleep. I could see the boredom etched in his skin, in the lovely curve of his back.

I hear him coming out of the bathroom and I pull my tee shirt down to my knees. He looks at me. and he knows. He asks if I cut myself. I tell him no and pray he believes me. He shakes his head in disbelief. Then a smile crosses over his face, a genuine one. “I’m sorry. Let’s get some lunch. You want to get some pizza baby?” I nod carefully. I’m hungry, I know we have a few dollars, I know my forgiveness keeps our spines intertwined.

15 minutes later we are laughing at the pizza joint down the street, eating cheesy sausage slices. We stuff our faces and drink our pop and walk home, holding hands blissfully. We stroll down lorigan street as the sun sets and we disappear into our nothing, the weeds parting to welcome us back to our sanctuary.

This is me, this is my love, this is all I know. We are all we have. We will do anything to get rid of our emptiness. We fill our mouths with poison and spit it at each other. I think I hate him, and I sleep on top of him at night on a twin mattress.

Eat. Sleep. Fight. Fuck.

I live for those brief moments in between the binge eating the nightmarish sleep the endless fighting the cold fucking.

The in between- those moments when I hurt but it’s real, and it’s mine.

Sometimes I even see the sky.


day 6 of cymbalta withdrawal.

im having non stop brain zaps. i am crying all the time. i suddenly thought about the fact that i bought flowers for my friends funeral over a year ago, and that realization made me start crying even more. just called my nurse and told her i was having withdrawal symptoms- and she said i dont know if its withdrawal, but just going back to baseline.
well whatever the fuck you call it, i'm having it! fuck you!


kill me

cymbalta withdrawal

emotional wreck
brain zaps


days like these

today was one of those days i genuinely wondered if i can handle this field. . .if my own mental health issues are just too crippling to work with this population. i was exhausted after 4 hours at the welfare office and i've just felt frayed after the robbery. i come back to work and everyone is totally amped up and crazy working on xmas gifts. . .our secretary is shrieking and i just felt INSANE. then my co worker snaps at me and i am just fuming and furious. i was just so weary and wanted to be home. but then i had my art group, and we had a blast making xmas crafts, and i remembered why i do this in the first place. its not about my co workers- its about my truly wonderful clients.



im starting to feel overwhelmed by the sheer quantity of things i have to do. . . just want to take off for the weekend and party and escape for a bit.
i have been talking to din and elena online much more now, and i am getting so freakin excited to see them at the wedding. they are sisters who were two of my best friends in high school. i have been listening to the wedding playlist pretty incessantly and it makes me happy/teary/etc.
im just really tired. . . i upped my cymbalta which is making it impossible for me to get a good night's sleep. so my nurse prescribes me trazodone, which turns me into a zombie. no happy medium. . .
im off to watch top chef and maybe do my nalls or something. xox


35 days

till i become a married woman.
i have been working on the wedding playlist, which makes me alternately incredibly happy and kind of wistful/nostalgic.
i look at myself and sometimes don't know how i made it this far. . . i am very, very happy with my place in this world and can't believe how much i have been transformed in the past 9 years.
i still remember everything. . . and i know i have to. we all have our burden to bear, right?? but its not as painful. there are so many good things. my relationship with my sister is so positive right now, and i love her baby more than anything. he will have such a happy, supported life- it brings tears to my eyes just thinking about it.
i have a job i love- a job that is sometimes too consuming, but something i truly enjoy.
i have alaira and gabe- they make me insane, but they are my best friends and my life.
and then there is vic, that dude i'm going to marry. i am SO lucky. i believe in so MUCH now. . . he has made me a believer. in what? everything.
i am so, so excited to get married!! and to have the biggest party of my life with my friends, my true family.



ive missed blogging.
i am back, hopefully permanently.
the wedding is less than 4 months away, and it has been occupying much of my time/thoughts.
i have to believe that i am some kind of alien spawn. because it makes me feel like shit to think that my parents are my actual parents.
i just had a long conversation with my mother, where she blamed me for my dad's severe depression. apparently, dad is so depressed because a)i didn't ask him for any help with the wedding (who knows what help means to them) b) we're not getting married in a church, so i'm "embarassing" c)i don't want to invite any of their friends, due to the fact we are paying for the wedding ourselves.
sounds reasonable, huh?
and she expects me to call my dad, begging him for forgiveness, despite the fact he could barely look at me during the 3 weeks they spent in santa fe. at the end of their trip, he offered to shake my hand goodbye.
fuck you, piece of shit.
but in much, much happier news- i have a nephew! mom and baby are doing well- i wish i could spend all my time with them! its amazing to have a new addition to our family, and i know in my heart that he will put an end to a familial legacy of pain and anger. i will do whatever it takes so he does not have a life like i had. and he won't, since he has the best parents in the world.


i'm gonna make you love me before long

its been two months since my last post. alot has happened.
ok a quick rundown of life thus far:
i am down to 6 clients from my previous 10. wow. i'm sure you can guess what has happened to some of them. its been hard. the wedding planning is going really well! we have our venue, caterer, photographer (the lovely jenni s) and a LOT of ideas! i also am pretty sure i have my dress picked out too. winter in albuquerque has been so fun. we saw the river of lights display and the twinkle light parade. we spent thanksgiving in santa fe. my sister's baby boy is due june 10, and i've accompanied her to several ultrasounds. reena and michael came here for xmas, and i made a big feast. i got some wonderful xmas gifts like my new rat bonzie, who is incredible. i also got myself some nice gifts, like a record player! new years eve was AWESOME. after a half day, a bunch of my co workers came over and we all drank and talked the day away. that night, teresa, paul, anna, zak, vic and i went to atomic and burt's got incredibly crunk and danced!! it was seriously SO fun. i also sported my corpse bride blue wig, which makes me feel beautiful.
things i know about myself: when i am happy, i dress up. i do my makeup. i feel attractive. and much more importantly, i do art. for me, i find that writing comes out of my horrible experiences, and i am kind of paralyzed when it comes to creating art. i have to be in a more high functioning state to produce art. and boy have i been. it is SUCH A GOOD FEELING to feel like i still have some abilities, to feel creative, to have some confidence in myself again.
i am happy. this is partly due to medication, partly due to my sheer luck in life, and to being surrounded by wonderful people.
i finally feel at home in abq.
i watched a movie on lifetime called "7 things to do before i turn 30"and yes it was awful. please keep in mind that it was starring amber benson, who played tara on buffy the vampire slayer. i ADORE her. i will watch anything she is in. so anyway, i forced vic to make a list of things we wanted to do in the next couple of years. it was really fun. here is mine:

10 things to do before i turn 30.

1. camp at the white sands monument
2. go to japan, particularly sanrio land.
3. get married to vic!
4. have an art show
5. get down to a healthy weight
6. do a road trip up the pacific coast highway ending in vancouver.
7. spend a few months in india.
8. become a makeup artist
9. do a falconry weekend in either VT or WV
10. see the pyramids.

WOW do i have a lot of work to do. but it's gonna be fucking fun.