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.