Daily Post 117: Rough Day


This is going to be a whiny post.
You have been warned.


I don’t want to be here. And by here I mean at work. I have grading I need to do. I don’t want to do it. I have water I should be drinking, so it’s sitting next to me feeling neglected.


I had the thought on the way to work that when I get back to Vegas I’ll be able to level through my taekwondo belt tests fairly quickly because I’ve been practicing on my own. And that was quickly followed by the thought that mom would be proud of me for being passionate about something. Which in turn was quickly followed by the thought that mom won’t be here to see me pass my tests, or to tell me that I had nothing to worry about when I have my freak out before the tests.


Last night was rough. Yesterday was rough.


By all accounts yesterday should have been an awesome day.


I woke up. I went to the bank and got things situated so I could pay off my credit card completely. I got a check to pay Clavan back. I went to work. I went to the gym where I had a pretty awesome workout. I went grocery shopping when I got home and even went out and picked up Chinese food before going back home to watch more Sword Art Online.


But yesterday felt hollow. All of those awesome things I did were just things. And even though I smiled and had happy moments there was this sadness blanketing everything. Damping everything. And as the night wore on it got worse.


It’s still here today. This sadness.


I played Witcher III for a bit, and that helped, but the reprieve didn’t last long. Trying to go back to sleep didn’t help.


The comment of, “It will be better when you wake up,” was an unintended knife in my chest because my thought, the response I bit back because it was unfair, was that it wouldn’t be ok. Mom will still be dead when I wake up.


And she was. She wasn’t magically back, and things are still hollow feeling and I’m still sad and alone, and I wish I knew why some days were like this. I wish there was some trigger that I knew about so I could avoid it.


But there isn’t.


It’s just another day.


It’s another day where I have obligations. I have to go to work. I have to eat. I have to take care of myself and shower and interact with people and every interaction depletes an energy bar that can only be felt. I can feel it draining, draining, draining until it takes all of my effort to simply remain silent. This hurt and anger and pain isn’t anyone’s fault, but that doesn’t make it less real, and it doesn’t take away the need to unleash it somehow. And the lower my tolerance gets the more it takes to not unleash it on those around me.


Today was another scream day. It helped a little. Maybe more than I think since I’m able to sit here and type this without crying. It’s the first time in a while that I’ve been able to write without doing that. Maybe part of that has to do with how I feel detached from my emotions right now and how I’m not writing to mom. I’m just writing because writing keeps me busy. Too bad I have another 3 and a half hours to consume with pointless, trivial nonsense before I’m left figuring out what to do with the rest of my day.


I want silence. Emptiness. Peace. I want to cry and scream until I’m exhausted and to fall asleep without having to take Nyquil to do it.


I’ve been pushing too hard at the gym and I know it. My body reminds me everytime I try to do something.


Body: Hey, you used those muscles. A lot. And I’m angry at you for that.


Thanks, Body. But I don’t know what else to do. I stopped smoking, which is good. I didn’t like doing it. So now I workout instead for the endorphins.


Emotional Brain: Feeling bad? Do an awesome workout. See? You feel better. *a few hours later…* Starting for feel bad again? Go for a mile run. You still have enough in you to do that.


But that rush, those endorphines… they never last. I start to feel bad again. It might be hours later. It might not be until the next day… but those feelings always come back. There’s no way to escape them. I can only push them back for so long before they overwhelm me, like today on the way to work. How the sadness refused to be pushed aside anymore. How I screamed over and over again as I cried because there was nothing else I could do. There was no way else to let it out.


And so now I’m tired, and I wish I could say I’m empty, but I’m not. I know there’s more there. It’s just not the overflow that it was. I feel like I’m limping along today.


I don’t want to be here, but I am. I don’t want to feel anything, but I am.


I wish I knew what to do other than survive. I wish surviving felt like it was enough, or that it meant something, but right now, today, in this hour, it doesn’t. It feels pointless and in my apathy I’m not sorry for feeling that way. In my virtual page where I’m allowed to spill everything out so I can try to make sense of it all, I’m not sorry for writing that sometimes it feels pointless, because in the wake of mom’s death a lot of things are pointless.


The only thing that I want is to hear my mom’s voice again, and I can’t have that. So the only thing I can do is keep breathing through today, through the pain.


I wish it didn’t feel like an impossible never end task.


I’m sorry today is hard, mom. I’m sorry yesterday was hard, too. I love you. I miss you. I promise I’ll still test for taekwondo even though you won’t physically be there. I promise I’ll wake up tomorrow. I promise to get the grading done today, and I promise that I’ll eat dinner at some point.


I know it’s just another day, and I’m sorry I’m having such a hard time with it. Please help me get through it.


Letters to Mom 004: Anger and Denial Suck


Hi mom,


It’s been a while and even as I start to type this I can feel myself about to cry and I’m sorry. I guess I’m going to say sorry for a while even though I know you wouldn’t want me to.


The check came in the other day. It got sent to Jason because I didn’t know where I would end up. I didn’t want it to get lost in the mail so if it were sent to Jason at least I knew it would end up in good hands. So he got it, told me it came in, and I gave him the address to my PO box. I knew it was coming. I knew it would be there one day when I went to open that stupid little gray door.


And it was there. Wednesday afternoon. I opened the door and there was a white USPS envelope in it and I knew it was the check from Jason. I didn’t want to open it. I didn’t want to touch it. I didn’t want it to be there.


But I did touch it. It was real, and physical, and I took it out and held it in my hands as if it were some precious thing, burning my hands with fire to the point I couldn’t hold onto it but couldn’t put it down either. I walked to the front of the post office. No one was there as I pulled the flap open and pulled out the papers inside. There was the unopened envelope from the insurance company and a photocopy of your obituary.


I was so angry with the check. I still am. I want to hate it. I want to have a person that I can turn all of this anger towards. I want it to be someone’s fault so I can yell and scream at them. So I can tell them how they ruined everything. How the money is insulting because all I want is you. All I want is to be able to give it back… No, not give. I want to throw it back at someone. I want to hurl it, fling it, with all of the strength I have at someone and have them cower from my fury. I want my anger and rage to be enough to have the Universe return you to me, to allow you to come home and hug me and tell me that it won’t happen again.


I miss you, mom, and while I’m at work or doing laundry or trying to figure out how to move forward with my life I can make it through my days most of the time. I’ve only called out of work twice. I went to the second meeting for the woman’s leadership initiative. I mailed off the papers for the ticket “I” got since Zane ran a red light back in February. I’ve been eating at least one meal every day. I’ve been going to the gym. I’ve been doing all of these things and even on the days that sort of suck and I’m low energy and I want to do nothing at all I still end up doing things because I’m me and I don’t know how to not do things.


But it sucks, mom. It sucks so much sometimes and I really wish you were here to do I don’t know what… Make it better. Be there for me to talk to and escape from my life. I miss our hour long conversations about nothing. I miss hearing your voice. I miss you and it’s only when I stop that I am able to process through this emptiness but I so rarely let myself stop. I don’t want to stop because stopping means figuring things out emotionally and that hurts and I’m so tired of hurting. I’m so tired of feeling alone and like I’ve lost something, something that will never, can never, be replaced.


I talk about how the inside of my self is empty and white. Barren. There isn’t wreckage or debris. I don’t know what there is. I don’t want to be a new person. I don’t want to change. I’m not using bits of broken pieces to make something new. I don’t know what I’m doing. I don’t know what I’m picking up or touching or finding that causes this pain when I’m alone and talking to you.


I know you left the money to help. I know that you wanted me to have it. I talked about it a lot in therapy this week. I got the check Wednesday and had therapy Thursday, so at least I wasn’t able to stew about it in my head for a super long time. Just long enough to know that I’m angry. Just long enough to figure out logically that my anger is misplaced and the most immediate thing I need to figure out a way to cope with said anger.


Yay logic. Who said you can’t have a to-do list while grieving?


In therapy I said it felt wrong for me to benefit from the money. It would mean I was benefitting from your death because the only reason the money is there is because you died. I don’t want your death to be a good thing, mom. I don’t want it to help me be a better person. I don’t want it to destroy me because I know you want me to keep living. I don’t want it to be a neutral event, one causing no emotional reaction within me, because that would mean your death meant nothing to me. Being neutral would mean you meant nothing, and that’s not true. You meant the world to me. You were my sun, my light, my mentor and best friend. You were my mother.


You meant everything to me.


So your death isn’t good. But it isn’t soul crushingly, life-endingly bad. But it’s not neutral, either… So what is it?


I don’t want to hate myself for progressing in life but if I use this money as a stepping-stone to do it, to move forward to where I want to be, then I think I would have a hard time not hating myself. In my head it’s fucked up for me to, in any way, “gain” from the loss of you.


I hate all of this, mom. I hate the confusion and the hurt. I hate the tears that are always there when I drive to work because the thought of obligations makes me realize how trivial everything is. I hate the tiredness that I wake up with because it’s not tiredness from not sleeping well. It’s tiredness from being mentally and spiritually injured and exhausted. I hate using the word hate because I don’t really “hate” anything, I just dislike it to the point of feeling a physical aversion.


Hate is too strong a word for most of the things I feel, but it’s an easy word to use so I use it. At this point it really is more of a laziness issue because “dislike” isn’t all that hard to type, but hate is easier so that’s the word I use… It’s also more dramatic and who doesn’t enjoy drama from time to time, especially during a pity party?


It’s my party and I’ll cry if I want to, dammit!


I don’t want to hate the money because I know it’s a gift from you. And so there’s confliction over that. I want to love it. Accept it. Cherish it, forever and for always, just like the USPS box that you sent my Christmas stuff in. But the money isn’t what I want. I want you, and having the money reminds me that you’re not here. You’ll never physically be here again, and that reminder sucks.


I remember we had a conversation one time. I can’t remember if it was before I moved out or if it was one of the times I was visiting home, but I remember we were at home, in the living room, on the couch. Somehow we were talking about death and you said you knew it was going to be really hard for me when you died. You said something about how you raised me to be strong and that meant not doing stupid shit like hurting or killing myself.


Ok… so you didn’t say “stupid shit”. I can’t honestly remember your exact words but that was the gist of it. “You’re strong and I want you to keep going, even after I die.”


I know the money is your way of trying to help me through this.


I don’t want to go through this though, mom. And I want to say sorry for that, for not wanting to go through this experience, but I’m not sorry. I’m not sorry that I don’t want you to be dead and that I want you to be here, and I’m not sorry for wanting something selfish and unrealistic and childish. I’m not sorry for loving you and missing you and for feeling sad.


Well… actually, I am sorry for feeling sad, because I know you don’t want me to be sad. Which is sort of weird, because I’m pretty sure you wouldn’t want me to be angry either but I’m not sorry for the angry side of things… Maybe that’s something to meditate on and look further into… why do I think some emotions are ok to feel, but other emotions, like sadness, aren’t ok and make me feel guilty…


Blah… So I guess this is where I’m back in the denial stage and resisting reality. I don’t want this. I didn’t ask for it. I want to give the money back because that’s how refunds work. If you give something back you get the original thing returned to you.


But that’s not how life works and so right now I’m stuck with the choice of hating life or accepting where I’m at, and hating life is so much easier right now, mom. It’s so easy to sit here, alone, and to feel sorry for myself because the rest of the world can somehow keep going, prattling on with their lives, while I sit here, alone, without you in my life to sit across from me. I know you’re with me, you’re around me, you’re inside me, but I wish with every fiber of my being that you were still physical and could hold me right now.


I still plan to take time off from life. I still plan to use the money to pay for bills and to pay off the credit card, and to have a membership at the dojang. I opened a Navy Federal account so I can get away from Bank of America. I’m waiting for the check to clear so I can pay off the phone and switch it to MetroPCS because there is coverage in Vegas for it.


Everyone keeps telling me the money is a gift. The people who I consider acquaintances make the customary, though annoying insensitive, comment about spending the money wisely.


Every time I hear those comments this conversation plays out in my brain. No joke… Every time…

Irrational Grief Brain: Thanks… but I know this is a gift from my mom. A very special gift. And even though I don’t want it, I’m not going to give it away or do something stupid. It’s precious to me and I want to hold it close to my chest because that’s the closest I’ll ever get to being able to hug my mom again.

I’m not going to go set it on fire or spend it on stupid shit. I’m not a child. I don’t need a reminder to be an adult because I AM a fucking adult.

It’s not your place to tell me what to do with a gift, any gift, especially the last gift I’ll ever receive from my mom. Your not my parent, and trying to be “parental” reminds me that the only pesron who ever had a right to be “parental” is my mom, and that she’s gone because she’s dead so welcome to the “I’ve made myself Jen’s target” club.

Go burn in hell you insensitive jerk-face.


It’s exhausting thinking such emotionally intense thoughts. It’s a lot like when I had to tell people you had died.


“I’m so sorry for your loss. If there’s anything I can do, or anything you need, please let me know.”


Irrational Greif Brain: I don’t know what I want other than for mom to come back. Since I’m pretty sure you can’t do that, there’s nothing that you can do other than leave me alone.

I don’t know what I need. I don’t even consider eating to be a need right now. If you want to be helpful then proactively do something for me, rather than making it MY obligation to figure everything out.

Do you even know how many obligations I already have? I’m not going to remember to delegate things to you. If you want to help than “do” something for me. Take a task, any task, away from me, without me asking, because not only do I not like asking for help to begin with, in this situation I most likely wont remember that asking for help is an option.

I’m alone in the world, ok? I don’t care that you actually exist and breathe and have a life that you’re living with goals and ambitions and dreams. Right now there aren’t other people, ok? There is only this emptiness and Jason and Jon and Lio. And if there are other people, they’re obligations that I have to take care of.

That is how my brain is functioning right now. No one is here to help me. I am alone aside from my family. If you want to help, do the laundry for me. Don’t ask. Just say, “I want to do [insert task here] for you. Is it ok if I come over [insert specific time here] to help you out with that?”

Holy fuck, that would have been so much more helpful than making me remember more things when the only way I’m functioning day to day is by scrawling on my arms with a sharpie marker because there isn’t paper near by and if I don’t write it down I’ll forget it and then fire and brimstone will fall from the sky because I’m the worst daughter ever and mom would be disappointed in me for failing at life.


Yeah… irrational grief brain isn’t a very fun brain… And those thoughts were there literally every time someone said, “Let me know if you need anything.” Which was every, every, fucking conversation I had to have with anyone. So exhausting. And the only thing I said was, “I appriecate it. I’ll let you know if I think of anything,” because that was so much easier than actually trying to think of or remember things that needed to happen right after I had just had to say those words again, “Mom died.”


The best conversations I have had, the ones that make me introspective and not instant Irrational Angry Jen are with my friends. True friends who know how I am.


They actually take a step back and say how I’m one of the few people they aren’t worried about spending the money poorly. They know that I’m responsible and they know that I’ll use it wisely and for things that will truly help me or be a good investment.


There’s slight guilt in that regard because getting a PS4 so I can play Witcher III in my head isn’t responsible, but I know that I need some sort of escape and “down time” sort of thing. I was thinking about getting back into Guild Wars II once I’m back in Vegas as well, though with both of those outlets I’ll have to be careful. It would be all too easy to allow myself to slip into a gaming addiction where all I do is sit at home gaming, absorbed in another world. There’s just something about running around picking flowers to brew crazy potions, or crafting in general so I can whore the action house that totally does it for some part of my brain…


But yeah… to me games don’t really seem all that “responsible”, but if it’s something that’s for mental health then it is responsible… but it’s still a game, so wouldn’t it be more responsible to find a more constructive outlet…


You can see where my confliction comes in…


I suppose if that’s the biggest, most irresponsible splurge I have then I’m doing pretty good. I know you would want me to do something “fun” related. I’m always work and no play. At least that’s how it feels, especially the past year or so. The past how ever long it’s been since I gave up aikido. I feel like that was the last thing I really did for myself, and I had to give that up when Zane became unemployed. There was the Warrior Dash, which was awesome, but I already had the gym membership, which was a big part of that goal. I don’t know. In my head my race doesn’t count all that much because it was such a finite thing. One day doesn’t make up for the months of having to go without, you know?


I guess it’s the way my friends approach the conversation. It’s not a “This is what you should do,” talk. It’s more of a, “You’re going to do whatever it is you feel is right. I have faith in you,” talk. And the, “You’ll do what’s right,” makes me stop and think.


It makes me question, the world, myself. What is right? What would I be ok with? What wouldn’t I be ok with? It’s not an obligation or an order. It’s openness and acceptance and it lets me explore and question rather than being forced into a box.


I haven’t really spent a bunch of time figuring it out, shocker I know since that’s basically my catch phrase right now, but I do have one rule in regards to your gift. I’m not allowed to spend it on anyone else. Ever. The money has to be spent specifically on me, and only me. If I want to take someone out to eat, I have to have some sort of other revene to do it with because your money isn’t meant to take someone else out. It isn’t meant to help someone else survive. It’s meant to help me survive.


So at least there’s that rule. I’m not sure if there will be others. I’m pretty sure they’ll come to me as I find and think of situtations that I wouldn’t be ok with. It’s nice to have at least something to define “right” verses “wrong”. Honerable verses dishonerable.


I keep thinking about the feeling I felt when I got to the hospital that day. April 4th. I keep thinking this past week how it’s still been less than two months and how crazy that is. So much has happened in such a short span of time. It can’t have only been a month and a half…


But is has. It’s been such a short amount of time, mom.


On April 4th I stood in the elevator for the last time as it road up to our floor. I walked down the hall to our room for the last time, sort of surreal like. Almost out of body as I kept telling myself that I would make it through “this”. I would be ok. Somehow. Somehow I would keep breathing, and I would make it to tonight, and I would make it to tomorrow and the world hadn’t ended and, somehow, somehow I would be ok.


I remember seeing everyone standing around. The nurses that we had been interacting with, tons of new people as well, most likely from the rapid response team. I didn’t ask. I didn’t care. I kept walking, walking. I could see our room. Your room. I remember how the hall was so crowded but near your room it was so empty. So quiet and still. I remember Jon coming out of the room when I got there like he knew I was there. It was like a scripted TV scene. As soon as I was there, in the right spot, he came out of the room as if to prepare me for what was about to happen. He had his hand out as if to give me something, so I put mine out as well, to receive whatever it was.


He gave me your mother’s ring, the one I had made for you for Christmas. I remember how you always wanted one because MawMaw had one and you said yours would be so pretty. Two aquamarines for Jason and Jon and a turquoise in the center for me. You loved your ring so much, mom. I know you did because you showed it off to everyone and bragged about how “amazing” your children were even as I felt like a total fuck up half the time because of the stupid choices I always made with my relationships.


They had put tape around your ring so it wouldn’t fall off while you were in the hospital and get lost, and I remember when I got into ICU and held your hand for the first time through this whole experience how I was so grateful that you still had it on. I don’t know why I was grateful, but I was. Maybe because it was normal. Because it was a reminder of life. A reminder of how much we loved you.


I will always remember what it felt like for Jon to put your ring into my hand. I will always remember the weight I felt when I saw the little gold band in the center of my palm.


That was when I became matriarch. That’s when I knew that I had to grow up and be an adult. I remember how it hurt so much to see that ring, and how my face felt so pained, twisted into an expression I’ll never see as I put your ring on my ring finger before breathing in deep, holding back the tears and sobs as I walked into the room.


I saw you there. You were laying in bed. They had taken out all of those stupid tubes that had made it so hard for you to sleep. You looked so peaceful, mom. So beautiful. You weren’t in pain. You weren’t uncomfortable or tired. You didn’t have to worry about anyone coming in and poking you while you tried to sleep anymore.


I remember holding your hand and after a minute or so had passed I asked what we needed to do now. I took charge. I talked to the nurses and the case worker. I called the funeral home and asked about your insurance coverage. I made sure you wouldn’t have to go to the morgue in the hospital. Even then, less than ten minutes after getting to the hospital, I was doing things, because that’s what needed to happen. Things needed to be taken care of, so I did them so other people wouldn’t have to.


I didn’t want Jon or Jason to have to do that. I didn’t want them to have to call and tell a stranger, “My mom just died and I don’t know what to do. Please help me.” And I think the only reason I was able to do it was because while I said those words I was holding your hand, your ring secure on my finger while I squeezed my eyes shut against the tears that wouldn’t stop, while I squeezed your hand against the pain in my chest that made it so hard to breathe even though my voice was steady.


You were there to help me make it through that conversation because that conversation sucked really, really bad, mom. It was so hard to make that phone call and to remember the answers to all of the questions they asked. It was so hard to not just break down and start thinking about how the only thing I wanted was for you to wake up. For you to truly be asleep and to just wake up and for things to be ok. How I wanted to give the ring back to you, to slip it back onto your finger and for it to somehow bring you back to me because it’s your ring and how I needed you to not be gone because I loved you. Because I still love you.


I don’t know what matriarch means to me yet. I don’t know what I want it to mean. I haven’t spent much time meditating on it. I really haven’t spent a lot of time thinking about anything to be honest. Small snippets here and there. Small working throughs. Breakthroughts. Therapy helps with taking steps.


In regards to the money, instead of thinking of it as benefiting, I’m trying to look at it as your way of helping me survive, because that is my main goal right now. Whenever anyone asks me how I’m doing, which I still hate that question, more so now then ever, I answer with, “I’m surviving. You?”


Literally, without even realizing it, that’s the answer I’ve been giving. Yeah, surviving is still benefitting I guess, but it has a different meaning in my head. I’m not ok, and using the word “benefiting” makes it seem like I am ok. It gives this whole situation a positive spin rather than conveying the feeling of it being an agonizing trial that I didn’t ask for.


You’re helping me survive in one of the few ways you still can. I know that I personally need time, and I can use the money to give myself that time, that space, to figure out how to keep going on my own. I have to relearn how to walk is what it feels like. Fuck running at the moment. Maybe even screw walking. I have to make sure I can stand first, let alone do anything else. It feels so awkward at times. I feel wobbly, squishy. I feel like I just came out of some sort of cocoon that I didn’t know I was in. I’m not a butterfly, though. I’m not something nearly so pretty and fragile.


I don’t think I’m a newborn hatchling dragon either though, because what was I for the past 27 years if I suddenly just now hatched?


I don’t have an analogy yet, other than I feel squishy and vulnerable and that doesn’t bode well for other people because I don’t like feeling vulnerable.


I need to figure me out. I know I do, and I know that will mostly happen in Vegas, and so I’m not giving myself crap for not having the answers yet, especially with the realization that it’s been less than two months. Well, duh, I don’t have the answers. Who would, right?


I’m working on that whole “being kind and realistic with myself” thing… I think I’m getting better at it.


I think a big step, the next one I want to take, is figuring out “matriarch”. I keep coming back to that word, to that moment at the hospital where the word infused itself with my being. It means something to me. It means a lot. It’s a heavy word inside my head. I need to understand why it is important to me and what it changes because it changes, a lot. I felt it at the hospital. I feel it now.


I always thought that I would die young, and in my head that meant I would die before you. I never told you that, but I’ve written it before, and it’s always been something in my head. To me, young meant you would out live me, and I know writing that, saying that, drives some people crazy.


Sir mentioned that despite my “feeling” that biologically, realistically, children are meant to bury their parents. This is the natural order of things, and if you had had to bury me it most likely would have been a much harder situation because that’s not how life is supposed to work.


I understand that. I do. After hearing him say those words, I’m grateful for how things worked out. I’m grateful that I didn’t hurt you by dying. I would never have wanted you to feel this type of pain. Or worse pain. I would never have wanted you to have to call and tell someone that I had died and that you needed them to help care for my body.


It’s still odd for me. I had thought things would be different. What I had thought isn’t what happened, and so I’m having to adjust to reality. It makes me wonder though… There was such a shift in myself at the hospital when Jon gave me your ring that I wonder if that’s what “my death” was. It was most certainly an ending of something, and the start of something else.


Other than that, I don’t know what it was. I’ll most likely never know what it was. A lot of spiritual and emotional things aren’t meant to be understood. They’re not things you can analyze because they’re not analytical. They are things you feel, in your chest, in your being. They are experienced rather than explained. And so I have this experience before me, within me.


I am changed. Of that there is no question or doubt. Is it a death? Is it a shift? Is it nothing? Is it everything? I don’t know. I suppose it’s up to me to say what it is, and I guess that’s why figuring out the word matriarch is so important, because it is so entwined with this change, this feeling, this experience.


I realized the other day the black widow from my dream was you, rather than me. That actually made the dream make more sense. The widow in my dream ended up disappearing in the end. Sort of like how you were here, and now you’re not, at least not in a physical form. I should have known it was you when it felt “wrong” to think of myself as the widow.


I didn’t know what else, who else, it could have been, and looking back at the dream, it seems so silly to have not seen the connection to you. Other people mentioned how it was most likely you because the widow is a symbol of strong female power, but in the dream that wasn’t important. The spider wasn’t you because you were a strong independent woman. We both are. Actually, there are several women in my world who are amazing examples of strength.


You were the spider because you were there, and there were so many problems and issues and tasks associated with you. Thousands of baby spiders, and then suddenly you were gone and the baby spiders were still there, getting bigger, taking over everything that was special and sacred, and I had to take care of them all, kill them all, in order to keep what was important to me, to us.


I think I’ve gotten most of those spiders for you, mom. It feels like I’ve been at war. I’ve mercilessly killed and slaughtered most of the issues and obstacles in my life. I’ve systematically beaten down anything that has made itself look like a task. If I get too tired to finish something I save it for the next time I have energy. I hack away at it until it’s off of my to-do list because nothing shall survive this war. I will take NO prisoners and I WILL NOT accept “no” as an answer. These things WILL get done, and they WILL get done the way I want them to be done because that’s what I said will happen.


It was a warzone, mom. My life. Showering… Actually, even before that, just getting out of bed, was, still is, a battle sometimes. And every day I do it. And every day I count it as a victory in my list of vicotries and accomplishments and conquests. I count all of my tasks as part of the horde of spiders.


I still have a few “big” spiders here and there to squish. They’re pretty small, though, when compaired to some of the ones I’ve had to kill in these past two months. They just seem big in relation to all the other small ones, and really, even those spiders are almost gone. Most of the time I want to go to the gym now. Most of the time I want to get out of bed. These normal, daily tasks, aren’t always part of the overwhelming wave from the dream any more.


It’s getting better, mom, and I know I’ll be ok. And I know I’ll be ok in large part because you’re still here with me even if I can’t see you in the form you had for so many years of my life.


I’m sort of written out. It was good to cry, a lot,  and let so much of this emotional confusion out. I still have a lot I want to say, and while I’m alone in a hotel room again I may write more. Maybe to you, maybe as just a musing moment post. I don’t know. I’ll most likely end up falling asleep for a while again because I’m allowed to do that, right? Be a slacker on the weekend… that’s a socially acceptable thing, and I’ve already done laundry so there’s literally nothing super adulty that I have to do. Go me. I know you would be proud about that. : )


I love you, mom. Thanks for being here and for listening to me. You’re helping to keep me sane, even if it’s by making me seem crazy for talking to myself. : D

Daily Post 116: Pre-Sunday


Written Sunday morning.
Posted now because I was sans Interwebz. 


I was supposed to try to write last night, but we see how well that worked out. Friday night was sort of rough. I didn’t go to sleep until around 6am for whatever reason. I had a can of soda, which might have factored into it. Mt. Dew brought back Pitch Black. No regrets.


So yeah, I stayed up all night gaming. I found Magic Duels on Xbox, which for those who have no idea what that is, it’s Magic the Gathering on a consol. I’ve played through all of the Origins campaign. It was fun and I really like the stories for some of the Plainswalkers. I wasn’t into Magic while those guys were really popular so I never picked up on storylines for them. Magic Duels has you go through their backgrounds to unlock new levels and earn coins so you can buy cards.


Overall it’s pretty nifty. The only thing I dislike about the game is you can’t play on Mac OS, or Playstation. At least not yet. While there’s no plan to fix the Mac issue, Playstation 4 will be getting Magic Duels later in the year. So I may stick with my plan to get a PS4 once I’m back in Vegas. It would be pretty awesome if I could get some of my friends into the game so we could play matches together. It might be a way to feel less alone when I move away from everyone.


So yeah. I spent way too much time the other night gaming away. Like I said, 6am. When I looked at my phone to see the time I was like, “There’s no way that’s right. My phone froze or something…” 30 minutes later when the sun started rising I realized that no, my phone was right and there wasn’t much I could do about it other than try to sleep for a few hours.


Zane called me around 11 to talk about the phone payment. He wasn’t able to get into the website so I had to give him some information about it. It’s paid. Yay. One thing I don’t have to worry about any longer. Still need to be unlazy and figure out what needs to happen to get on my own phone plan.


I ended up hanging out with him for a few hours. We went to Pita Pit for lunch. The food was surprisingly amazing. I guess it was exactly what I didn’t know I wanted. We spent some time there, eating, talking. We didn’t touch on anything deep and it was a little tense if I’m honest. We were both worrying that it would be a bad meeting. But it wasn’t and the longer we sat the more we both relaxed.


After eating we went back to the apartment where we did have the deep conversation. I told him how I felt betrayed and lied to and why I felt that way. I said that if he and I were a physical object, like, if there was something to represent our interactions as humans, that it would be a china plate. A plate that had been thrown onto the ground and shattered into millions of jagged pieces, and that I didn’t know where to start with cleaning it up, or what to do it with. It was such a pretty plate and there was no reason for it to have been broken.


He said he understood. He said he felt lied to and betrayed as well, and in relation to the plate analogy he said he felt like it falling to the ground was more of an accident rather than an intentionally action. He hadn’t meant to hurt me or violate what I felt was a safe space.


My friend sent me this meme the other day and it pretty much sums up my feelings about his feelings, which may be rude and inconsiderate of me, but yeah… zero fucks.




I had sex with Zane before going to work. Not even going to feel bad about it. We both agreed that it was something we both wanted and that it didn’t fix anything between us. It wasn’t a band-aid or a cure-all. It didn’t change anything between him and Sara, and it doesn’t change or mitigate my feelings of betrayal.


It felt good, which was the whole point. It wasn’t about feeling loved or getting back together. It was, “I haven’t had the type of release I want in months. Get on the bed, pull my hair, and I swear if you say anything stupid to mess this up I’m going to destroy your world.”


Yeah… pretty primal and carnal, and I’m not letting the little evil voice in my head give me shit for it. I feel better. I’m not obsessing over sex or my lack of it. I can think of other things with a clear mind. It’s nice. I should be good for a while. And if this is what it’s like to “use” people then at least we’re mutually using each other and I’m not potentially emotionally harming someone.


Maybe this is me justify and rationalizing my actions. Or possibly over analyzing things because I like to do that. I’m not depressed today, so in my head it wasn’t a bad thing.


Last night was pretty good. I went to work which was uneventful. I found out that there weren’t a bunch of people at home, so I didn’t have anxiety over going back. I know Sir is most likely going to read this and feel bad, which makes me not want to write about it, but it’s a tangent my brain needs to follow.


It’s not my home. I don’t have a right to say, “Don’t have people over,” especially if it’s his son. I’m not in a spot to really want to be social with people though, and the thought of having to is an instant drain. Not like it was before where I could maybe work through it and just be tired.


It’s almost a physical pain inside my chest sometimes. Last night I thought there were going to be at least two people over when I got home, which made it hard to want to be there. But there wasn’t. It was just Sir and me and it was actually a really nice night.


I stopped and got gas for the car, picked up Key Lime rum from the store so I could have a drink when I got home, and stopped at Publix for some food so I could have some stuff of my own in the fridge.


When I got home Sir and I watched Batman Under the Red Hood and then started watching Son of Batman. It was a Batman night, and it was a lot of fun. I ended up going to sleep around midnight-ish? Maybe it was closer to 11. I don’t remember. I do remember that I slept the whole night, deeply, soundly. I woke up around 5am for no reason that I can remember but went back to sleep until around 10.


Right now I’m doing laundry. It should be about ready to switch to the drier actually. After I finish up here I need to run to Walmart. My clothes have been stacked on the floor since I’ve gotten back to Orlando. Scarlet takes that to mean she has her own personal cat bed, so all of my clothes are constantly covered in fur. I plan to fix that by buying some sort of plastic storage container. One with drawers so I can keep things at least sort of organized. It will also give me a place to put my wallet and keys so I can stop misplacing them and having to spend five minutes everyday trying gather up my stuff before leaving for work.


I’m going to be cooking green curry for dinner tonight. Woo. I also want to clean up my room and bathroom a bit. You know, take the trash out, vacuum. Normal weekend chore type things since I have the day to myself for the most part. No real obligations.


Today is most likely going to be a busy day because of that. I need to meet up with the chick from months ago. The one who sold me the bookcases while I was at the storage unit emptying it out on my own since Zane didn’t want to help me that day. With everything that has been going on I never got to give her the $100 for the bookcases. So yeah, we may be meeting at Starbucks later this afternoon. I’m hoping to worm my way out of a long social interaction. I’m not up for talking for hours.


Clavan’s gift is done, so I can pick up that while I’m out and about.


I doubt I wrote about it. I only got paid $150 last week. Clavan gave me a personal check to cover the missing income saying that I didn’t have to pay it back. Of course I’m going to. And it’s just another example of how I have an amazing boss. I’m going to miss him so much when I leave. And not just because he gave me money to help me get through these two weeks. I’m going to miss him because he legitimately cares and DOES things to prove it. It’s more than just talk. His actions prove beyond a doubt that he wants to help people.


The insurance check was mailed to Jason. He’s mailing it out to me so I should have it this coming week. Once it comes in I plan to see about opening an account with Navy Federal and getting away from Bank of Fail. I’ll be able to pay off the credit card, close the accounts, and pay Clavan back. Past that it would be paying the rest of this year’s rent for mom’s place and then sectioning everything out into savings accounts.


I’ve been looking into classes for becoming a CNA when I get back to Vegas. I think I’ll still take some months to do my own thing, but I know eventually I’m going to go crazy if I don’t have some sort of work to entertain myself with. Being a nursing assistant sounds more meaningful than bar tending.


I don’t know. It’s just a thought. Every so often I find myself thinking about what I want to do with my life. What would give me a sense of purpose? After losing mom doing anything that doesn’t help people seems hallow and empty. Though helping people drown out their worries is helping in a way, right?


I haven’t figured it out yet, and I’m not worried about figuring it out for a while. There are still days and hours where it feels so pointless and heavy. But there have been a lot of moments where I’m surrounded by so much love and support, and I find myself remembering my new mantra, “Different doesn’t mean bad.”


I still don’t have my tattoo, but that’s because the artist and I are working together to come up with something awesome. The sun design I wanted to get wouldn’t work very well for my chest because straight lines and curvy areas don’t play nicely together. Lame.


Instead I’m going to be getting claw marks over my heart. The kanji for strength will be visible through the claw marks. At least that’s the new direction I’m going in. I like the way the design feels inside of my head, and it works well with the pieces of armor I want to get later.


So yeah. That’s about it. Going to go back to being a creeper and people watching. : D

Daily Post 115: Still Around


I’m supposed to be grading. Well… not really supposed to be. It’s something that needs to get done and I’ve been putting it off, and I had told myself I would do it now, but oh look… I’m writing instead.


I haven’t been writing a lot. I haven’t really wanted to. Thinking back on my days, a lot of them have been pretty good. Some of them have had their bad moments, sure, but overall I think things are going. “Going well” might be a bit too much positive for me right now, but they’re going.


So why this aversion to writing?


I don’t know, but even as I sit here in lab and type this out I can feel discomfort in my chest of doing this action. A sadness, an ache, that I can’t place or really identify yet. This might be a short post because of it.


I went running last night. The area I’m staying in isn’t the best, but I didn’t care. I ran anyway. I’m not a dainty little blond who looks like an easy target, not that dainty little blonds look like easy targets… No offense meant to anyone who fits that description…


If someone tried to jump me my mentality is, “I don’t have to win, but you’re sure as hell going down with me.” I like to think I project that vibe, and I needed to run last night. Legit need, not want. And I’m glad that I did. It’s the first time that I’ve run off of the treadmill in a while so of course I didn’t pace myself well, but I’m happy with my time and I’m happy that I did it. It was the first time in almost a week that I had done anything really physical since I’m pretty sure sitting on the beach doesn’t count.


I went to the gym again today where I ran, on the treadmill this time, and did a core workout from Zen Labs. I had a salad afterwards. Nothing special or fancy. Trying to stick to eating well even though I know I’m not eating or drinking often enough. The more I workout the more that issue will fix itself. So again, glad that I made it to the gym.


I know I’m not doing as well as I could, and right now I don’t care. I’m doing. And that’s more than I want to on some days. A couple days ago was the first time I woke up and didn’t want to get out of bed. The type of “I don’t want to move” that stems from depression. I wasn’t sore from working out. I wasn’t tired from not sleeping. I was just sad. And it sucked. And I didn’t want to move.


But I did.


I’m still going to therapy, and that’s helping.


I’m still dealing with Zane and that’s not helping.


I don’t feel like there’s really a lot to write about…


I’ve started playing Magic Duel on the Xbox. I can see myself getting lost in the game. I feel like I should be asking myself all sorts of super deep questions like “what is my mission statement?” or “what do I want out of life now?” but I’m not. I’m going day to day for the most part. I get tired easily. After a few errands, even ones as simple as checking my PO box, I get exhausted. Which is weird because I’m normally pumped after the gym…


You would think the gym would take the most out of me, but it’s one of the few things that makes me feel actually alive. I sweat, I breath, I try, I push, I strain, and in the end I feel better, more real.


I guess all of the little things I do through the day feel so pointless because they don’t really do much for me. Why is it so important to check the mail? Why do I have to call people back, or reply to emails? Why do I have to put in time and effort for all of these “things”?


I feel like a lot of things are superficial and pointless right now and that makes them draining rather than restoring. The text message conversations with Zane are emotionally draining and leave me with depressing thoughts of “what did I do that was so wrong” which I know are misplaced thoughts. I did nothing wrong and the only thing I can do is accept how the situation unfolded and move forward in a direction that is healthy for me.


And I guess that’s how I should look at it. Even if I do get tired, even if I do have bad days, or bad hours, I keep moving a little bit each day. Some days I move forward more than others. I don’t have a destination right now. I honestly think my biggest focus is not falling back down because I feel like the situation with Zane isn’t over yet. I feel like there’s a lot still lingering under a false, fake surface of calm.


I’m going to explore getting out of the phone plan with him, and until I’m off the lease for the apartment there’s always going to be that tether. I don’t think I’ll feel completely ok, completely safe emotionally, financially, until all ties are gone. So, in that regard, there are two left.


I don’t feel like writing more, so I guess I’ll end it here. I’m doing alright. I’m still around. Still sort of emo but hanging in there.


Have an awesome day and take a moment to smile at someone. I know those small, random moments of kindness have helped me make it through the day on more than one occasion.

Letters to Mom 003: Mother’s Day


I posted this on Facebook
and felt it should be posted here as well. 



I thought today would be hard. And maybe if I had stayed in Orlando it would have been. I didn’t do that though. Instead, I went to the beach. And you know what, mom? It was a beautiful day.

I got to see people enjoying it and laughing and playing music and dancing and I realized something. You would want me to enjoy it too. So I’m trying to. I most likely got too much sun, which isn’t hard since I burn in moonlight. There’s sand all over the hotel room just like when you took us to the beach as kids. There’s still pizza from last night so I don’t have to go out and I can soak up all of the solitude and introverted aloneness.

I know I can’t call anymore and that’s been the hardest thing to adjust to, but I know you’re still here, and I know you would have had an amazing day because all of us would have called you or sent you flowers or gone to visit you.

We’re all thinking about you, mom. You’re still loved and it’s still a good day even if things are different.

Happy Mother’s Day, mom. I love you.



Letters to Mom 002: One Month Later


I made it through yesterday, mom.


I didn’t go to work. I thought about it. I was actually in the car on my way in when I realized something.


It’s been one month. That one month against 324. That’s 27 years. That’s how long I had you in my life. It doesn’t seem like much does it? When you type it out like that… I had less than 400 months with you. I only had 27 years.


And maybe it’s selfish to type it out like that. Some people get less than that. Some people never get to know their parents. But in my little bubble of hurt and loneliness I feel cheated. I thought I would have more. I thought my life would be different. Our lives would be different. But this is reality and in reality I only had 27 years.


This month is the first month on the opposite end of the scale. I’ve had one month without you. And as I was driving to work I realized that there may come a day for me where I’ve had 325 months without you. There may be a day where the scale tips over to the other side.


Realizing that sucked. A lot. I didn’t feel like sitting in lab doing nothing for four hours with only my thoughts to entertain myself, and most of those were depressing to begin with, so I didn’t go in.


Well, I went in and asked if I could leave, was told yes, so I left. They could have said no but it wouldn’t have mattered. I didn’t have it in me to stay yesterday and, for the most part, the only reason I’m in Orlando still is to help with this transition in the class, so I really don’t care if I get fired. Not that I’m going to go out of my way to be a jerk or anything, but I’m going to be kind to myself and staying yesterday would have been emotionally harmful for me, so I didn’t stay.


Instead, I went to the gym where I worked out too hard. I’m sure that’s not much of a shocker. I biked, I rowed, I ran, and I did machines. That meant I was super tired last night, and still tired today. I’ve come to the realization that working myself to exhaustion is going to be dangerous. It was hard not to sink into depression today. My body was so tired, so weary, that mentally everything else was harder as well.


It might not have helped that it was a low energy day for everyone. It rained all of yesterday, so today was bright and sunny but cold and windy. It was a curl up on the couch and do a bunch of nothing sort of day.


I did end up going to the gym for yoga. It was a nice 20 minute post running flow and it helped stretch out my legs and get rid of the soreness that I had. But yeah. I don’t think I’m going to do a workout as intense as the one from yesterday for a little bit. Not until I’m conditioned better. I didn’t like the struggle of this morning and it’s not kind to myself to knowingly put myself in those situations.


So lesson learned. Don’t over do it at the gym.


I talked to a new tattoo artist yesterday. I have an appointment on Monday to get your tattoo. They weren’t able to do it yesterday, which I understood, and they’re not opened on Sunday.


I’m worried about Sunday. It seems silly. I never thought of Mother’s day as a big deal. I would send a card, sure. I would make sure to call and to let you know I loved you, but it never “meant” anything to me. It was just another event on my calendar.


I’m so sorry, mom. I’m sorry that now that you’re gone I truly understand the importance of Mother’s Day. I guess it’s true that you don’t know what you have until it’s gone.


I’m sorry I never valued that day. Not truly. I’m sorry that now that I do that you’re not physically here for me to lavish you with everything you deserve, that I didn’t do that everyday for you.


I’m sorry I didn’t call more often. I’m sorry I didn’t visit home more often. I’m sorry that, even though I know that I was an awesome daughter, that I wasn’t better and that there are feelings of guilt that I have to work through. I know you know I loved you and I know that I lived life pretty well, but I’m sorry that I feel like I should have done better, made better choices, and I didn’t.


I know you don’t want me to feel guilty, and I know you understand this is all just part of that annoying process of grieving, but I need you to know that I’m sorry. I need you to know that I wish I could take you out to eat at Moe’s for lunch. I need you to know that I haven’t been there yet. That I can’t see myself going there and not crying.


I know I’ll sit down with the basket of nachos in front of me and I’ll remember all of the times we went out together, and I’ll be filled with pain because I’ll think about how I can’t have that anymore rather than focusing on the awesome times we had. I’ll remember your smile, your laugh. I’ll remember all of the conversations, both serious and silly, and I’ll feel so horribly alone that I’ll cry and most likely not eat.


I know I need to go through that. I need to heal. I need to face the reality that you’ll never physically sit across from me at Moe’s ever again. It’s not easy though. And I’m sorry that it’s not easy and that I’m struggling with this adjustment.


Our relationship is spiritual now. It’s different. I don’t talk to you as often as I know I should. When the feeling of calling you wells up I should just talk because you’re there, instead of feeling like I can’t talk to you simply because you’re no longer able to answer the phone. You’re here, around me. Always. I’m allowed to believe that. I’m allowed to believe what I want without feeling bad for it. And that’s what I choose.


I’m sorry I didn’t talk to you yesterday. I’m sorry I didn’t write yesterday. I’m sorry if that hurt you or made you feel unloved because that’s not what I wanted. That’s not what I meant. I didn’t know what to do. I still don’t. Not always. I’m still trying to figure it out, this new relationship with you, and I’m sorry if sometimes I do things wrong or drop the ball or unintentionally hurt your feelings.


I have an idea for what I want to do Sunday. I think it’s going to be painful, emotionally, but I also think it will be healthy for me. I think that I’m going to drive to the beach Saturday night and get a hotel room. I think I’m going to take your urn with me, and in the morning, I think I’m going to go out to the beach and sit and watch the sunrise with you.


I know we’ve never done that together while you were here. I know it’s not continuing a tradition or anything, but it’s something that I want to do. You were my light. My sun. Maybe we can watch the sun rise together and it can help me feel close to you on what should have always been an important day.


I also plan on sending cards to Jason and Jon and Lio. I know it’s going to be hard for them. It’s going to be hard for all of us for different reasons. But I want them to know that even though it’s hard and it hurts that they’re still loved.


Therapy has been going well. She gave me a small bottle of bubbles for my “inner four year old”. I told her about my brain and how I personify my different halves as a scientist and a child. She gave me the bubbles and said to use them. To think about my worries and fears and to watch the bubbles float away and pop.


Maybe I’ll to that with you on Sunday. While we’re at the beach, while I’m talking and being open and honest about my fears. Maybe that’s when I’ll let myself cry and feel small and vulnerable and like the lost child I try to hide and cover up with to-do lists. Maybe I’ll let her have some time with you and those bubbles and maybe it will help me figure things out.


I’m supposed to start talking about dad next time because I finally got around to mentioning him. I said how you showed me how to be strong by carrying on when he left. You were always strong, mom. I’m sure you doubted yourself and worried and had fears just like I do. But you were always amazing.


You were the best person in my life, and I hope, with every fiber of my being, that you knew that. I hope you knew how grateful I was to have you in my life. To be able to say you were my parent. My mom. You did so much for me, and I hope you know that I was, that I am, grateful for everything you did.


I love you mom. Forever and for always.

Musing Moments 091: The Lost Writing


I wrote this back while I was in Las Vegas, shortly after mom had died. Shortly after a phone conversation with Zane. This writing ended up getting neglected on my desktop as events unfolded. It was never forgotten but the writing was interrupted and by the time I got back to it the moment had past and so it was no longer appropriate to write more. I wasn’t in “that moment” any longer, and with the need to survive and manage everything with mom being the only thoughts most of the time, posting this writing never hit very high on the to-do list.

I want to post it though. I post all of my writings, and that includes the angry ramblings of a time past but not forgotten.

I am not broken. This past month proves that. To my self. To the world. To everyone who knows anything about what I have been through. I am strong, and while I may be injured and recovering I will never be broken.


I’m glad I have this writing to look back on. I’m glad I remember the feelings of lostness and fear and confusion. I’m glad I can remember this time because it shows how far I have come and how much more solid I am even if I still doubt it sometimes.



I am not broken.


I refuse to allow myself to believe that I am. Broken to me implies that I cannot be fixed, or that I’ve lost, given up. It means that something else was better, and I refuse, REFUSE, to allow that to be a truth that I accept about myself.


I am NOT broken.


Injured, yes. I fully admit that I am not ok. That I am deeply hurt, in a way that will never “heal” properly. I will always have this whatever it is with me. This hole, this scar, this ache. It will never go away. It will never magically change and not exist anymore.


I am injured, which means I can recover. Not broken, which implies I’m a lost cause.


Figuring out that statement makes me feel better about taking my year of mourning. That’s what I’m referring to it as. My Year. It helps me feel like it’s not be being selfish or weak or running away from my problems.


I need time to recover. Maybe more than most people but I feel more than most people, which I’m sure “most people” are going to read that and think that I’m arrogant or something, but it’s the truth. I’m extremely sensitive to all emotions. Joy, happiness, anger, guilt, and I guess now grief.


I still don’t understand it, this collection of emotions I have in my chest. There was more anger last night, and since I was on the phone with Zane it got mildly directed at him. He says I need to stop lashing out at people. In my mind I only lash out when I’m retaliating against something that hurts me more.


I am going to be giving him the car. He’s going to take over the loan payments and everything will be switched to his name. This is because we’re going to be able to keep mom’s car and it’s easier for me to use her car than to drive mine cross country.


There’s the added issue of “my car” not feeling like mine if I got it back from Zane in a year. He would have used it to go on dates and whatever else he wanted to do. It  wouldn’t smell like me, it wouldn’t feel like me. I wouldn’t want it back so I would have made payments for a year for something that wasn’t mine, that I never got to use. Not really interested in that.


So currently we’re going to look into doing that when I go back to Orlando, which we got mom’s ashs back yesterday, so I leave to go to South Carolina tomorrow…. All of the things… All at once… >.<;


Anyway, Zane called me yesterday and said that when I got into Orlando he wanted to get a written agreement drafted between us saying that I was going to transfer the car to him because through this whole situation he doesn’t trust me to not screw him over.


Pardon me while I sit here not giving a fuck because I have a marble urn full of my mom’s ashes sitting on my kitchen table.


That ended up being an hour long conversation with ups and downs. He’s the one who said I was broken. That I have been for a long time.


Every time he said it I got angry and replied with, “I’m not broken.”


“Ok,” a single word which held so much, “I don’t believe you but I’ll say ok so we don’t fight,” that it only made me angrier.


Broken people don’t make to-do lists and figure shit out, and go talk to lawyers about how to handle the estate and make budgets for the year to see what is possible and what isn’t. Broken people don’t switch over accounts so the apartment can be kept, and make rent arrangements. Broken people don’t research into car loans to see if they can be transferred to another person.


Broken people don’t spend days searching for a new sensei to continue with spiritual growth and healing. Broken people don’t spend days looking for tattoo reference material and additional days going to tattoo parlors looking for the “right” artist. They don’t go to the recruitment office for the military branches and talk about future plans and what needs to happen now, and what types of training / conditioning groups there are.


I’m NOT broken because I’ve done all of those things and more. I’m functioning. I’m not ok. And I know I’m not ok. I haven’t been ok for a while and I told you the whole time that I wasn’t. So don’t make it seem like it’s a shocker or news, because it’s not. But just because I’m not ok doesn’t give you the right to make me seem less than, or that it’s my fault that I’m the way I am.


I’m injured because of the events in my life, and I’ve been coping with the relationship side of it for longer than I should have. And now my mom is dead and I have that to contend with as well, not just our dysfunctional relationship.


It makes me realize how much I didn’t know myself. I thought I did, but if I truly did I don’t think I would feel so lost right now, so floaty and ungrounded.


Several people have written me amazing comments. I am strong, I am beautiful, smart, resourceful, independent. They have written adjectives about me, rather than nouns.


Being a teacher or a student or a companion does not define who I am. I was reminded of that fact the other day and it is something I have been chewing over inside of my head.


I may at one point have been those things, but those things are not me. I am still smart even if I’m not a teacher. I am still resourceful even if I am not a student. I am myself even if my life is going to be drastically different, and just because I am going in a different direction does not mean I am running away.


I feel confident in my choices regardless of what other people say about them. One, single person cannot take away my resolve or make me question myself. At least not for very long.


I don’t think of it as selfish. Selfish implies that I do not care about the emotions of those around me or those I affect. But I do. And it makes my choices that much harder when I know I am hurting someone else.