Writer’s Block.

Gosh, I can’t remember the last time I sat down and just.. wrote. In fact, I had to look back on my last post here (my blog) and the last time I wrote for myself was seven months ago. Wow. Just typing on the keyboard without having a due date or awaiting grading feels so good. 

I haven’t written much since I started nursing school this spring. My focus just.. shifted. I dropped a lot of things just to keep my eye on my success in school. It worked, but now that I’m at the end of my first semester, I realize that I really miss writing. It’s a whole other part of me that I’ve been neglecting. 

Last December, I almost lost my life to my truck. I was in constant pain, before and especially after the crash. Also, my little brother’s mom died. Then I was kicked out of school. Then I lost a lot of friends. A little heartache even. The list goes on. I used this blog, and writing, to help cope and begin healing from all of that. I’m still healing. 

Things didn’t start getting better for me until I went back to school. I decided that nursing was better than what I was doing at the time, which was as a CNA. My hip joints and back were constantly aching from the tendonitis in my iliopsoas (es). Now it turns out that I really enjoy what I get to do from nursing school. 

Since winter break has started, and with more time on my hands, the itch to write has been screaming at me. Which is what I created this blog for. It was to find my true voice and become comfortable with whatever it is that I have to say, which is actually a lot. Funny how in person I’m such a shy person for most. Oh how little do they know. 

I know some say that writer’s block isn’t a real thing because that said person might be lazy or just unmotivated. After this year, I would confidently say that is not true. I don’t consider myself either of those things, generally speaking. There were times during this semester that I really wanted to write, but it literally was this.. thing keeping me from just sitting down and writing. I never forgot writing either, it was still on my mind, just waiting all this time. 

As for the future, I hope I don’t go seven months without writing again. Whether it’s on here or on a book idea I’ve had for well over a year. My dream of becoming an author still awaits me. One dream coming true at a time. I hope I never stop. I know I have the potential, and the words, and stories, and emotions, all just sitting in my mind just waiting to be heard and known. What keeps me going is hope. As for writer’s block, I’ll plan to stay true to myself, no matter the circumstances.


Every girl in middle school wanted to be seen as popular like the cool kids, right? Or maybe it was elementary or highschool… I know I was one of them.

Everytime the newest smartphone came out, it was the popular thing to run to the store to blow your savings on it. If it wasn’t a new smartphone, it was the newest pair of shoes, clothes, and cars.

Sometimes it would seem like the highschool parking lot would be full of impalas and that jesus shoes ruled the halls.

It feels like only a select few had the courage to break the trends. Whether they wore sparkly cowboy boots to school or drove their dad’s purple mustang to school, they didn’t care about fitting in.

I was also one of those people. But I also didn’t want to be seen. Certainly that purple mustang caught attention. With so many eyes in the halls, I never had the confidence for self expression, so instead I made it my mission to go about unseen.

High School was some of my most miserable years because of this. I didn’t know who I was.

It wasn’t until after graduation that I finally started to find my identity. I had to get up, fall down, and get right back up again. I did this over and over for a while until I became true to myself and found some direction.

Now, I’m progressing with myself as a person, and I’m getting more and more content with that.

Thinking back, I wonder how many others are still just as miserable as I was. Trying to fit into society’s standards and pretending to be someone that they’re not. Not everyone has the bravery to stand up for themselves as they are.

What if that girl driving the same old impala dreamed of having a diesel instead? But maybe society said that trucks are for boys. What if that guy wearing yet another American Fighter T-Shirt wanted to wear leather jackets? But maybe society said that those are for low lives. What if your best friend wanted to stay in their comfy wear every day, and always looked like they just got out of bed? Would you judge them for what they wear? Or ask if something was the matter? Maybe they’re a bit like me and like to dress for comfort, or maybe an underlying depression finally caught up to them.

I know that I noticed my happiness increasing the less I cared about what others thought of me. I proudly drive foreign cars (Mazdas), wear whatever I want and whenever I want, got a sleeve tattoo at 19, and even made a blog to post about whatever is on my mind. Who knows, maybe I’m totally out of the box with these things, but it did come from four miserable years of observation in highschool hallways. It’s where the most drama is at.

Unfortunately, some people never outgrow the highschool drama. They always feel the need to have the newest everything, only to look and feel like just another member of society.

Why is it such a crime to be different in society? Not every tattoo maniac or colored person is out to hurt others. Someone who is gay, bisexual, or lesbian isn’t automatically going to attempt sexual assault.

What I’ve realized over time, is that we all just want to be accepted. I’m also proud of society for being more open to those who are different, and those who embrace it, as compared to the past. It’s like confidence is what’s popular now. So what if you’re a math nerd or play a saxophone better than anyone else? People might actually like you for who you are, and your talents along with it.

Think of how boring it would be if literally everyone looked and acted the same. I’m pretty sure this was something we were all told as kids.

I’ve heard many times over the years how school is like prison. I never really cared for that phrase, given that I’ve actually been in a prison. But, maybe it wasn’t just school that made one feel trapped. Maybe it was the confinements of civilization.


If anyone has watched a sunset recently, they’ll notice that this particular event has been occurring later in the day again. I’ve especially noticed this. 

This weekend, although stuck at work, I’ve been feeling the seasonal depression melting away. 

No other yearly event could make me happier. This is because, much like most outdoor creatures, everything comes back to life. 

The bright sun magically lifts my mood. The want to thrive, returns. My constantly wet shoes are proof that the snow is melting as the weather warms up. The ground, which has yet to wake, shows from beneath layers of cold. 

Ice melts from above bodies of water. 

My car is warmed up as it collects sunlight throughout the day.

Rivers fill. 

Plants turn green.

Animals awake. 

A brightness blindly fills the sky. 

Moods are lifted. 

Smiles are written across my face.

I’m feeling brought back to life, as I welcome spring from around the corner.  

Unrequited Love.

As any other night, I find myself distracting myself from my current life’s miseries with anything worthwhile on my phone. Tonight, that consisted of Dawson’s Creek, a TV show (currently on Netflix) that came out about two decades ago. For being a sucker for drama and romance, this show is right up that ally. In the midst of the third season, the girl falls for the main character’s best friend. How’s that for dramatic, huh? In some of those episodes, unrequited love becomes a very hot topic. In result, this gets me thinking. 

I just may or may not be dealing with unrequited love myself. I mean, let me just cut to the chase. My life turns upside down and I run to whatever distracts me from the inevitable turmoil. Of course this involves a boy, and frankly, I’ve been debating whether or not I wanted to write about it. But thank god I made a blog where I write about whatever I want. 

Sparing many of the intimate details, I’m stuck feeling like shit at the moment, and probably for a while, about giving into a few too many impulses. I love communicating through music. So if you’ve ever heard the song (or even just the chorus), “I found” by Amber Run, you just might know exactly how I feel. 

For the first time in a couple of years, after my last disaster of a relationship, I actually felt something for someone else. Even worse, I allowed it. If anyone really knows me, I don’t always have the healthiest of attachments. So I fell. And I fell fast, and hard. 

This person allowed me to enjoy things that I never had before. I started to believe in certain things that I thought were dead as burned ashes. Even the thought of them in the middle fo a work day would put a dumb smile on my face and I’d laugh. After my crash, I was brought back to life. And I allowed it.

I almost feel selfish for anything ever happening. Thinking that something, anything, in my life to feel right. To not crumble to the cold hard ground. 

I can’t help asking myself why would I allow those things to happen? I got so blinded that I didn’t see the hints towards what I’m currently sitting with. An unrequited love. The constant feeling of being unwanted. The feeling of not feeling good enough. Beating myself up, just like the night I had crashed my truck. That night, it’s like I knew what the unavoidable future would’ve been if I went down that road. 

After that crash, I didn’t want to be alive. Fighting with my mind, and PTSD, feeling like I should’ve died. God survivor’s guilt is an awful, awful thing. I was hurting so, so bad. I wasn’t me. Then that mysterious boy that he is, brought me on a trip. It was a trip to get away from all of the bullshit in life. God I wish I could go back. Or now at this moment in time, just forget it ever happened. But of course my feelings just kept growing. What can I say, I know what I want. Unfortunately, I still tend to be impatient even though I literally have a tattoo that tells me otherwise. I then came home after that trip feeling more like myself again. And god, this person was the best part of the worst year of my life. 

Now, without them, I struggle with these pushed off feelings from when I lost my truck, and now a bit of heartache. Not just any heartache. The same kind of heartache that I’ve only ever felt once before. Yet somehow, I keep thinking of the first occurrence, almost more than the one that I’m currently in. There’s just so much.. pain. I keep questioning, is any of this normal? Is it my PTSD? I’m so confused right now. Now, any good samaritan would tell me to focus on myself. Of course I’m trying to do that. It’s why I write on my blog in the first place. It’s why I’m finally writing about what’s on my mind. Exactly what I’ve been trying to avoid thinking about, but as anyone should know, bottling things up only makes things worse.

I have a really hard time not blaming myself for things I cannot control, and this is one of them. In both times of heartache, the other person just.. lost interest. Like a total personality flip. One person one minute, then something completely different the next, with no going back. I always end up asking, “What did I do wrong?”. 

“Am I really that bad?”

“Do I really deserve this?”

All faith in this generation, or maybe even society itself, is just lost. I curl up on my recliner, wearing my favorite robe, throwing on my Netflix, and shutting this cruel world away. I do have to say, I feel like I’m at the end of my rope. I’m afraid that I will decide to do something reckless in the matter of a split second. If I crash again, I’d hope that I won’t be around to live through the same pain as from the first one. If I resort to substances, my life’s sobriety would’ve been for nothing when it comes to learning anything from my father. 

Now, this particular person hasn’t necessarily done anything wrong. Things suddenly became abrupt and me being friendzoned. Or more accurately, pushed away. All I want to do is help. Be there. Do something. It’s not fair. But shit this world really does suck at times. Most of the time.

Now, what inspired me to write this rantful post is the fact that the past is always there to creep up on me and fuck shit up. So, I’m also thinking of my ex. What I not-so-long-ago had to go through. I mean, it sort of is the past repeating itself. 

I fell for a friend while that friend already had their own thoughts and feelings. I become anxious and antsy. I open up to them. I overthink things. They become ‘my whole world’ as all other things become seemingly irrelevant. I give myself to them. Things go great. One thing happens, then boom. All that dies down to nothingness and I’m left alone with nothing but more pain. 

Super healthy, right? Kidding. Not to point fingers, but I think growing up in a toxic family household has something to do with it. I’ve never seen a healthy relationship from up close. Maybe I’m too intense. Too difficult. Undesirable.

I’ve been going back and forth about writing about this, but I think for my sake, it needed to be put down. That’s something fairly new that I know means taking steps in the right direction: putting me first. Saying fuck it. Taking care of myself. Focusing on me. Getting it all out there. But damn is it lonely. Sparing me the cheap optimism, I know that I need to give myself time. Earn some more self respect. Let myself feel the pain, get over it, learn from it, and move on. That’s the goal. It’s a definite change of pace. I know I might not be perfect, but I’m willing to change. To better myself. And most of all, be able to live with myself and learn to love myself. 

Amber Run – I Found Lyrics | Genius Lyrics

Unforgettable Teacher

If you’ve read any, or most, of my other posts, you’d probably know by now that I really didn’t like high school. To me it always felt like a lie when people would tell me that high school was going to be the best four years of my life. College is starting to feel the same way, but for an entirely different reason. 

Anyways, I struggled a lot in those years. From my dad going into prison, to having not one but two hip surgeries, working two jobs to support myself, paying my own bills, and of course heartbreak, all left a pretty huge mark on me. Back then, I didn’t always write to cope with my everyday or traumatic struggles. 

One of my favorite English teachers retired after only being her student for a year. By the next year, we’ll call her, Mrs. K, began teaching at my school. I also only had her for a year before she left. 

Mrs. K wasn’t liked among my class at first. I had Writer’s Workshop for the first semester. Inevitably, we had to write a lot, and of course most kids don’t like being forced to write. Then of course there’s me. I embraced the new things that she was teaching us and made sure to put in an effort on my assignments. We wrote every week, which I loved. Because of her and what we were assigned to do, Writer’s Workshop was my favorite class of my entire highschool career. It was most enjoyable. 

Writer’s Workshop changed to American Literature for the second semester. Things changed up but I still loved to write. We all focused on the very population that I’ve always been jealous of: well known authors. Sure, we read some great books, but by the end of this semester, I’d been a changed writer. 

Mrs. K gave me the tools that I needed to realize my talent back then, and how to use them confidently. I still use those tools to this day. 

As I said, unfortunately, my school only had her for a year. Ironically, by then the entire school was sad to see her go. That’s because everyone finally gave into some decent educational discipline and came to appreciate what we were so lucky to have, which was a damn good teacher.

It’s been a few years since I’ve seen Mrs. K, and I still think of her often. I mostly think of her when I’m reflecting on writing or trying to figure out what to write. I’ve thought about what I would say to her if I ever had the chance to talk to her again. 

Out of all the people that I interacted with in highschool, she was one of the few that could see through to the quiet kid sitting in the corner of class with her earbuds in. That’s because I learned how to put self expression and writing together. I learned how to cope better with writing. I learned how to write a respectable piece. Most of all, I was blessed to have learned from her. 

I decided to write about Mrs. K, because for the first time in years, I had that chance to talk to her. Funny enough, I was walking through Walmart with one of my good friends when I saw her and her family in one of the aisles. But Oh God. Leave it up to me to totally make shit awkward. 

My buddy notices me stopping abruptly and staring wide eyed at him. He doesn’t know what the hell I just saw and I’m left speechless. So we are literally standing right around the corner of this important lady, who I haven’t seen in years, and standing there like ding dongs. To make the situation even better, I go from staring from my friend, to leaning over to her, then to him, her, and so on. God Jazmin. That’s definitely socially awkward at it’s finest. Like holy shit. 

I’m actually laughing my ass off as I’m writing this and reflecting on my flakiness. 

I’m just about to ditch the idea of saying hi to my old English teacher when my good friend urges me to overcome my newfound nervousness. As I walk up to her, she immediately recognizes me. Jesus she must’ve thought I was a stalker. Of course we immediately engage in small talk, which isn’t important to why I decided to write a post on this. 

Leaving Walmart, my buddy is laughing his ass off at how nervous I was and the fact that I struggled so hard to open up to her. To be fair, I was eventually laughing too. I knew what I would’ve wanted to say to someone I haven’t seen in years, but that’s when the realization hit. 

Before I knew how to express myself through writing, I had a hard time remembering how I truly did, other than hiding myself away. I have such a hard time speaking to others face to face sometimes, which are usually strangers or those who I haven’t seen in years, that I just shut down. I lose interest in talking and somewhat resort to my own little bubble. But when I write, it doesn’t matter what I’m thinking or saying or who I’m writing to. It’s my thing. My one thing that I know I’m good at and that I enjoy doing. 

Now when I am thinking of it, I wonder where I might be in my writing if Mrs. K never was my teacher. Would I be this confident? Would I be this open with my words? Would I even be writing this blog? Of course I’ll probably never know, but it’s one of many things that I like to think about. 

In the end, I’m proud of where I’m at with my writing. I’m still eternally grateful for such a remarkable teacher. And given the kind of conversation that we did have, I’m glad my good friend and I were in Walmart, and that he helped me say hi. As more of a side note, maybe high school wasn’t so bad, but then again, I’d never want to go back. Good or bad, or both, I’d say high school was quite.. Unforgettable.

18 Motivational Quotes To Bring Out The Writer In You. | by Roshane De  Silva | The Writing Cooperative

The Greatest Song Ever.

I’m sitting in my designated writing spot and opening the Pandora app on my phone when it begins to play “Get Up” by my favorite band, Shinedown. It just so happens that I was thinking of what to write about. Well, this just gave me my answer. With all of the writing that I have been doing recently, I figured it was time to talk about my guys.
In case you don’t know about Shinedown, I’ll lay it out for you. They are a modern rock band that formed back in 2001, which is ironically the year that I was born. There are currently four members which consists of Brent (lead singer and songwriter), Zach (guitarist), Eric (bassist), and Barry (drummer). Brent and Barry are the only original members of the band, but that’s hardly important. In fact, it was shortly after Zach and Eric joined that the band started to change their toxic lifestyle (obviously to something better) and began to gain some popularity.
It was their first album made together (as the current four members) that was really special. Now, I think ALL of their music is amazing. I can’t say that I dislike a single song. I like both the ‘old’ and ‘new’ Shinedown. It was the album, “The Sound of Madness” that holds something truly remarkable in my eyes. They have the songs, “Second Chance”, which is a really heartfelt and popular song about Brent’s will to follow his dreams and others like “If You Only Knew” which was written when Brent found out that he was going to be a father.
But, of all songs that the band has composed, “The Crow and The Butterfly” is my favorite. This song was written from a dream that Brent had while the band was making the album. It is about a mother who loses her child and is learning to cope and eventually move on. What I love in this song is the symbolism, especially of the Crow and the Butterfly. The message is ultimately about life and death. Death, as the Crow, is always chasing life, as the Butterfly. So, in the song, the death of the mother’s son is what keeps holding her back from being free and moving on.
I like to consider myself as a very early fan of Shinedown. I remember “I Dare You” and “Second Chance” the most from early on, this is also thanks to my dad. He always loved rock music. It wasn’t until years later between Spotify and the radio, that I truly discovered them right around the time that their 5th album, “Threat to Survival” came out. For years, I’ve been watching them grow. This includes Youtube. I followed them when they were just shy of 200k followers, and now I see that they have well over a million. Wow. God I’m so proud of them.
I remember the first time that I heard my song, and yes I am referring to “The Crow and The Butterfly”. I sometimes like to think that song was made for me. I’ve personally experienced much loss in my short 19 years of life. Anyways, it quite literally was love at first sight. I was just getting to know more of their music when I came across the music video. I, no joke, was in tears and had chills down my spine when I heard it for the first time. God it was so beautiful. No other song has been able to have that kind of effect on me. It instantly became my favorite song. To this day, I still tend to have the same reaction when I hear it, and its status of favoritism hasn’t changed.
I’ve loved this song, and Shinedown, for years. Long before I even knew it, but especially since my early years of adolescence. It has gotten my through a lot and quite frankly, has saved my life. It has stopped me from making mistakes or doing something stupid. It has pulled me through the lowest points of my life. Most of all, I have also celebrated my happiest times of my life to it. When this song brings tears to my eyes, they are filled with all sorts of emotion, from sad to happy. When I’m feeling down and overwhelmed, it’s like the lullaby that I listen to that brings me back to contentment. When I’m angry, it calms and keeps me grounded. When I’m happy, it moves right with me.
Now, for those who have seen my tattoos, yes, my entire arm holds the meaning of this song. It has the Crow. It has the Butterfly. It also has the dandelions and the chorus and the cover of the very album on it. I’ve asked myself the same question countless times over the years. Yes, I have waited years for this tattoo, in fact, it’s the first one that I ever wanted. They say don’t meet your heroes or you’ll be disappointed. Well. I met them (only 3 of the 4, for good reason), and I certainly wasn’t disappointed. They were so humble and compassionate. I’ve seen them perform more than once and have been impressed every time. I’ve put so much thought into my tattoos, so it wasn’t even close to an impulsive decision. When I sat down and got inked, I knew that I was ready and honored to have these tattoos.
Shinedown has been there when I needed something, anything. When I was, and am, separated from my dad, their music offered the comfort and strength that I needed to keep fighting for him. Brent’s voice and words have, ironically, had the same effect on me as my dad’s words. That’s maybe why I have them on the same arm. They are both optimistic people despite the circumstances that they have had to live through. They have the power to inspire and motivate me to do great things. They both have been my biggest idols in my life.
I could keep going with this because my love for these guys and their music is just endless. Some of it is simply indescribable. But it is three in the morning and I think I’ve made a very clear point. I love Shinedown. I love their music. More than anyone will really know. Now, I know that everyone has their own personal favorites and won’t all say that Shinedown is awesome. And that’s okay. But for tonight, I simply wanted to express my gratitude towards the greatest song ever, by the best band ever, in my book.

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PS. This last picture doesn’t have all of my latest ink, rather it was only used to show the other part of my Shinedown tattoo 🙂


I was never really a social butterfly and this especially counts for highschool. For as long as I can remember, I’ve always had my own personal ticks and didn’t hang around the big group of popular kids. In fact, I seemed to have always strived off of being different. 

This post is inspired by my now many tattoos, or in other words, my sleeve in progress. When I started this blog, I only had the one tattoo which was dedicated to my father. My entire arm is almost completely covered now. Since adding more ink to my body, I’ve noticed some things:

  1. I’m more confident within myself. I feel that I can express myself without having to feel like screaming at other people. I personally believe that tattoos are a beautiful way of expressing one’s self. It is also a reminder and reflection of who I truly am. So yes, when I’m old and becoming senile, my tattoos will become wrinkly with me but will tell my story. 
  2. I’ve gotten much support in doing what I love. Mostly everyone that I know has either complimented and/or genuinely expressed excitement for me. Many times I’ve already been asked about what my next tattoo plans are.
  3. A certain few have proved to me that part of society still kinda sucks. I’ve been asked,”Why would you cover your arm in that?” or “You won’t even be able to see what the tattoo says.” (In regards to the lettering in my tattoos.) A couple has already told me that I’m going to Hell.  Not to be stereotypical, but these people have generally been older and without tattoos. I’d assume that they go to church on Sundays. I’m not personally religious. 

When thinking about myself now, as compared to just a couple of years ago, I’d have to say that I’m proud. See, what those people don’t know is that I was just born to have tattoos. Both of my parents have tattoos as does many more in my family. I waited years for these tattoos. To put this in a cheesy manner, they have already saved my life. 

This brings me to my next point. If I had just gotten out of high school, I’d be too afraid to have this much ink because of what other people might think. During those miserable adolescent years, I was afraid to be myself. I was afraid to wear certain clothes, speak at certain times, and ultimately: self expression. I was more worried about people respecting and accepting me rather than focusing on my own happiness. In the end, I got neither in those years. 

Now, I do understand that my personality and mental disorders play a role in all of this. Yes, I am clinically diagnosed to be obsessive at times or that I unintentionally pick at my own skin. I get triggered by the past very easily and I’m super depressed for half of the year. It certainly has taken much time and effort to manage these things, but it’s a part of who I am. Rather than calling things obsessive, I like to think of it as passionately interested. Yes I carry a pair of nail clippers around with me to control the skin picking. I do not hold things in when something is bugging me, even if it was something that happened over a decade ago. When the temperature is the coldest, and I’m at my lowest, I turn to things I love, such as writing. 

I’ve been self conscious of my mental health many times in the past but I refuse to let that bring me down. Unfortunately, what most people don’t realize, is that even though I have to live with these disorders for the rest of my life, it doesn’t mean that I’m any less of a person. In fact, I think it’s entirely the opposite way around. These sorts of things make people similar to me very unique. We all have our own strengths (disorders or not). It’s the socially awkward kids that write best selling novels and the science nerds that become doctors who find cures and the band geeks that later play for thousands while upstage.

From my current understanding, it’s the small minds that I was afraid of. They are constantly there and watching your every move like there’s no escape from it. It’s like they are too fixated on you, rather than their own business. I used to be afraid of not being respected and/or accepted by small minds. I don’t think I’ve seen too many of those kinds of people doing great and outstanding things.

I might have not been to every highschool party or kept up with the most popular or newest clothing trends, but I know that despite how hard some of those times have been, I never lost myself. In fact, I have about 19, almost 20, years worth of shit to write about that has been bottled up for so long.

If you don’t believe me, then let me tell you this. As a kid, instead of playing tag (most days) on the playground after school, I would collect notebooks and write (and illustrate) my own short stories. In middle school, I would download writing apps that would allow me to compose my own book, right off of my ipad. I would also write many letters to my father during that time. In highschool, I used writing as a coping method and outlet. Since then, it has become my ultimate passion.

In conclusion, I’m proud of myself for overcoming my fear of judgement and getting tattooed. Or starting my blog. Or talking about my mental health. So on and so forth. I’m not here to dis anyone rather than to support whoever needs that extra kick to get up and do something they love. Small minds will always be there anyways, so why not paint that picture or sing that song? For me, writing is right where it’s at. So I am planning for one hell of a story. If it weren’t for my fear of judgement, I would’ve opened up with my passions many moons ago. 

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Feeling Stuck In Place

I’m casually scrolling through social media, as I usually do, in the midst of boredom after a particularly long night at work. That’s when I come across what seems to be post after post of love birds exploring and celebrating their youth. I even think of that goofy meme where there’s a group of couples posing for the picture, and there’s that one oddball downing some alcohol, who is clearly single. I suddenly feel like that oddball. I’m caught facing the same repeated thought that has been circling my mind for well over a year: What am I doing? 

I’m constantly told that I have a bright future and that I will do amazing things. I often wonder to myself, when will people stop telling me that? After I’ve proved them wrong by taking the wrong path in life? Does this include having the life of the average Joe? So I land a stable job, buy a house, get married and have kids. Or on the contrary, I may or may not breed but could turn to substance abuse and self-degradation. Honestly, neither really sounds all that interesting to me. Don’t get me wrong, I’d love to have my own property and maybe find a special someone. But if you or anyone knows me, I’ve always been different from everyone else, and I thrive off of that. So, whatever it is I decide to do, my God I hope it’s exactly that. 

So trust me, I want to believe some of those people, really damn bad. But it’s hard to believe it when one has just experienced the things I have. Click the button below in case you (reader) are not aware of my more recent struggles in life.

I’m of course jealous of how happy and free these people seem to be as I begin to compare myself to them. So many of my old classmates moved away and found new love. I’m still in the same small town that I grew up in. Some of those couples have even engaged or got married. Holy Shit. I’m so far away from that. Some made many new friends as my social life struggles from past experiences. Frankly, I’ve never been a social butterfly, but I have yet to make some really good friends after my last toxic relationship. Speaking of, I’ve been single for my entire ‘adult’ life. Like, wow. I work a job that I have no passion for. Schooling is a mere joke at the moment, at least until I get some shit together again. All in all, I don’t feel that I have much to show for myself. 

So far, it shows that I’ve done nothing but allow myself to lead a life as a typical Joe having a midlife crisis. The sad part is that I’m not even 20 years old yet. Am I just wasting my youth away? 

I’d like to add that this pandemic really hasn’t helped anyone. 

So, the question is, what am I going to do about this? 

Gosh I’d love to do something I love across the country. Especially where it’s warm. So why not? What is really stopping me? 

I want to be around to see my father’s face again. I want a real chance to be there for my littlest brother. 

I love you, Stinker. 

The thoughts and feelings all conflict with one another that I constantly come to a blank. Nothing new happens. Well, what the hell. 

At the time being, I can’t see either of them, so maybe it’s time to say fuck it and find something new to write about, which brings me to my next statement. 

What do I want to do? 

Many things in fact. I have so many interests that it’s hard to choose which one to start with. From my heart, I’m speaking on behalf of my truest and deepest passions. 

I want to write a book. Many in fact. I love to write so much in fact that it is one of my deepest passions. It is something that transformed from just a coping method to what I’m determined to have as my life’s work. I want to draw and paint like I used to, so that one day I can turn beautiful pictures and art into a tattoo. I want my own business, and a tattoo shop comes right into mind. I want to teach line dancing, and maybe all sorts of dancing, in my own studio or venue. I want to promote health and fitness, whether it’s opening my own gym or creating and editing videos to post online for others to follow. I want to own a tree farm or orchard, so that I can allow myself and others to enjoy nature. I want to invest into real estate so that I can rent to those in need of a home, just like me throughout my life. I want to work in orthopedics so that I have more understanding in helping myself and others all while feeding into the fascination. I want to have my own hobby farm, where I can learn how to ride horses again, to share my teachings and go for trail rides in the forest. 

The list goes on. That is what I want to do. Starting is simply the hard part. I started writing these articles on this blog page in order to put towards my first book. A very idea that has been formulating in my head for months and really just shy of a year. Me writing right here, in my favorite chair in the house that I rent in my small town, is my start. 

I was reborn when I graduated highschool and therefore had to rediscover myself. 

My hope is to follow those dreams, or really any dream that I might have, with nothing short of dignity and passion. 

I’m going to follow my father’s advice with this one and take my time. I might not be jumping into a new relationship or leaving the state by tomorrow, but I’m still going to try my best to do what feels right. 

I was certainly antsy about all of those initial thoughts at the beginning of this post, but as I’m writing, I come back to who I really am and what’s really important to me. I might not look like much, but I’m grateful for what I do still have. And maybe some of those people were right, I think I really am going places. 

How low does rock bottom really go?

After totaling my beautiful truck and almost loosing my life last month, I would say that I’m at rock bottom. This isn’t even the tip of the ice berg. I had to fix my car’s tranny, do online schooling during the middle of a pandemic, got deathly ill from the very infamous virus, lost someone close to me, custody battles, hip injections that go terribly wrong, and then crashing my truck. A few weeks later, I also got a letter saying that I was kicked out of school, and able to reapply after some time. This doesn’t even begin to count for the debt I’m facing.

That is really the majority of it in a nutshell. After crashing the truck, I was miserable for the first week afterwards. I wished I was dead. To make things complicated, one of my friends becomes a new love interest which therefore distracts me. Unfortunately this very particular person has their own shit to work through.

Fast-forwarding to now, a month or so later, it turns out that this newly-found love interest isn’t exactly in the books at the moment. I’m left with these feelings of dread all over again. Lesson learned, ignoring or running away from your problems don’t make them go away.

A little heartbreak doesn’t exactly help the situation either.

Now, I haven’t exactly been able to sleep well since my crash. Everyday I feel like a walking zombie from just experiencing repeated nightmares the night, or I really should say early morning, before. It is constant torture. As someone with PTSD, I DO NOT handle trauma and extreme stress well. Might I add that my insurance doesn’t cover counseling, so that’s on standby.. I’m constantly waking up and feeling the suddenly brunt impact all over again. Or how terrified I was of the entire thing blowing up while being wedged underneath the overpass. I won’t even mention how truly terrible my driving has been, other than the fact that I shouldn’t be driving at all. Frankly, I don’t have a choice. Sometimes I really feel like I should’ve died on December 5th, 2020.

As I lay on my side in the bathtub, under a warm shower, tonight I am staring at a watery reflection yet again. There’s something about all of your life’s problems coming to mind while bathing that I don’t get. But it feels nice. It’s a peaceful moment in all of the chaos that we live in. There’s nothing else but you, your thoughts, and the warm water enveloping you.about:blankREPORT THIS AD

Of course my mind goes to the latest drama, which are the wonderful memories shared with this certain person, who had the power to (temporarily) take some of my pain away. I wonder, what the actual fuck? What the hell happened? To those memories, or to my life? How did I get this fucking low so early in life?

Not only do I feel like I should have normal working hip joints and a truck that still exists, but also having a normal college experience. What fucking world we live in. Jesus.

I know I can’t be the only one sick of this shit.

Anyways, as I sit here thinking, I’m wondering how far down rock bottom really goes. You’d think that it gets a little bit lower every time you visit (because that’s why it’s called bottom, right?). When someone gets so low in their life, that’s usually when they turn to something to ultimately numb the pain. It doesn’t surprise me why there are so many people out there who struggle with sobriety.

I’ve been 100% sober, in all substances (alcohol, weed, drugs, etc.) my entire life. Yes, I’m proud of it, but that’s honestly because I’ve been too damn traumatized to even think about wanting to touch any of it. So I live with the stress and the pain.

I’m afraid of how much lower my own rock bottom will go. Mind you, I have untreated PTSD at the moment. It’s scary. That’s why I’m writing about all of this, it helps me cope and my hope is that it will impact someone else, too, and in a positive way.

But I haven’t been wearing my seatbelt in the thoughts that if I do happen to crash again, that will be it for me. I really can’t handle anymore. This doesn’t mean that I’m deliberately getting into my car to drive recklessly. I haven’t been able to sleep decently in ages. I stopped eating regularly and actually it’s just enough to get me through work and the day without passing out. I’ve thought about self harm again, but no action has been made. I constantly think of death. Such a dark place..

I’m told it will get better, but I’m sure that it will get worse before that happens. I just don’t know how much more I can take. I’m trying to stay strong, I really am. I know that this isn’t me. I want to be there for my family. My little brother, Stinker. I want to see my dad again. I want to line dance again.about:blankREPORT THIS AD

Personally, I think we all need to stop living in fear.

For a while, it feels like I’ve been drowning. I need a breath of real and fresh air, especially without some stupid mask.

My hope is that despite how dark rock bottom is, that the light at the end of the tunnel really is what it will be like when I finally come back up to the surface.

I miss you Kim, but it turns out that I won’t be seeing you up there quite yet. Someday though, when it’s time. I love you.

Part of Who I Am.

I’m suddenly feeling very inspired and influenced again after watching Netflix halfway through the night. The particular film that had this affect on me is called, “The Lost Husband”. My own interpretation and summary of this movie is that this mother of two loses her husband from in the city, and moves out to the country. It has a very Hallmarkish feel to it because then of course she realizes that she’s happier living on this farm with her kids and falls in love again. It also turns out that this is where her roots came from.

I couldn’t help but to think of myself in this very moment of my life. I also recently discovered why I like to listen to all sorts of music. I grew up on all sorts of genres, which was mostly pop, rock, and country. I concluded that I listen to pop to feel good, rap to numb myself, rock to feel more (usually pain wise), and country to believe in more.

I’m going to focus on the country style. I go through “phases” between genres of music and ultimately ways of life. It’s been a while since I’ve sat down and enjoyed a country love song or even line danced, for good reasons. But I haven’t wanted to believe. In love, happiness, or peace. To put it simply, I’ve been in a dark place. Can you really blame me after almost dying twice? That might be a little dramatic but it was possible. Click the link below in case you are wondering what’s going on. Anyways, this movie made me remember a huge part of me that has yet again been put into the dark.

Lately, I’d been wanting to feel numb and if I wasn’t, I was probably completely loosing my shit to a damn good guitar solo.

In public school, I struggled with my identity. Not only are you pressured to know what you want to do for your life, but I had a hard time knowing who I was even in that point in my life. I knew I could wear a pair of cowgirl boots pretty well but could also rock the hell out of a band T-shirt. With being judged on every move I made, I showed myself off as nothing, really. I wore a lot of sweatshirts and leggings. I always felt the need to hide myself around everyone. Living past high school and on my own, I’ve come to accept myself as all of them. It just turns out that I have very diverse roots.

Thinking of this country side of me, I think a lot about grandma’s house and the happier parts of my childhood. I thought about how much I missed it. My childhood was abused and ripped away from me at an early age. I had to experience a lot of things that most children don’t go through, so I grew up pretty quickly, and harshly.

I missed grandma and grandpa’s house. I missed taking rides on the four wheelers and chasing Sammy (the family dog) around the back yard. I loved swimming in lakes and having bonfires. I missed big family gatherings, watching grandma’s line dancing, getting chased by the mean white rooster, climbing up the creaky and fairly dangerous attic in the barn, and most importantly, the horses. God I loved the horses. I miss riding horses so damn much.

After living through many of the traumatic and negatives things in my life, I’ve grown up knowing that my ultimate goal for myself is to learn to live in peace. In peace with what happened in the past, everything in the present and anything for the future. When I’m lucky enough to relive the things that I was blessed to experience as a kid, I’m at peace. I’m happy. I’m so god damn happy.

When I get to play pool to the good tunes of a juke box, go fishing, or dance with grandma, I get to be a kid again. When I think of my childhood, I often think of it as something that is long dead and gone. But these little things are what bring it back to life. It’s an extremely warm and comforting feeling for me. I’m surely determined to bring it back. That is what makes me happy and at peace.

If I ever had a family, I’d want my own children to experience more of what I did. I’d want to teach them how to fish, ride horse, and dance. Dancing only brightens life. Fishing always brought so much excitement. Riding horse has this indescribably happy feeling that always leaves you wanting more. I’d want to see horses at grandma’s house again. I’d want to grow a garden bigger than hers and drive the four wheelers on the trails, just like how she and grandpa did. I’d even have my own chickens. I actually really love chickens.

I miss that. I miss that part of me, the happier and peaceful me.

So, for the time being, I’m going to listen to some good old Alabama and maybe some Bellamy Brothers and be thankful for having this part of myself. To have lived through those blessings despite hardship after hardship as a child.

It’s a part of who I am.

Yellow Lights

I love music, as I’m sure anyone else does too. I’m sure we all have our own thoughts, feelings and reasons towards the subject. For this post, which I’ve been formulating in my mind for a good week now, I want to discuss exactly what music means to me. As for anyone, or most civilized people, music is what we often turn to, whether it’s for comfort, a distraction, or expression. This certainly includes me. 

Anyone that knows me knows I love to drive. Rather than opening a cold one or taking a step outside every so often, I get behind the wheel to relax and set myself straight. My driver seat is my place of comfort. No one is around to judge or complain about my occasionally questionable singing or somewhat lazy driving. It’s my favorite place to sing along to a great tune or to cry and totally lose my shit in. It’s where I go to set my heart and thoughts straight. I’ve made major life decisions while cruising down some old back road. My inspiration thrives to a good tune and fun driving. Personally, it’s where my biggest dreams stay alive. 

My car, specifically, is where most of my enjoyment comes from. I used to love driving my truck as well, but then I crashed it and almost died, so I’m not going to go there. What I love about my car, however, is the ride you get out of it. Cars like mine are known to offer a great cruising experience or according to an article I once read,”These cars are not for everyone. They were made for the driving enthusiast.” Like, wow that is so me. My little car, despite creeping up to 200,000 miles, still has the same responsiveness as when I first bought it, over 60,000 miles ago. It is an automatic with the option of sport mode. I love being interactive with my vehicle, it just makes it more fun. I love to hear the slight purr of my engine every once in a while as I’m shifting up to speed. I love the tightened steering and smoothness of riding low to the ground that allows me to zip up and around curves and corners. Frankly, I could keep going but I’m sure you get the picture. 

My life without music would be just short of emotionless. Would meaningless be too dramatic? I mean of course I have friends and family to think about, but this is one of the few things in my darker days that keeps me moving forward. When I want to remember something, I like to be playing a certain song. It’s like the certain smell or taste of a certain food that brings you back. Such as sucking the last bit of juice out of a melting popsicle during 4th of July fireworks or that one time you felt like you almost died at a party from drinking too much Fireball. Catch my drift? It’s that same thing for me. 

When “The Monster” by Eminem and Rihanna or “Counting Stars” by OneRepublic comes on the radio, I attempt my best at turning the station before flashbacks of my dad’s smashed up face pop up. I can’t help thinking about the night I was first dumped (and utterly heartbroken) when “Lights Down Low” by Maxx hits my playlist. There are good memories to songs as well too. When I play my all time favorite song, “The Crow and The Butterfly” by Shinedown, I usually think of the first time I heard it. I was just discovering Shinedown (after hearing only a few of their songs during my childhood) when I came across the music video on Youtube. I was curious about it, and I swear to you, I teared up just from how beautiful that song was. To this day, years later, it is one of the few songs that can bring goosebumps to my arms and chills down my spine. It’s partially why I had this song tattooed up and down my entire left arm. So yes, and seriously, I love this song and it makes me very happy.

Now you’re maybe wondering where the name of this post came from. All is about to add up. It was one night, about a week ago, when I was on my way home. I was just leaving the house of my new love interest in Eau Claire. After recently being at the lowest point of my life, this very person shed some much needed light onto me. With that, things couldn’t have gone better and while heading home, I was obviously in a good mood but that is not the entire point of this post. I was listening to a song that somehow just kept giving me an earworm that day. It had a good and positive feel to it, so that is what was playing when I found myself eastbound on North Crossing. Right at the chorus, and ultimately the most powerful part of the song, was when I just started to cross the bridge over the Chippewa River. It was late so the road was vacant and the bright moon was shining down onto the pitch black water, giving it the image of gray and calm waves. There was a peacefulness in the quiet of the night. Beautiful. Looking ahead, the road had a golden glow, where the old fashioned street lamps would emit illumination from above. The stillness and beauty of the sleeping city left me feeling like I was in a movie. It really was just me, my lovely little car, the music, and the yellow lights. Nothing else in the world mattered at that moment in time. That is what made it so special. That combination of simplicities had the unspoken power to temporarily melt my worries away. I hadn’t felt that.. Alive.. in so long. I was so happy to be human in that moment in time. 

Whenever I hear the song “Somebody” by Chainsmokers and Drew Love, I love to think about the yellow lights. I’m put back into that heartwarming moment, and I’d smile.

Nighttime on the river | Photo, My photos, Pictures

Lowest Low

As I finish watching Netflix’s new movie,”After We Collided”, I felt the urge to write again (but maybe in a different style than I’m used to). Of course, if anyone has watched the movie (or series) they would know that you’re riding one hell of an emotional roller coaster in the romance series. 

After sitting through the feels, I decided to pick up my computer for the first time since bombing my college classes beyond repair. Can you really blame me? Trying to do online schooling during a global pandemic isn’t exactly ideal. I can confidently say that Covid fucked up my college experience. I haven’t even started expressing everything else turning my life upside down. (This would also explain my absense of writing..) 

It started with my 2006 Mazda 6 (aka Brandy) blowing its tranny and therefore being without a vehicle for a good chunk of time. It wasn’t long before I bought a 2007 Silverado 1500. I had one hell of a deal on it so I couldn’t possibly turn it down. I also fixed the tranny. After a couple of weeks, and within the same week, my little brother’s mom (who I’ve known for ages) goes to the hospital fighting for her life and I get deathly ill of Covid. These unfortunate occurrences did not have any correlation with each other. My little brother is just about parentless and court battles are being mentioned. I’m out of work for weeks and I live on my own, meaning that I pay my own bills. Shit just keeps stacking up. Tensions are high among family. Kim did eventually die after suffering for weeks in the hospital. I say fuck it and begin getting my next tattoo, which has played an important role in keeping me moving forward. I finally return to work when a couple of weeks later, I have steroid injections for the iliopsoas tendons in both of my hip joints. This leads to the worst panic attack of my entire existence (PTSD did play a role in the attack) which irritated my joints more. As if I couldn’t get a break, right? Oh, you just wait. 

Here is where shit gets interesting. This is where I wanted to start writing, until I realized that I needed to catch you up on every fucked up thing that has happened the last couple of months. Now that I have you in the know, remember when I mentioned PTSD? Yes I have that disorder and yes please keep this in mind for what I’m about to tell you. 

I’m going to introduce one of my best friends and we’ll call him “S” so that no one really needs to know exactly who I’m talking about. Please don’t try to be nosey, it doesn’t really help anyone. He helped me throughout the day of the injections. I’ll start with being excited about him picking me up that day (he also just got his snazzy car back from getting fixed after sitting a while). I was more looking forward to getting to talk with and see him after a minute rather than getting stabbed in my hips. He had just moved back home.

After arriving to the surgical hospital, he leaves for home (thanks to Covid, no visitors were allowed, and he was close by) to wait until I was done. The nurses begin helping me prep as if I actually was getting ready for surgery. I guess everyone preps the same, regardless of the kind of procedure. I really felt like I was put back into time when I had my two hip surgeries at 15 years old. The past was heavy on my mind. My nerves were gradually getting more on edge. I attempt to listen to the song,”The Crow and The Butterfly” in trying to calm my nerves, but was abruptly interupted with people prepping me and therefore bringing me to an OR room. 

My phone, which was playing the music, was taken away. It all looked too familiar. The X-ray screens and the cold metal table that I’d have to lay so unomfortably on. I’m trying to BS with the nurses as they finish prepping which do little to no good. I’m tense and cold and partially naked in front of strangers. The first injection takes me by surprise. The numbing medicine burned and I could feel a piercing sharpness throughout my tendon, as if I could suddenly pinpoint exactly where that tendon was in my joint. I bite back a scream and wince in utter pain. Holy shit this hurt. I even tried to sing “The Crow and The Butterfly” to help ease the torment, which fell short in effectiveness. For some reason it felt like I was being stabbed several times over and over in the same exact spot. A spot where I had so much pain just several years before. It all felt too familiar. Before I knew it, I’m thinking of my Arthrogram that I had years ago. Until this very moment, that was the most painful day of my life. The process was so similar. Instead of steroids, back then they had to use contrast. The doctor then began for my left hip, which was also my more painful hip. 

Tears were running down my face at the alarming rate in which I hardly felt. My body so tense that moving was forbidden. Sobs escape from my chest and up through my throat. Sobs that beg for the pain to just stop. These were the kind of sobs that I only escape in the comforts of my car during my darker days. 

I’m being wheeled back to my room when the symptoms begin. I could suddenly hear everything going on in the hospital 100x louder. The room felt uneasy. My tounge felt weird and an iron taste lingered. All goes to hell from here. Before I know it, 15 people are surrounding me and I’m out of control. I’m screaming and kicking while people are trying to restrain me and someone is trying to put an O2 mask on me. Several attempts for an IV were made until the third placement finally sedated me after a good half hour (or more) of pure attack. A stress induced panic attack. The first attack I’ve had in a long ass time. 

I’m happy and relieved to see S’s car pulled up at the entrance when being discharged. He is helpful in getting me settled into the car for the ride home. I’m dead tired. He helps me limp into the house. I make my place on the couch and he puts a movie on Netflix. “The Devil All The Time” to be specific. It’s a different kind of movie but one definitely worth watching. He stays to watch with me. It’s during this movie that the realization slaps me in the face. I’m drugged up and drained but I feel this more than anything good that I’ve felt in a long time. I’m into him. And not just ‘into’ because this has only happened once before. I’ve completely fallen for him. He’s always been there when I needed and never really let me down. He’s kinder and more understanding than anyone else I’ve connected with. 

Well shit. I’m laying there somewhat immobilized with these thoughts as we watch people die and shit. You’d have to watch the movie to understand. We finish off the night and we hug. S leaves before Anthony (my now ex roommate and ex friend) got home from work. I couldn’t stop thinking of him that night. Or that movie. 

I’m going completely stir crazy the entire next day. I have these newly found thoughts and feelings while being unable to escape my own mind. I don’t know what to do about it. My ex, who we will call “G”, starts to invade my mind. I usually drive to clear my thoughts. The discharge paperwork says to wait 24 hours before driving, without really going into many details. It’s just before midnight that I decide to go for a drive. 

I took my new truck out on the road because I missed it from driving my car a lot after getting it back. Plus it was easier to climb into my truck rather than bending down into my little car. So many thoughts are racing in circles in my mind. I like S a lot but I don’t want history to repeat itself like it did with G. I’m beating myself up over these repeating feelings so much that the nearby small towns weren’t far enough from home. I wanted to escape. I found myself in Eau Claire when my mind goes overboard. I’m thinking of Kim and how much I miss her. I miss my dad too. I miss Dohny, and my heart breaks for him. I’m thinking of the debt I’d be facing. I’m thinking of how fucked up my hip joints are and how I’m potentially facing surgeries. I’m thinking of how I failed my online classes and how much I hate this stupid virus. I’m so angry, confused and mostly depressed that not even a tear falls. I could feel my face lacking a lively expression. The call of the void is on my mind when I sit and wait for a train to pass or when I sit at a traffic light. 

I drive to exhaustion so I fill up with gas and begin to head home. I set the cruise and speed to get home faster while knowing that the sleepy feeling was growing stronger. I don’t even remember passing my designated rest stop. Before I know it, the glaring yellow reflection of a guard rail blinds my eyes when BOOM. I close my eyes. I know that I hit something. The first thought through my mind is that my truck is done. The second was a past accident with an ex boyfriend. I remembered the feeling of all that force hitting you. Force after force after force. I’m waiting for it to just stop. For a second, I open my eyes, and feel that I’m still moving, I see my ceiling lights hanging and flying, which are the only things illuminating my now smashed truck. The airbags went off. My things flying. BOOM! My eyes are closed again. I wait a couple seconds. The truck stopped. I open my eyes to see my ceiling right in my face and crouched down right in from of my steering wheel. The gas tank. I had no idea where I was or what I just hit, but there were a lot of threatening noises and I remembered filling my tank up with gas. I attempt to open the driver door, which fails. I begin to freak out, just for a second, before snapping back and turning off the ignition. The center console still flipped up and I begin to make my way out. I find my phone and call 911. As I wait for the ambulance, I see that I’m about 12 miles from home and under an overpass. I stare at my truck from a distance. My heart breaks deep beneath the shock and trauma. 

I was left with minor injuries. A minor concussion, bruised knee, chest pain (impact of seatbelt), cut up feet, and lost progress in my hip joints. After returning home, the anger and frustration set in. Pictures of the remains of my truck burned through my mind. People left and right were telling me how lucky I was to be alive. Guilt set in. (Survivor’s guilt is a symptom of PTSD) I became mean. I wished I was dead. I felt like I should’ve been dead. I constantly questioned why I wasn’t. I was unrecognizable. 

After another tattoo session several days later, a short road trip (that was previously planned before the crash) took place with S driving his car. I already got behind the wheel beforehand (which was a lot easier said than done) with the help of peers in order to try breaking my newly found fear of driving. 

I was so happy to see him. It felt like a break from the nightmare I was living as if it was a light at the end of a tunnel. He offered endless support and feedback that lifted my spirits. His kindness opened my eyes. I began to notice him more when I’d look into his eyes or watched the way he would drive. The connection kept growing. His somewhat shaggy hair and innocent laugh brightened my moods. I paid more attention to him and who he was. I couldn’t have felt more appreciative and grateful for it. I had no idea what to do next, but with him, I felt more alive than I had in a long time. The roadtrip that day with S is what brought me back to life after just being in the lowest point of my life. Lower than where I’ve ever been before. I arrived home that night with new memories and a warm smile on my face. Most of all, I came home feeling alive again with new hope. 

After writing for roughly three hours in the middle of the night and having some pages down, I’ve decided to leave this here as I don’t want to overdo anything, given that I actually have a 12 hour shift ahead of me soon, I’m going to end this on a good note. I can’t wait to get back into writing as things have started (fingers crossed) to slow down and I’m beginning to feel like myself again. I have a long way to go, but thanks not only (but mostly) to this special person, but also my family, friends, and peers, I am grateful to be here and I appreciate all of the support that I did recieve during this shitty time. 

Until I write again, Merry Christmas, Happy New Years, and drive safe.

Stranger’s Connection

Some details were left out to protect privacy and improve the quality of my post.

My short 4 hour shift at work begun at 2pm on a freezingly rainy day. My motivation was to make it through suppertime and then I’d be done for the day, that is after I’d do a crucial project for my Spanish grade to increase in my college classes.

The reasoning behind working the four hour is because I already pulled my 12 hour shift, and overtime hours, earlier that week in order to get by, this was to make sure that I’d pull my goal amount of hours (at this, one of my two jobs) of 24 hours per week.

After receiving my report from my fellow CNAs and nurses, I immediately begin to start my day to day duties in attempt to keep my antsy mind busy. I start with distributing nightwear to each of the residents’ rooms. After doing that, I being to walk to each resident to take their temperature with the forehead (no-touch) thermometer. As I walk into the new resident’s room, I see that there is a lady from therapy evaluating the resident. This resident recently came to the healthcare facility from the hospital, who I still barely knew.

I’m reaching over to the resident with the thermometer, with my left arm, and am turning to walk away when I hear:

” Oh my God, I love your tattoo. Take your time, that’s a really pretty saying.” the therapist says.

I take a second to realize that she is speaking to me and look down at my tattoo dedicated to my dad.

I smile underneath my overheated mask and reply with, “Oh thank you. It was really pretty when my dad would be able to actually say it to me. It was one of my favorite saying of his.”

“Is he gone?” she asks curiously.

I prepare myself for her reaction when I say that, “My dad’s in prison.”

“Oh yeah, so he’s not actually with you right now. How long does he have left?”

I was slightly startled by her seemingly casual response. I take a second to think of the year and how much time my dad has left to sit.

“About 8 years to go.”

“Oh so that’s some time yet. Is he around here?” she asks.


“Oh wow.” the therapist seemed surprised until she said, “My son is there and he has about 4-5 years to go.”

Now I was the surprised one.

“Oh really?”

“Yeah. He didn’t hurt anyone or commit murder, he just hurt himself.”

“Oh” I say sincerely. I could just about pinpoint exactly what he is in there for. “My dad was a drunk and went out driving on the last night of hunting season and ended up killing one hunter and disabling another. It was his 5th DWI.”

“Oh my God I’m so sorry, that is terrible for anyone to go through. I’ll be honest, no one really knows about this and your the only person I told about this to.”

“Were you ever at visitation?” I ask, wanting to know if I may have seen her during one of the very many times I used to be able to see my dad.

“No because this only happened a month or two ago. I haven’t had a chance to visit him, I guess there’s a paper that you fill out and send in for visitation?” her response surprised me yet again. She’s totally new to the process while I am standing there reflecting on what my reality has been like since I was 12 years old. I knew exactly what paper she was talking about.

“Oh yeah, that’s the visitation application. The inmate sends you one for you to fill out and return. It usually takes about 6-8 weeks to process.”

“Okay, and are you still able to see your dad?” she asks patiently.

“No, I haven’t seen my dad in almost 230 days. It’s no better than here (me referring to the healthcare facility where the elderly are unable to see family) so I haven’t seen my dad since March 10th.” I plead sadly.

“That really is too bad, with the virus and all.” she relies.

“It is.”

“And like I said, my coworkers and friends don’t know about this. As far as they know, he’s working down south.” she winks, and I chuckle, winking back. You’re a total stranger, except I’ll know it’s you with your tattoo {as she points to it from across the room} and you really only know me as being from therapy. It’s like we don’t know each other and yet we were still able to make a connection.”

I am smiling and nodding nervously when I say,” That’s right. Unfortunately when my dad’s accident happened, the whole town and everyone I knew, knew about what happened since he was a well-known guy. But you and I have something to relate to. Funny how the way of the world works.”

We chuckle as I prepare to leave the room.

“Well, I appreciate you taking the time to talk to me” she says gratefully.

“It’s no problem, and thank you. Have a good day.” I turn to walk away to continue my work.

Her words have continued to spool in my mind since then. That conversation offered me a sense of comfort in knowing that I’m really not the only one with a relative serving time, especially during a global pandemic. I appreciated her compassion and understanding in my situation, given that it has really opened my eyes again. The reality of someone you love going to prison is a thought alone that you want to lock up in a cage. When my father’s accident happened, it was all over the news, so I didn’t get the pleasure of keeping it a secret. But more importantly, I was able to understand her pain.

I love and miss you dad.

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Walking Away

Tis the time of year where things go cold and dark. The wind freezes your face the second you walk outside of the house. Death surrounds you, whether it’s the celebration of Halloween or the falling of leaves, in which transforms the trees into a skeletal bareness. The sun sets before you have a real chance to spend quality time outside while the brightness of it deceives you into thinking that the day will bring warmth.

For me, this is the season of grief and withdrawal. I could almost pinpoint down to the week where my Seasonal Affective Disorder (SAD) will hit. For a good six months, from the end of September to the end of March give or take, I am stuck in this slump of depression and fatigue.

Everyday I wake up tired and drained, not to mention dreading the time counting down until I have to go to work, where I expend the little bit of energy I have stored within me. I stay up and wake up later everyday. The mid of night suddenly becomes the enemy as my mornings of precious sunlight are stripped away from me. Going to bed early for me would mean staying up and staring at the ceiling, leaving me sleepless anyways. My dreams become more vivid and aggressive. Hunger rarely strikes me, and when it does, I turn to comfort foods, only to feel worse about myself later on. I question the meaning of existence daily.

Worst of all, I am not me. My normally passionate optimism turns to an almost-apathetic negativity. My computer more often sits quietly and visits to the gym become a more rare occurrence. My focus shifts to riding out the seasons until the world blooms again.

Mood swings take over my patience and kindness towards others. It’s like there’s this other force that is suppressing my true self for half of the entire year. Six out of twelve months. I only really feel like I can enjoy myself and who I am for half of my time on this Earth. My true self is only a little and weak voice replaying in my mind.

“This isn’t you.”

“You don’t have to hurt others.”

“You can get through this suffering.”

“You know that you can change this..”

“I’m sorry.”

Then the temporary evil voice takes over with so much more force that it entirely takes over my conscience. My mind constantly feels like it is drowning, with me only coming up for air for seconds before another monstrous wave of negativity fills my head again.

“You aren’t good enough.”

“They are stupid and terrible people.”

“You can’t trust anyone, not even your closest loved ones.”

“You’ll never be successful.”

“You’ll always suffer.”

“No one will love you.”

Eventually these thoughts begin to manipulate my exhausted feelings which transform into anger and more pain. Sometimes it’s like breaking my own heart. My aching heart, mind and soul become helpless and hopeless. I almost unintentionally push people away as if my disorder is feeding itself. Fire feeding fire.

One thing I’ve learned from this disorder is that the worst thing you can do to yourself in this vulnerable state is to be alone constantly. That is when the worst of the worst thoughts come about. Although easier said than done, there has been one person that has helped prove that it is okay to not be okay, even when one can’t let others in.

“Twan, I’m really sorry for what I said earlier, I really didn’t mean it.” I say to my best friend while on the phone one night.

“It’s okay Jaz, I know you didn’t. I understand.”

“I gotta be honest with you. Just like most other people in my life, I’m just waiting for the day that you walk out on me and that be that.” I mumble.

“I wouldn’t walk out on you. You’re too awesome to leave. You’re kind of stuck with my ass.” he replies.

I laugh, “Thanks Twan.”

“You’re welcome Jaz. To be honest, I was afraid of you walking out on me. No one has really dealt with my ass for as long in the way that you have.” Anthony adds.

“Yeah, I don’t know why I keep coming back.” I joke as we both laugh “I guess I just like giving you shit a bit too much. But no, seriously Twan, I’m surprised we’re even friends still. I still don’t know how you aren’t tired of me yet.”

“I wouldn’t get tired of you but yeah, me too. That’s okay. I think we have a pretty good friendship.”

“You think so? Even when I’m like this?” I ask, referring to my current struggles with SAD.

“Yes, even when you’re like that. Like, fuck I hate seeing you like this but I wouldn’t abandon you to let you suffer alone.” he replies confidently.

“Awe, thanks Twan. I really appreciate it.”

“No problem Jaz.”

“Take your time, sweetheart.”

The ink under my skin gives off an extra sensitive sensation whenever I brush my fingers down and around the tattoo. This is the first cold season with the black, gray, and red colors on my arm. Or really any color.

After my nightly showers I’d rub lotion deeply into my skin in hopes of keeping it moisturized until this same time the next day. Without the summer humidity, my skin is slightly more dried out when I wake up in the morning. Throughout the day the small burgundy hearts and black words would itch at me to no end. I usually can’t help but to scratch. I’d gently glide the opposite side of my nails against the inked skin to ensure I avoid breaking it open.

As a tick throughout the stresses of everyday, I often find myself caressing the new tattoo as a self soothing method, much like rocking back and forth in one’s chair. Whenever I need a reminder of what’s really important, I just have to look down.

The words, {“Take your time, sweetheart.” – Love Dad} are surrounded by a light gray and dotted infinity sign and a couple of hearts on the bottom corners of the tat on my left forearm.

Without being my original idea of a first tattoo, I made a fairly quick decision to get inked just a couple of days after father’s day. After being just over 100 days separated from my dad, thanks to a global pandemic, I really had time to appreciate what was so suddenly taken away from me. I miss my dad dearly and am waiting for the day to walk up and hug him again.

“Take your time.” is one of my dad’s more recent sayings that he’d relay to me during any of our many and weekly visits. His only opportunity of doing so nowadays are through a phone call. Whether I’d be really determined or motivated to achieve greatness to even trying to get out of bed at earlier times during the day, my dad would always tell me this. I didn’t truly realize the meaning of it until after being away from him for so long. It reminds me to live in the moment. These words have guided me through things as difficult as anxiety attacks and depressive episodes.

“-Love Dad” represents the letters sent to each other throughout the years. At times in my short life, this was our only way of communicating. Writing to my dad, whether directly or indirectly, has always allowed me to express anything that may have been on my mind.

“Sweetheart.” is my dad’s name for me. Throughout childhood he would most often times address me by that name. I leave that privilege only to my dad.

I was immediately in love with my decision after being tattooed. The words speak to me even without being able to see my dad. This tattoo offers me comfort and insight to the things that are happening around me in this crazy world. It represents my love for my dad and the importance to hold onto what really matters, and to me, that is the ones you love.

I am currently still keeping the tattoo a surprise for my dad. I will not tell him about it until I can personally show him, when I can hug him again.

It has been 220 days since being separated from my father that I love so dearly.

I love and miss you dearly, dad.

The day I got my first tattoo:


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Walking Away

Tis the time of year where things go cold and dark. The wind freezes your face the second you walk outside of the house. Death surrounds you, whether it’s the celebration of Halloween or the falling of leaves, in which transforms the trees into a skeletal bareness. The sun sets before you have a real chance to spend quality time outside while the brightness of it deceives you into thinking that the day will bring warmth.

For me, this is the season of grief and withdrawal. I could almost pinpoint down to the week where my Seasonal Affective Disorder (SAD) will hit. For a good six months, from the end of September to the end of March give or take, I am stuck in this slump of depression and fatigue.

Everyday I wake up tired and drained, not to mention dreading the time counting down until I have to go to work, where I expend the little bit of energy I have stored within me. I stay up and wake up later everyday. The mid of night suddenly becomes the enemy as my mornings of precious sunlight are stripped away from me. Going to bed early for me would mean staying up and staring at the ceiling, leaving me sleepless anyways. My dreams become more vivid and aggressive. Hunger rarely strikes me, and when it does, I turn to comfort foods, only to feel worse about myself later on. I question the meaning of existence daily.

Worst of all, I am not me. My normally passionate optimism turns to an almost-apathetic negativity. My computer more often sits quietly and visits to the gym become a more rare occurrence. My focus shifts to riding out the seasons until the world blooms again.

Mood swings take over my patience and kindness towards others. It’s like there’s this other force that is suppressing my true self for half of the entire year. Six out of twelve months. I only really feel like I can enjoy myself and who I am for half of my time on this Earth. My true self is only a little and weak voice replaying in my mind.

“This isn’t you.”

“You don’t have to hurt others.”

“You can get through this suffering.”

“You know that you can change this..”

“I’m sorry.”

Then the temporary evil voice takes over with so much more force that it entirely takes over my conscience. My mind constantly feels like it is drowning, with me only coming up for air for seconds before another monstrous wave of negativity fills my head again.

“You aren’t good enough.”

“They are stupid and terrible people.”

“You can’t trust anyone, not even your closest loved ones.”

“You’ll never be successful.”

“You’ll always suffer.”

“No one will love you.”

Eventually these thoughts begin to manipulate my exhausted feelings which transform into anger and more pain. Sometimes it’s like breaking my own heart. My aching heart, mind and soul become helpless and hopeless. I almost unintentionally push people away as if my disorder is feeding itself. Fire feeding fire.

One thing I’ve learned from this disorder is that the worst thing you can do to yourself in this vulnerable state is to constantly be alone. That is when the worst of the worst thoughts come about, when that fire feeds into itself. Although easier said than done, there has been one person that has helped me prove that it is okay to not be okay, even when one can’t let others in.

“Twan, I’m really sorry for what I said earlier, I really didn’t mean it.” I say to my best friend while on the phone one night.

“It’s okay Jaz, I know you didn’t. I understand.”

“I gotta be honest with you. Just like most other people in my life, I’m just waiting for the day that you walk out on me and that be that.” I mumble.

“I wouldn’t walk out on you. You’re too awesome to leave. You’re kind of stuck with my ass.” he replies.

I laugh, “Thanks Twan.”

“You’re welcome Jaz. To be honest, I was afraid of you walking out on me. No one has really dealt with my ass for as long in the way that you have.” Anthony adds.

“Yeah, I don’t know why I keep coming back.” I joke as we both laugh “I guess I just like giving you shit a bit too much. But no, seriously Twan, I’m surprised we’re even friends still. I still don’t know how you aren’t tired of me yet.”

“I wouldn’t get tired of you but yeah, me too. That’s okay. I think we have a pretty good friendship.”

“You think so? Even when I’m like this?” I ask, referring to my current struggles with SAD.

“Yes, even when you’re like that. Like, fuck I hate seeing you like this but I wouldn’t abandon you to let you suffer alone.” he replies confidently.

“Awe, thanks Twan. I really appreciate it.”

“No problem Jaz.”

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“American Money”

My best friend and I remained covered underneath our own heavy blankets in the Livingroom of my frigidly cold house. The night was like any other fall evening, it was too cold to do much outside so him and I stayed inside to watch a movie. Our favorite genre is comedy.

Unexpected thoughts begin to rush into my mind. These are the same thoughts that I’ve been having for some months now. At this point, the rush is overwhelming as my mind begins to race. I see him smile to the movie which immediately reciprocates on my face. His eyes are a cool ocean blue, like when waves crash into a rock or surface. Some spots are almost white, while others a deep aqua. I see his dark brown hair, which has a ridiculous haircut, that makes my smile last longer than his. Instinctively I make my way closer to him by putting my icy feet underneath his warm blanket.

“Excuse you. Your feet are cold.” he says in a matter-of-fact kind of way. He looks at me funny and smiles.

“I know.” I smile. “That’s why I put them there.”

He smiles and looks down. What a goof.

After some time further into the comic film, I intentionally move my feet closer to him to test his patience.

“What are you doing?” he asks.

I giggle to myself, “Nothing, my feet are cold so I have to get them warm.”

“Yeah, OK.” he smiles and we both laugh.

I keep testing his patience.

“Seriously, what are you doing? Are you doing this on purpose?” he asks suspiciously now.

I lay there on the couch with a stiff and blank stare at him. I don’t lie so all I say is, “Maybe.”

“Is there something you need to tell me?” his kind eyes are serious and curious at the same time. He’s looking right at me as I trapped myself into this awkward situation. My mind races and my face turns a bright red. Somehow he was able to see the change of color, even in the dark room.

“It’s nothing to be ashamed of.” he pleads.

I cover my embarrassed face. My secret is out. He knows that something is up. He tries to uncover me from under the blanket but I refuse to budge.

He retreats and sits there silently for a minute before I recuperate my thoughts. The only thought repeating in my head is one that’s been present for some time now. Try it out.

I sit up from lying on the couch and cuddle next to him. He automatically wraps his arms around me. I finally feel safe again until different thoughts fill my conscious.

My PTSD flares up and flashbacks of my ex boyfriend pop up. His smiles were always strong enough to stop me dead in my tracks, whatever it was that I’d be doing. I was a dear in headlights whenever he’d look at me. His laughter was deep and meaningful every time. If he laughed, you knew it was good. My ex was just a best friend at one point in time, too.

I begin to question myself because what I’m feeling right now isn’t nearly as intense and dramatic as what the past holds. The differences are extremely unsettling.

What if I’m just distracted?

Maybe I don’t want this?

Am I crossing a line again?

What if I ruin another friendship based on disrupting feelings?

Why does it seem like I can’t truly let anyone in again?

These thoughts are no stranger to my tired mind. In fact, they have been swarming for some time now.

I lay back down on the couch silently.

He looks down at me and gives me a soft yet sad smile.

The difference between my best friend now and my now ex is that one understands me more than the other.

He could sense that something was running through my head as I stared up at the ill-lit ceiling. Before I know it, he lays next to me and hugs me.

My mind is racing faster than anyone participating in Nascar, so I turn to my phone and play my newest temporarily favorite song, “American Money” by BØRNS. The music helps me slow my thoughts and focus.

Just a week before, I heard this song on the Pandora station at work while doing my normal closing duties.

Every time I hear the tune, I feel free and content. It’s a song about love and adventure. The talks about bikes, storms, mountains, honey, and swimming offers a vivid description of what happiness feels like. The singer puts the dance of a partnership into a perspective that can make any listener of music fall in love with falling in love.

For so long I’ve been pushing it all away because falling out of love is what destroys someone.

I put the song on repeat so that I continuously feel the beauty of the music as I lay next to my best friend.

Thoughts after thoughts swarm my mind like a hurricane. One after another, like a cycle, I feel one emotion after another.

The song ends for the second time. I don’t want to change the music. So I keep it on repeat.

I want to feel this moment for a while.

Instead of worrying about what will happen next, I instead smile.

Early Fall Evening

The chilly and crisp air shivers me down to the bone as soon as I step out of the warm comforts of my home. The hairs on the back of my neck stand straight and my back becomes stiff.

Smoke of chimneys and campfires surround me and burn my nose. As I look up, the almost full moon shines like a flashlight pointed right at me. I walk onto the front lawn and lifeless leaves crumble underneath my boots.

I notice the shy sun from the west setting early for the night. Golden rays touch the tops of trees. I sit on top of a cold stone that freezes me from the bottom up. The trees lose their vibrant green and yellow colors and turn to a black abyss of tall standing structures.

My once warm hands become white and stiff from the night weather. Stars begin to pierce through the almost pitch-black sky behind smoky dark clouds. My sense of smell is stolen from me when frosty air enters my lungs.

Cars pass under orange and yellow street lights, which eventually become the only thing illuminating the frigid and gloomy world as I make my way back indoors.

The Great Crash.

The abnormally warm autumn day went by so slow that the work day never seemed to end. I rush home after the dreadful closing shift to complete my homework for the night. My homework is an overwhelmingly large workload for the night so I get straight to work in hopes of having time to get online to play games with my friends. The internet is slow. The service and spotty. Nothing seemed to work right. My frustration begins to build as I attempt to push through. Eventually my patience is cut short and I join in on the game without finishing my work.

The game didn’t go as planned and my best friend kills my once somewhat neutral mood to outright destructive and angry. I attempt to finish my work. The due date is closing in and I can’t seem to type my answers fast enough. The internet still won’t work. Nothing was saving or uploading like it was supposed to! At this point, I’m frantic as this is my last straw to finish my assignments before giving up. Luckily I work all the way through the due date, only to have some of the assignments turned in.

This feeling is all too familiar. A set of events occur and I mishandle them to the point of being overwhelmed until it becomes disastrous and I stop caring.

My mind is put into autopilot mode, or as I like to call, initiate zombified human. There is a heavy fog that constantly surrounds me with the weight of a boulder on top of me. Twice as much mental effort is put into doing the simple activities of daily living. The negative thoughts and feelings begin to invade my conscience.

“This always happens every year.”

“You’re stuck in this never ending cycle of suffering”

“You can feel sorry for yourself so that you can beat yourself up for it.”

“You’re a fuck up.”

The thoughts stops me in my tracks and trap me. My next instinct is to run. I need to get away from the negativity and clear my head so I run to the car for a drive. I plug in music that I know only hurts my fragile mental state but continue on anyways.

I can feel the old wounds being opened up like a band aid being pulled off a fresh and open wound. I think of all the traumatic and regretful events throughout my life.

I begin to hate myself for not being perfect so I think about punishing myself. I feel like starving my poor body, running my own car into a building, slicing my skin open, screaming, but worst of all, sleeping. I never take it upon myself to do anything so terrible, given that I am alive and writing this post, have healthily glowing skin, and am more physically fit than I’ve ever been. Instead, warm tears trickle down my tired and sunken face. My skin is warm and sweaty. An unearthly sound escapes my chest as the pain of the past returns to my mind.

My dad is being taken away from me again. His face is swollen and bloody again. His hands are in cuffs again. I’m failing myself in school again. He comes to mind. He is with me again. He is dancing and singing with me again. He is hugging me through the worst of the pain again. My mind returns to the present. Then I realize that he is gone again. He. Does. Not. Exist. Anymore.

He is gone.

My dad is away.

Why am I here?

The thoughts swarm in my mind like a growing hurricane that is ready for destruction.

At my lowest, I think of my dad’s smiling face. His smiling face. My mom’s laughter. Driving my car to my favorite song. Playing games with my friends. My two gorgeous kitties playing. My little brothers whom I love with all my heart. My love for writing. My opportunities of school. My quiet love for others.

This stops me from taking detrimental action, every time.

My body is stiff and shaky as the parked car idles. My mind is at the low point of exhaustion. Tears after tears have fallen as the remains of the episode dwindle. My breathing is shaky and hands clammy. I put the car in drive and head home in a state of undead.

My heart beats but my mind infected with the darkness. It quite literally is as if I’ve been zombified.

This is the state that I tend to look forward to for the next six months or so, for the last seven years at the least.

Tonight was me ‘crashing’ into my cycle of yearly depression, or Seasonal Affective Disorder to put it more professionally. It is a kind of depression that hits at the same of of the year which is often characterized with feeling depressed all day and most days, losing interests, having low energy, problems sleeping, apatite and weight changes, agitation, struggle focusing, feeling hopeless, worthless and guilty, and having frequent thoughts of death or suicide.

This is something I wouldn’t wish on anyone or any soul. It is a special kind of suffering that is hard to break. It is a constant fight within your mind. You don’t feel like yourself during the time of darkness. For me, I suffer for about 6 months. This means that I don’t get to be my true self for half the year.

I still go to school, work, and see family and friends. The struggle is what catches up every once in a while.

With is, I know that I’m not alone.

For anyone reading this, when at your lowest points, think of the things you love, and be grateful. To not be here would prevent you from enjoying those enjoyments.


1 down. Many more to go.

Today marks one year since my Daisy has been a part of my life. I feel so blessed to have her a part of my life, as I am hers.

In September of 2019, I lost a cat very close to me. She was one that I’d grown up with since I was just an infant/toddler. Distant family took her in and I’d visit from time to time. Unfortunately it wasn’t always like that. Me and Peanut had a connection that no other creature could understand. I got a call from my grandma on a warm and sunny day saying that Peanut was going to be put down. I hadn’t seen her in years. Before I had a chance to do anything about it, she was already gone and my heart was broken.

RIP Peanut 2002-2019

With this new pain and hole in my heart, I knew what I had to do.

I had just moved to a small city with my roommate, Anthony into an apartment that approved of pets. I wanted to do something in honor of Peanut’s memory and something that would have made her proud.

I wanted a cat that needed a second chance, so shortly after Peanut’s death, Anthony and I made a trip to the Humane Society.

“I really want a second chance cat, is that okay?” I ask Anthony.

What I meant about ‘second chance cat’, is one that was having a hard time getting adopted. I wanted one that I could have that deep connection with. After meeting with several fluffy sweethearts, the shelter then told us how there was only one cat that would fit into all of the requirements for both the shelter and the housing management.

We needed a cat that was declawed, over a year old, and fixed. That was when the worker brought in Daisy. She had Daisy held at an uncomfortable distance. At first glance this cat is stunningly beautiful. She has gorgeous and long hair. Her color is grey with tan and almost-black patches across her body. Her eyes are a beautiful and full golden green color. The worker sets her down and Daisy stands there with her fluffy tail between her back legs. I attempt to pet her, which lasts for a few seconds before she hisses and attempts to bite aggressively. She runs to the corner of the room. Anthony attempts to pet her after a moment and the same reaction occurs almost twice as fast.

I was terrified of her but I knew I wanted to know more.

“So what’s Daisy’s story?” I ask curiously.

“So this is her second time being here. Daisy is two and a half years old. She was brought in as a stray kitten and was adopted right away by a young couple. They had a young toddler that would torment and abuse her. The past owners also declawed her, even though you have to sign a contract saying that you wouldn’t because it is seen as inhumane. She was brought back a while ago and would have some visits but nothing would go past that because she’d be aggressive as she is now. She hasn’t even had one application.” She replied.

I was in absolute awe,”I have no idea what to even say. Can we have a few minutes alone with her?”

“Sure thing.” the worker leaves.

Daisy is still sitting silently in the corner when I say, “Anthony, this is the one.”

“I don’t know. She seems pretty aggressive. Do you want to maybe try one of the nicer kitties?” He says.

“Anthony this is our second chance cat. You heard the worker. Daisy has been here for a while and not one application. She’s been here too many times, for God’s sake, she was abused! Plus, you agreed for us to get a cat that really needed this. This is the only one that LSI will accept, plus we can’t declaw any cats.” I plead.

“Fine, I guess we can try for her.”

Days later, on September 20th, 2019, I signed the adoption papers and the payment is processed. Daisy was officially my cat.

For quite some time, Daisy still struggled with the agressive behaviors and I eventually moved away from Anthony. Most times it was just her and I. Not too long ago I decided to take in another cat so that Daisy had someone to play with while I’d be out of the house. Now days, I live with my Daisy and my newest, Gracie.

Daisy and I have become extremely attached. She still struggles with the aggressive behavior sometimes, especially around strangers and certain individuals, but has come so far in such a short amount of time.

Every morning I wake up to Daisy laying on me or licking my face (which is her own way of showing affection). She is a playful and goofy little girl that loves to be outside. She drinks from the faucet and loves pumpkin puree (which is really good for the digestive system!). Her favorite game to play is to chase my hand. In recent days she’s allowed me to pet her belly and lower back.

Without Daisy, I’d be lost. I still think of Peanut often, and when I do, I think back to the blessing that I have been able to offer Daisy, and the blessing that she is to me.

I look forward to many more wonderful years with my honey, Daisy. ❤️

My Honey ❤️
Daisy and Gracie… Goofy girls.
My first days with My Honey… how precious!
Rest in peace, beautiful girl. You’ll always be one of my favorite kitties. I know you’d be smiling down at me from kitty heaven.

Just. One. Song.

That’s all it takes for the thought of you to cross my mind once again. The first thing I see is your face. My favorite part of you were your dark, yet bright, eyes that always won my heart over. Your warm smile was always able to bring joy to even a crowded room. One look from you was always felt like a shot of lightning. Sometimes it’s like I’d be a deer in headlights. As the song progresses, the sweet memories of long ago replay in my mind. The thought of all those yesterdays saddens me when I’m reminded of the present. Those memories are memories for a reason. The past is the past.

When the song ends, my curiosity overcomes me and I jump on social media. You’ve moved on with your life just fine. You even had another ‘special someone’ but that doesn’t stop me from feeling. I am only human. You and her are long over now but I can still see your happy faces together.

I used to be so mad and jealous seeing you having something special as if we never existed. To really love someone is so rare and to lack that reciprocation is quite painful. I had to do what was best for me. We were over long before it really was. As I ponder through all this time since you’ve been a part of my life, I finally feel free at this point in time. The pain isn’t there anymore, or like it used to be. The dwelling and crying is absent in the bittersweet moments. I’m at peace with you now.

I still think of you often, and when a certain song comes on the radio, sometimes it takes me back. But I’m done living in the past. I have better things going for me now. I’m slowly but surely learning to really love myself now, so that I am ready for that reciprocation when the time comes.

To see you and not feel that pain, regret, or distress is next to the greatest blessing you can offer me. In return, I wish you the best, truly.

For those who have lost a significant other, parent, child, relative, friend, etc. from any extent.

“One of the hardest things that a person can survive is the acceptance of a lost loved one. To live afterwards is a sign of strength within humanity.” JW

To The Girl Who Said She Can’t…


My mind was so full of dark clouds and anger. Everything was spinning, I was out of control..

Then I had an idea. I proceeded to throw on some athletic shorts and a tight-fitting T-shirt. I changed shoes, grabbed my phone and headphones, and was out the door.

The day was cold and misty. It looked like it wanted to rain. It was the perfect picture of my mood.

I was in so much pain..

As I pull up to the side of the lake, my eyes teary and chest tight, I step out of the car and start to run.

“God I’m so out of shape” I whisper to myself as I round the corner of the park street. My run simmers to a walk for a moment before continuing again.

Some distance from my car and I feel the thoughts that were suffocating me so, begin to clear up, one by one. My mind begins focusing on my uneven breathing and slow pace.

It’s been years since I exercised regularly. After having some orthopedic injuries and too much physical therapy, I lost the passion to exercise, to want to better myself and my health. It’s not that I was unhealthy or anything, I just loathed having to get up and move, only to push myself passed my breaking point. That’s how I got hurt in the first place, years ago.

” I can’t do this anymore.” my mind fights to tell me throughout my journey.

Despite feeling like my entire body being on fire and short on breath, I refused to give up. I’m tired but I feel relieved. I feel free. I’m running again. The temporary distraction is allowing me to run from whatever has been bothering me so terribly.

As I round the last corner and close in on my parked car, I use the last strand of energy I have left in my tired body to sprint until I reach the finish line. I did it! I my have stopped several times and was slower than I’d ever imagined, I still finished and made it back to my car.

I drive home feeling tired but strengthened on the inside and out. I drive home feeling free.



As I look back at myself from just several months ago, I see a lot of pain and unhappiness. I was practicing unhealthy mental habits and lashing out in ways that I’m not proud of. What I am proud of is that moment I decided to try something new for that much needed outlet.

Since then, I began regularly exercising and slowly building myself up. My inner voice has become stronger and more positive. My body is stronger and healthier than it ever has been. My mental health has much improved, thanks to that idea.

I stopped running at the lake (because running on blacktop is a little too hard on my fragile joints) but instead got a gym membership. I’m becoming faster and stronger everyday. Not only did I start running, but also strengthening all parts of my body. When I look in the mirror, I see the slow progress and smile.

For example, my family used to say that I’d have ‘Sponge bob arms’ given that I’d have the lack of muscle and strength. Thanks to pushing myself at my own pace, I don’t see the Sponge bob arms anymore.

Some days I can just ‘feel’ when I need a workout and decide to go simply because it is so good for my mental health.

When I look at myself now, I see that I can. I can run again. I can better myself. I can be happy.




Writing is in My Genes

Happy Mother’s Day! Today I am stuck working, as so is my mom. I had a day off work yesterday while my mom still had to work. For my day off, I figured I would call up the only grandmother I’m close to. She would be my dad’s mother and lives about 45 minutes from me. I wanted to see if she’d like to have me over for the afternoon. I was told while on the phone that she had some driving to do and that I was welcome to join if I wanted. I told her sure why not. It was around noon and I informed her that I’d be at her house at 1pm. Before my drive, I picked up a couple of Mother’s Day cards. I signed one for my grandma, and the other for my mom. In the card for my grandma, I also added how grateful I am of her and of the things she has done for me. I mentioned in the card that I listen to old country and will think of her. I put my country playlist on shuffle and took off. My car, which is a 2006 Mazda 6 (aka. Brandy), luckily has an aux cord that I can to to play music with from my phone.

I arrive at her house around roughly 12:57 pm. I made it just in time. My grandma is 67 years old and seems to move around better than I do. She’s already sitting in the driveway in her newer SUV and ready to go. We had to drive to Ladysmith and back, but in the meantime we would need to drop off my cousin, Anna, at a birthday party. Ladysmith is about a half hour drive from my grandma’s house. Arriving there, my grandma and I stopped for gas and got drinks. It was about 2pm and we need to wait until 3:30pm to pick up Anna’s mom, Julie, from work. Julie has recently got into trouble with authorities because she got herself into stuff she shouldn’t have, therefore she lost custody of Anna to my grandma and cannot drive.

While trying to burn time, my grandma and I stopped at her work to go onto the computer. My grandma was looking up how to do a new country line dance to teach her class. I’d say my grandma is very talented with it. About 3pm, we headed to the old thrift store where Julie was working.

While waiting, my grandma and I got onto the subject of writing. I told her how I love to write and am waiting to see if I get locally published in Eau Claire area. I told her about my writings and how I someday want to write an autobiography or even a memoir. She then started to tell me about how she loved to write too. My grandma would tell me that when she was my age, she moved to the cities and became a secretary for an electric company instead of going into journalism. Before then, she told me that she was even in the Ladysmith paper for writing about an institution in Flambeau, which is a town nearby Ladysmith. When she was telling me about this, I couldn’t help but to think of when my dad had mentioned something about it. My dad recently told me that he also enjoyed writing. He would tell me how he’d want to write a book about his life one day too. My grandma then went into talking about her mom and how she would have poetry published. After that, many more of my more distant cousins and relatives loved to write as well. I hardly knew any of this.

“So do you think writing is in my genetics?” I asked my grandma.

“That very well could be it and why you love writing. I think so.” She replies.

“Huh. That’s pretty cool. So do you think we have some ancestor that was really famous for writing?”

“I don’t know. I think it is pretty cool though.”

Julie finished up with work by the time our conversation had ended. We picked Anna and one of her friends up from the birthday party. My grandma stopped at the grocery store to pick up some hot dogs and chips for dinner. Once back at the house, I showed my grandma what I wrote for possibly being published.

I wrote a nonfiction short story about an extremely painful experience I had just a couple of years back. I would have excruciating pain in the front of my hip joints and was stuck living with that kind of pain throughout sports in high school while trying to find out what was going on. Months later I was diagnosed with Femoroacetabular Impingment, or FAI as abbreviated, with Labral Tears. This means that I had extra bone growth in my hip joints that was tearing the cartilage, called the labrum, which would cause much pain. I had to survive two hip surgeries with over a year of physical therapy. I wrote about how that kind of pain affected and changed me as a person.

“Wow. That’s really good. With very little error, your story was written very well and in good context. It has a good flow to it and you can understand what was going on.” My grandma explains after reading.

“Thanks grandma. Do you think it will get published?”

“I don’t know but you could get it.” She says confidently.

My grandma finally opened my card and gave me a big hug. She thanked me and set it up by one of her decorations on her kitchen counter. For dinner, the small group of us had hot dogs, cheese burgers, chips with dip, and pasta salad. It was one of the best meals I’ve had in a while. Later that afternoon, I brought Anna and her friend to go fishing in a nearby river. It was starting to get dark and was coming time for me to go home. I brought them back and gave my grandma a hug before leaving. She thanked me for coming and told me to drive safely.

On my way home, I replayed the events of the day in my mind. It felt good spending time with my grandma before Mother’s Day because I knew I missed her. My mind couldn’t help but to think back to writing. I felt amazed knowing that writing has been passed down from generation to generation in my family. I would say that writing is in my genes.


Hello! This is my first blog post on this new website of mine. I enjoy writing, but I feel I have been thinking about writing more lately than actually doing it. Easier said than done as they say? It is my goal to write more often, and I feel that a blog would be the perfect fit. Not only do I enjoy writing, but I also like editing, making videos, research, presentations, and even making this website. It is my hope that not only can I start writing more, but to also have an audience. Thank you for your time.