Little island

Another poem featuring emo Alex circa March 2019. Kinda feeling the vibe lately.

I feel like an island. I feel like some volcano eruption from the sea near a piece of land where technically at the roots of me, I’m connected to the mainland but yet- there’s oceans between us. A lot of this open water was self induced I know. I’ve tried sending out raft boats but they can’t break the waves. It’s often too exhausting to try. I huddle on my beach and wave at the passing ships on sunny clear days- I’m sure they wonder why I don’t try making a break for it while there is a lull in the storm. I build sandcastles and let the waves push them over. I dig moats and watch the playful rip tide pull the walls down.

I stay on my island.

I wave at the ships passing by.

The loneliness has gotten too comfortable.


Poem UNTITLED March 2019

I feel like

A throw away

I used to feel like I held everyone together

super glue

with hands splintered and bleeding from shattered pieces of others tenderly put back together like a mosaic. Pushed and pried into new molds hoping that this time they’d be more stable to hold themselves.

The more I worked at it, the more I felt useful. The more I poured into them.

Until I bled into them everything that I had left.

And Now, I find myself not knowing who I am, what I have left inside me isn’t enough to fight my own battles.

I’m growing weary and tired and there’s no reprieve. There’s danger around every turn and I’m leading the pack

self-sacrificing has become much more a form of self injury rather than a form of love.

I’d go to hell and back for the people I love, And I know that they’d watch me do it

They’d wait for me to come back and smile and ask how my vacation went

I’m starting to wonder who am I living my life for

And if that is enough for me.

Mom health update:

When my mom made me her health proxy, and they had to notarize it and make copies so that both I and my mother had copies as well as copies being sent and put into her medical records, it wasn’t as loud of a moment as I thought it was going to be. I don’t know how best to articulate what I expected it to be like, maybe something like a feeling of BOOM down in the pit of my stomach, but nothing happened. There was no emotional recoil. It felt like a natural process of things. The reason why I expected something to be so loud about becoming responsible for someone, is because my mother asked me half a year ago to be her health proxy over my father. That she hadn’t had the conversation with him yet, and I figured that once that bomb dropped that it was going to be full of sticky emotions. But it wasn’t.

Its late at night as I am writing this, and being awake all night has the ability to dump words into the vast emptiness that I know only a few people will see, or read. I don’t write this asking for responses, I don’t write this in a way that caters to readers. I write as I am thinking, and it usually ends up this messy blob of word-vomit that is streaming from my fingertips thanks to being awake at odd hours.

Maybe my brain is all over the place and I am trying to reign it in. Maybe I am really grateful that I have therapy tomorrow. I’ve had to miss a couple therapy sessions because of dealing with family stuff, that I am sure that Thursday I’m going to burn the fuck out and sleep so hard afterward. When pet sitting over the weekend (which, mind you, was the last thing I wanted to fucking do.) I drove right passed the house I have been pet sitting at 6+ times a year for the last 14ish years. I know my way to their house in a blizzard or black out, yet I had driven right past it and had to turn around and come back. Then when I was finally released from that house to head home, I missed my exit. I don’t remember seeing exits 8-12… normally I skip exit 10 and regain my focus/ off autopilot after exit 11. And then I get off exit 12. But I was chatting away with my friend and drove right on passed it, I had to get off another exit and it took me an extra fifteen minutes to get home the back way. Probably just too much going on in my mind? There’s nothing going on in there. Maybe it’s just going on too deep for me to listen in to.

That sounds weird saying it that way, but when I had a mental ‘breakdown’ of sorts in high school, there was a lot of too much going on. Too much racing thoughts, it was so loud in my head I couldn’t breathe. I ended up grabbing my ears and yelling “SHUT THE FUCK UP!” and I haven’t heard my inner voice since. Really. Its dead silent in there unless I force myself to hear something. I don’t think its normal. So when I say that I didn’t think I had a lot processing in my mind, its because I don’t hear it, that’s not saying that it isn’t going on. For all I know there’s a staff meeting in there and they are all freaking out.

I wrote a previous post in January in regards to my mom having pain in her stomach and that she was retaining fluid and had to get 3 liters pulled from her stomach and that she was going to have to have another tap very shortly afterward. That she was frequently in pain and she wouldn’t go to the doctor and I was wigging out. That they thought maybe it was a bacteria from her intestines going up into her stomach and that was making her sick and she could be treated with antibiotics. My therapist tried getting me not to panic by assuring me that that is probably what it was and that could be treated with antibiotics. But I knew that wasn’t it, but I was holding onto hope that that was what it was going to be.

See I have a weird in-tune thing with people sometimes, and I can always tell when something is going to be wrong, or is wrong.

It rarely happens now, but when I was younger it was pretty effective. But I knew that this was mom’s liver acting up, but she wasn’t listening to me. It was stressing me out. I was scared. She was scared too. Sometimes just crying and I’d offer a hug or a cuddle, and she would sob out how much she hated needing me to make it better. But this is what we do for each other. This is what you do for family. Its what I would always do for my family. She wants me to move away to live my own life, because she’s afraid that she’s going to trap me here. But you know what? I wouldn’t want to be anywhere else right now. I can live my own life later. I only have my mom and dad. That’s it. I wouldn’t leave now, even if I had the means to do so.

They ended up not being able to do the second tap on her stomach because there wasn’t enough fluid to pull out with a needle because they used IV lasix. (Water medicine that makes you pee out extra fluid.) She’s on these as pills, but IV works SO much better. So that got a huge amount of fluid out of her abdomen, but it made me freak out that there was still extra fluid in there, because I knew that the last time that she had fluid like that it went up around her lung. (Two years ago) and they had to remove it. I was scared of that happening again because it put strain on her heart and they thought she might have had a mild heart attack…and it also makes her lung collapse a little and adds extra strain on her body. Obviously a horrifying thought.

She refused to go to the Doctors again even though she was incapacitated about 3 ½ weeks ago. I was losing my shit. I begged her, I threatened her…I did everything I could do. I texted my friends who ganged up on her, I texted her friends and ratted her out. Nothing. Completely frustrating.

She ended up telling me 3 weekends ago on a Saturday that she was going to urgent care because she couldn’t breathe. I called to see if radiology was open and reported back to her that it was. I asked her if she wanted me to text my boss and ask to leave early. She said she would get back to me. She ended up being sent to the hospital, that she had fluid build up around her lung again. And yes, she wanted me to text my boss.

I asked my boss if I could ask the 2nd shift person to come in a hour early…all of this was going on in the morning but I didn’t want to screw anyone over, I wasn’t going to leave super early as she was able to text me when she was going to be out of the waiting area and actually in the ER part. My coworker asked who was working with me and proceeded to tell me no, that this coworker was able to be alone for a hour, and that if she wanted me to have her in early, she would only come in 30 minutes early unless I get a hold of the 3rd shift person to come in early for her. Are you fucking kidding me? It was only a extra hour, not four extra hours.

I ended up leaving at 1:45 and proceeded to the other hospital to go see my mom. She was being released and I started crying. Because they don’t have a intesiveist on during the weekends, which meant that she was going to have to wait until Monday with instructions that she was to go back to the ER if the breathing got worse. Which she texted me at 10 am again on Sunday that it was indeed worse and that she needed to go back to the hospital. I called her best friend and asked her to drive her to the hospital so that she didn’t have to be alone. I stayed my whole shift and then rushed over as soon as it was over. They released her again, but luckily tapped 2+ liters of fluid from around her lung, but that was because there just happened to be a lung doctor on hand, whereas she normally would have had to wait until Monday to be seen by anyone. Someone had a more emergent case, and so he was finished with that, and heard that my mom was struggling and offered to do the procedure. (THANK YOU DOC.)

she was fine for the next few days, but started coughing again on Thursday, saying that she was exhausted and that her chest was tight again. Because I was working 2nd shifts that week, I got to have Sunday off and I slept all day. It was glorious. But once I woke up I asked mom if she wanted to go to the movies or something, and she said she was thinking that I could go with her back to urgent care. I told her that we’d go, and we did (though she decided to fight a little bit. It wouldn’t be my mom if she went willingly anywhere.) and we got to urgent care, they did xray and found that her lung was 3/4ths filled again, and that there was diminished lung sounds on the right side. So they asked us to go over to the ER again. Which we did, after going to bring dad his phone, and getting his handicap plaque, and getting some tea because she was so thirsty.

We checked into the hospital and they decided to convince her to be admitted. That she was going to be seen on Monday, and if she decided to leave, she would have to come back in Monday to get tapped, and would have to wait in the waiting room all day instead of being there, seen first thing in the morning, and released early in the day. I called her boss to let her know that she wasn’t coming to work. She stayed overnight and texted me most of the night because she was doing IV lasix again, and felt like she couldn’t breathe. They ended up only pulling a little over 1 liter out, but she had peed more than 2 liters due to the medicine…so if they didn’t it would have been much more fluid pulled from her lung.

She was feeling a lot better. So because she had been admitted her liver doctor insisted that she see her liver doctor in Layhey. Because obviously she wasn’t doing okay. They did a regular ultrasound which is standard before her appointments with Dr. Q. Her Dr. K office called and stated to Dr. Q that they found gallstones in the duct of her liver and that it was probably stuck. If it was stuck they needed to do a procedure that would cut the stone out of the duct and allow stones to pass…that they weren’t going to be able to take out the gallbladder until they do the transplant because she was a high risk due to the fluid with her lungs and everything else that complicated things. She was going to be treated with medications, if that didn’t help the fluid, they would have to put in a stint. They are going to do the evaluation process for getting a liver transplant. Her MRI showed that she had passed the one blocking the duct, however it looks like she has more gallstones formed in the gallbladder that they will have to keep an eye on. That they found small lesions on her liver that might be precancerous, so they have to do another MRI in 3 months time. If it happens to be precancerous, or cancer, that instantly puts her to the top of the transplant list… But it also means that all this shit is collectively getting worse.

I had a horrible time sleeping while she was gone despite taking sleeping medicine, I was awake for the day at 1 am because I kept having the nightmare that I was called and told that she was passed, and that I went to tell my dad, and he killed himself. I’ve had varying degrees of that nightmare reoccurring, but sometimes its a murder suicide, where I try talking him into killing me before killing himself, and he shoots me in the shoulder because he doesn’t want to kill me.

So, I expected things to be getting worse for the last few months, and my parents have been in denial. I expected to feel like the paperwork for becoming health-proxy would make a loud echo in the emptiness that is inside me at this point of time, but I just folded it up and put it in my wallet like it was any other piece of paper. I knew that I was going to fill this roll for years, so really this paperwork was only for the medical records. I half wonder if I folded it up nonchalantly because that’s what I’m hoping all this is. If I treat it like any other normal thing, maybe that’s what this all will become.

I’m angry, and uncertain, and very very worried. I don’t exactly know what I am. I don’t know where this is going. I’m tired.

Dear Guy Best friends

Dear best guy friends,

I was reminded tonight what a blessing it is to have you in my life. I overheard a conversation saying that “boys and girls cannot be just friends. Someone always ends up attracted to the other.”

That’s because you are putting limitations on what love is. You believe that loving someone relates to attraction: mind you even I get screwed up here sometimes. That’s why I call it friend crushes. Because really, it’s not that you want anything to do with them sexually. That’s not it. You aren’t romanticizing this person. You are being overwhelmed by attachment, affection and love. And you can feel all those thing strictly platonically for your friends and loved ones.

I love my boys. I would go to bat for every single one of them and if anyone wants to hurt them I’ll tear a chunk out of them for it. I would take every single burden from them if I could.

I’ve always had a guy best friend. Before kindergarten it was Todd. Elementary school was Jake. Jr high was Justin (which we still are together. 21 + years now) Then after high school I met my lderry boys. They have all seen me at varying degrees of the worst I’ve been. They’ve picked me up when I was broken and held me till the hurricane inside me stopped trying to rip all the siding off the houses. They don’t let me be right just because I bark louder then the rest, and honestly- they don’t make mountains out of mole hills for me.

I’m not a delicate girl in the slightest. I’ve always found my edges too sharp, my voice too loud, my fists clenched too tight. I’ve always had walls up so high, I’ve always hated everything about myself. Always. My boys tell me I’m worth being friends with even when I’m more beast then girl. My boys tell me I’m worth it even when I am actually more girl then beast.

They make me laugh when I’ve been broken down for so long. They don’t ask me questions about why I’m laughing so hard the tears keep falling. They just laugh and call me crazy in that way that normalizes it.

They are absolutely terrible with anxiety or panic attacks. The lot of them. They don’t get it so I explain when I’m not having one. But I went crying to the most logical one and spiraled out and he damn near sensed me to death. He was able to stop the looping and the circling for a moment. I cried all the way home because I felt stupid for showing the biiiiiig messed up ball of hurt I always keep from everyone. Therapy has rubbed me into a raw nerve.

I tell my boys I love them. We talk openly about mental health and I always tell them about what they bring to the table when they are single. Cause my guys are really fucking special. Maybe I don’t say it enough. I love my guys with everything I have in me. I’m a jerk to them a bunch. Mostly because I forget that I’m being a jerk and just because they can handle it doesn’t mean they should. I’m sorry.

I love my guys because they make me feel safe. I’ve said before I’m not a dainty quiet girl and I’ve always fought the idea that I need anyone to keep me safe but myself. But they do. I know My guys care, despite my depression telling me nobody does. I know that they love me and want me to be safe and happy because that is what I want for them. I know that they have taught me in small increments that I need to ask for help, that I need to shut up and say thank you more (let them hold the damn door sometimes, and not argue when they compliment me) and that I have never been too much to handle for them. That I’m crazy, and fucking loud. And that’s how they take me.

Dear guy best friends.

Thank you for everything you’ve done for me. I’m sorry if I haven’t told you lately.

I love you very much. Very very much.

~yours fondly~ the Brat.

“Fingerprints” poem March 7th 2019

I hope when you look up at the sky

When it’s sherbet and cream

Or velvet and marigold you think of times snuggled up together next to bonfires

the way our hair tickled each other

Our skin Sticky with sunblock and bug repellant as we leaned close for a photo I always made us do. A snap shot of a time where I was just so fucking happy. A moment in time, tangible, for a split second that I was this incredibly loved.

I hope when you hear a joke laughter bubbles up your chest and so loud it makes tears fall down your face

I hope you remember when we laughed like this. Hard. Till our sides ached. Remember the time I laughed so hard I cried just as hard? It’s because I realized how happy and blessed I was that I had you here with me. And how much I missed it all.

I hope when you hear yourself say something mean to yourself again, that you hear me scream. I hope you hear it so loud that you feel your own voice get hoarse. I don’t care how it works- I hope you hear me. You deserve more than that. Say you are sorry.

I cherish you, I never say it.

I’m blessed to have known you. I never say that either.

I should much more often

If I’m gone before you, I hope you remember me. I hope I’ve left a fingerprint somewhere. I hope some time you’ll smile when you think of me or hum your favorite tune. I hope I don’t get shelved like a library book of memories. But if you put me there because you need to, that’s okay too.

I’ll have our memories. I’ll have our snapshots.

I’ll think of the summers and the skies and the laughter. And when I get bad again, I hear you screaming

And I say I’m sorry

I deserve better. And I try a little harder.

You’ve left your finger prints too.

little stress ball

Being an only child sucks. I say this out loud while my therapist types something into her laptop and I look down at the stress squisher that I had dubbed my go-to stimmer when there. It was a bag that had orange waterbeads in it that were pleasant to squish around. Some asshole mashed them so now it just looked like orange jello in a breast implant bag, which wasn’t helping me with my agitation, so I placed it back and grabbed a harder stress ball and squeezed the hell out of it several pumps. It hurt my knuckles but at least it helped me focus a little.

We were talking about that mom had been having pain off and on for a year or more, and they had suspected that it was this bacteria in her gut that was supposed to be in her intestine…that she was going to have to do a test by breathing into a balloon and then if the bacterium showed up in her exhale, then she could be treated with antibiotics. I was really pressuring my mom to do the test, she had been denying doing the test after a couple weeks ago when she went from looking 8 months pregnant with 15 ish extra lbs of fluid in her abdomen that we nicknamed Ziggy- they drained the fluid pulling three liters from her (about 10 lbs worth) and its probably not 2 weeks later and she already has to go have another tap done. (this time we nicknamed him Clyde)

My therapist asked me if I talked to my dad about how stressed I was feeling in regards to my mom’s health, because I told her that I was worried about what it would mean if that it isn’t the bacteria. I told her I don’t talk to anyone, that I am a island when it comes to this, because I don’t know what to say. That it could be her liver acting up again and who knew what that meant…that I was worried because Grammy didn’t start showing these signs in her health until a month before she died, and sometimes my mom just comes over to cuddle me and cry and I just hold her feeling helpless and scared because I don’t know what else to do. I don’t know what to do without my mom and I get that sick feeling in my stomach as my own words from when I was 20 come echoing in my head over and over.

“I hope you never have to mourn someone who isn’t dead yet.”

Because its. Fucking. Hell.

Those words I said to myself and friends when my grandmother was actively dying, and I was sitting beside her. I told them that the one thing I wish for them is that they never have to mourn someone who isn’t gone yet.

But that is what I’m doing. It’s what I’ve been doing since losing my grandmother, honestly. It seems like since my Grammy died life has spiraled out from around us over and over again and its like we can’t catch our breath. My mom is terrified. And in being terrified she has become defiant. And in becoming defiant, she won’t listen to reason. She won’t go to the doctors when she is in pain. She won’t go to the hospital. She won’t do things. Because the bills. Because of how much its going to cost her to go and do these things. I remind her that funeral costs are much more expensive and avoidable if she is able to be treated appropriately. She reminds me her end of life wishes are not for funeral services. I acknowledge her wishes. Because I am an only child. This is going to be left to me.

My therapist tells me not to panic, that it probably is going to be the bacteria and that its going to be able to be treated. I told her that she was probably right, thanked her for her vote of confidence, promised to see her next week, and checked out. Except, turns out its not bacteria.

And mom is getting another tap to remove the fluid from her stomach in a couple days as the increase in her fluid pills did nothing. They’ll test that fluid, request some blood work, and report all that to her doctor.

My mother’s humanness is loud in her laughter as she belts out “I D K MY BFF JILL.” at me from across the room when I asked her a question, her humanness is quiet and small as I ask her if she needs to cuddle and she pulls my snuggie around her shoulders and she crosses the living room and curls up on the couch and leans against me, my arm across her shoulders as she sniffles and wipes her snot on my blanket. Something I always comment on because I know it will make her laugh.

My humanness gets caught in my throat, I don’t tell her I’m scared too, though she needs to hear it. She should hear me cry for her. Instead I talk to her of stupid shit, rambling, jokes, the frog in my throat bobbing up and down allowing words to escape but still making me feel like I am choking. My eyes feel like I have shards of glass pressed into them as the tears always burn when I don’t let them fall.

After a few minutes of just existing like that, she’ll go to bed, I’ll stay up for the dog. I’ll mindlessly watch something on netflix that I’ve seen a billion times, just to drown out the all -consuming- alone-quiet that feels so bone deep. I have to take something to make me sleep lately. Anxiety meds are not helping. Hopefully a solution will come sometime soon.

Therapy a month later…

I have been overweight all of my life. Instead of gossip magazines litering the back of our commodes in our house with the latest filthy dredges of popstars and other celebrities; ours was graced with lose-it-quick schemes and diet fads. My mom was a woman possessed for most of my childhood. It wasn’t like she didn’t try. We only had healthy snacks in my house, other kids were allowed chips and junk food snacks during snack time and I had crackers and cheese or even apple slices or gogurt. She tried her best with what she had. But every physical it was more and more dissapointment with every gain. She told me it wasn’t the gaining that made her so upset, that she loved me for exactly as I was, but that she wanted things to get easier for me. For me to be healthy. For the bullying to stop.

She was the one who held me as I collapsed dramatically into her arms and told her I hated my life, how I hated who I was. I remember her pushing back my hair that clung to my drenched face, her scrub shirt now holding a massive salt puddle across the front of her stomach. I can understand why she would press so hard after that. Weight watchers, naturalists, nutritionists. I remember the first time I was put on weight watchers I was about 8 years old.

She had me signed up for sports and activities. I played basketball on the weekends, I was on swim team, and karate. She took me to every free swim that I wanted or could go to because it was the only activity that I enjoyed doing. Being underwater. Honestly I loved the block that they used for training lifeguards, because it was too heavy for me to lift on my own, I’d grab onto it and stay down there until my head got swimmy, and then I’d climb up the ladder and do it all over again.

It wasn’t like my mom didn’t give it the good college try, but things really got out of hand after high school. When she couldn’t control what I ate anymore. Really, it started once I was 16 and making my own money because I could spend it on whatever I wanted if my bills were paid, but she controlled what food we had in the house so I was prone to sneaking it. I would constantly go on different fad diets with her, but the most I would lose would be 30 lbs and then I would never get anywhere further.

Previous blog entries I have written state that I am currently in therapy for helping me get through the Gastric bypass program. Its been a year of sliding downhill instead of succeeding. Most people are already done their surgery- and it’s been a couple of years since I’ve started the process…The three people I was “doing” this with are almost a year out of post-surgery. And I’m still here with my .2 lbs losses in a month. On a 150 lb loss goal. Yeah. I’m pretty fucking fed up and distressed. I am not looking for the easy way out, as I’ve expressed to everyone in my ‘team’ but I definitely need some help.

It’s been a couple weeks since I’ve started therapy. It is digging up some very uncomfortable emotions…because therapy has failed me before, I just assumed this was going to be another one of those useless endevors, but that I could give it a try and then let my weight loss program be satisfied in me trying to make some headway. I feel like group is a complete waste of my time, but I go to it, despite having to work the third shift a couple hours afterwards. And therapy is keeping me accountable for what I am eating. Not in the way that counting calories like I was doing for the WLS program, but just writing down what time I ate, what I ate, and if I considered it binging. Because Im classified under an eating disorder…binge-type. I don’t purge, which I thought would get me out of being classified under a eating disorder, but I do restrict. I hate eating in front of people, it makes me uncomfortable and sometimes gives me anxiety. I do it, but I am uncomfortable 99% of the time, but know its just me getting in my own way. That’s the hardest part. I know what my crazy is, but yet I can’t stop the train from rolling off the goddamn tracks.

Now my therapist believes I not only have depression and anxiety, but PTSD too. I know I have it from an incident that happened a couple years ago at work, but my therapist thinks that was just the topping…that I’ve experienced trauma from bullying and a hodge podge of whatever else happened in my childhood. We’re also working on Self-esteem (ouch) and apparently having abandonment issues. That’s what we’ve peeled back and revealed in the month that I’ve been doing therapy. PTSD and Abandonment anxiety. And really really shitty self-esteem that I disguise in humor. I’m supposed to be compiling a list of nice things that my loved ones have said about me. I stare at the blank piece of paper and think to myself “I don’t have anything nice to put here.” But that’s my brain bullshitting itself. I have friends who say nice things to me all the time. Love you. I love you. We love you. I love you.

My mom says nice things to me too. I think she’s supposed to, though. Cause she’s my mom.

I guess its nice to write down that I’m told I’m loved. But I don’t think that’s the list that she’s expecting me to hand her. Its supposed to be a list that I can read back to myself on days where I feel like I’m losing grip. I’ve already mentioned to her that I don’t think that my friends should be held responsible for my happiness.

I have piss poor opinion of myself. Everyone does, though. Nothing about my story is any different than a majority of people. Most people have issues with their looks, and although I hate some things about my outward appearance like everyone else, my joke that I do is “Yeah, I’m fat. And it’s not like I have any redeeming quality to make up for that. I’m a shit person too.” We all laugh and move on.

I’ve always hated feeling weak and powerless, and therapy rubs me the wrong way over and over. Exposing the live wires to my nerves and harps on them, until I’m rubbing at my arms, playing with the stimulators on the table or trying to keep from crying over something stupid. I know its good to get it out, and its nice to talk to someone who in turn gives me feedback, who doesn’t just stare at me or gets offended when I say something ‘wrong’. I feel like I am doing this a little too late. Feeling like I am at the end of my rope or running on borrowed time. I cried both in the office for therapy, then again with the nurse. Cried on my way home, cried on the phone with my mom later that evening. Its like we are breaking open a wall that I’ve had built up for years and it makes me cringe a little bit.

One of the things my dad said to me about 8 years ago was that he was proud of me for being strong and keeping it together so that he didn’t have to deal with both my mom and I breaking down. That he couldn’t handle us both breaking down. And so I sucked it up. Been sucking it up for years. So being vulnerable and emotional- I always hated that patronizing tone he took with me about me being such a girl about things. He and I have issues. I should clarify, I have issues with him. He thinks we’re perfect. He jokes and picks on me. And when I tell him to stop, Im all of a sudden emotional and over sensitive, which he doesn’t understand since he’s been joking about this stuff since I was little, why am I suddenly acting out about it now? Because I laughed because I wanted to spend time with him, didn’t want to be seen as dramatic or problematic. But now, as an adult, I don’t have to stick around and let someone hurt my feelings anymore. But now I’m being so full of myself and sensitive. My mom sides with my dad. My feelings don’t matter anymore. Its good to have someone to talk to; since my dad has been diagnosed with MS and my mom diagnosed with her Non-alcoholic chiriosis of the liver, my mom’s completely burned out. She can’t handle anything coming from me.

I spend a lot of time awake at night reading or writing or watching netflix, sometimes late into the night because there’s nothing to be expected of me in the early morning hours. But then my anxiety takes hold because I’ve not done enough, not tried hard enough, continued to let down myself by being lazy, continued to piss my mom off by not getting shit done around my house.

The thing is, even though I struggle with mental health stuff, I am not allowed to struggle with mental health stuff. Its not an excuse not to get anything done all day. It’s not an excuse not to get out of bed. Its not an excuse to miss work or miss an assignment. That shit doesn’t fly in my house. Never has. And because it’s always been like that, when I get sucked up into my own head, I spiral out because I know that if I can’t do anything that day, its going to cause issues and an argument later on. And what can I say? Sorry Mom? I forgot to do the dishes because I laid in bed and stared at my wall while enjoying the nothing going on behind my eyes?

Sorry that the laundry piled up again and you have to switch the load because I didn’t do it, but I just couldn’t hold myself upright longer than 30 more seconds and it was either put my dog out or fall asleep on the couch? I look at the sink full of dishes and I try to show up. I do try, just not enough. I look at the dishes and want to do the dishes, but then walk away. Like a broken SIM. Why the fuck? I know its a form of depression, not taking care of yourself. Sometimes its all I can do to make myself shower. That’s disgusting. Brushing my hair? Psh…yeah right.

What makes it worse for me is that everyone else is moving on with their lives and I am fucking stuck going to therapy for a eating disorder and unable to lose this goddamn weight enough to have surgery…so that I can get a full time job to pay for a place so I can move out…but I can’t do that until I lose the weight to have surgery and AROUND AND AROUND WE GO. Meanwhile kids I helped watch and teach how to read are adulting better than I am. Moved out, traveled abroad, getting married. My friends are getting engaged and new promotions or full time jobs, or having babies. And I’m the never growing up adult child stuck at home and reporting to someone else that I’ve eaten breakfast three times this week working on four! Wow! It’s almost like I need a gold sticker! YOU DID IT. So goddamn frustrating. My life has been a series of trials and hurtles. Nothing has ever come easy for me. Some people just have it all, and I’ll never be one of those girls. Between health and situation, that’s not in my cards. I’ll just have to pull myself together, stitch myself together like always, suck it up and bluff my way through this hand of cards. I’ve always had a really good poker face.