In this episode, I talk being sad, what this podcast means to me, and get really cheesy and make editing-me cringe. I’m not sure when season 2 will be out as of now, but make sure to follow @sonnetsofateenagewannabe on Instagram, Twitter, and Tumblr, as well as my main social media handles (all under @dragonwritesthings) to stay up-to-date on its production. 🙂

Song is “Hope” by Yakov Golman. It is found here (https://freemusicarchive.org/music/Yakov_Golman/Piano_album_1/Yakov_Golman_-_Hope) and licensed under this license (https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by/4.0/). It has been modified by me.

“Mimos Menguados” from patrickdeartegea.com. It has also been edited by me.

Need to talk to anyone? Find a crisis line in your area here: https://www.suicidestop.com/call_a_hotline.html

All songs have been edited by me.

All sound effects made by yours truly! 🙂

The next episode will be dropping next Friday, 9a.m. PDT–make sure to subscribe/follow/add this podcast to your library/enable notifications on it to be notified when it comes out.
Find me on all my internet places here: https://linktr.ee/goldfishandthemicrophone

when it rains, it pours

we’ve got five seconds. until we’re going overboard.

and my heart… my heart is wound up in string. it is the pelican on tv, caught up in discarded fish netting. yet another fucking sign the world is ending…

we’ve got four seconds, now. so please just know that i’m sorry. and i’ll fix this. i promise… just be patient with me…

three seconds. time is running out now, and i can’t stop hyperventilating. i thought we were safe now, but i guess the times are changing.

two seconds. the water rises. and i can’t speak clearly. so i’ll scream, goddammit. so i’ll flail about in the ice-cold water frantically. because whatever happens, i won’t go out silently.

one second. you’ll offer me a lifeboat, but i can do it myself. and i refuse to let anyone help me.

so when it rains, it pours. and when i wash ashore, completely numb, please don’t make a big deal out of it. i know what i’m doing.

These days, it’s hard not to feel like the world is ending.

I grew up on a steady diet of financial dramas, BBC documentaries, and climate change films. I’ve seen so many, it’s insane. If you ever want to just talk to a walking directory of climate change documentaries, feel free to hit me up.

And partially as a consequence of seeing these so young, I’ve always grown up with the vague assumption that I am probably not going to live past 30. Whether it be because of food shortage, or war, whatever, you name it. Whether or not that assumption is true or not, I don’t think it matters. The point is, that’s how, in the back of my mind, I have always planned my life. Doesn’t mean that the prospect of my premature death makes me happy, but I still think it’s likely.

Maybe that’s why I’ve pursued success at such a young age. Because if I’m not a global sensation by the time I’m eighteen, I mean, what’s left for me? I’ve failed. Even if all along, I was set up for failure, I failed. As I see it, I’m already halfway through my lifespan.

I think in so many ways, young success is Gen-Z’s ideal. Our influencers on social media, our musicians, the activists we might look up to… how many of them are under 25? Maybe it’s just who I follow, but a fair majority of them aren’t far over twenty, and older creators generally favoured by my generation feel like the exception, not the rule.

In no way am I saying that those people aren’t absolutely badass and amazing, or that honing your craft at a young age isn’t impressive and wondeful, because as a young creator, however small, I’d be a hypocrite to say that. But I also feel like when no one ever acknowledges it, it can be toxic; and it’s also just a very interesting part of my generation’s culture to me.

I don’t know how much of this is a girl thing, how much of this is a teenager thing, and how much of this is a Gen-Z thing, but, I don’t know, it’s something I felt like unpacking.

Lots of love,


there is a mouse in my attic

i hear it, skittering around at night. feel it gnawing on my fingers while i sleep sometimes. and when i wake up, there is blood on the sheets. but it’s all right…

i see it, out of the corner of my eye. its teeth sharp; red eyes glowing in the dark. it is quiet, and polite. and it reminds me of myself sometimes.

on those endless, burning summer nights. when i stare into the mirror, and i look like someone else. but maybe i’m tired… maybe it’s just a trick of the light…

i can feel it. as the the mouse scrambles up onto my shoulder, and stares back at me, smiling crookedly.

and i hate it. as i lie still as a statue, allowing it to deconstruct my body. tunnel swiss-cheese holes into my chin, as it chatters happily.

but… maybe i can’t help but love it, too. in all honesty.

I feel so broken, sometimes. And I think the worst part is, that in all honesty, I’m not good at hiding it. In theory, I’m sure I could–but I’m too busy for that, and also a shit liar.

In my mind, though, I am a careerwoman. A beautiful, golden success. I am professional, kickass,, and okay, and keep mental health as far away from my work life as possible.

In reality, though, I mean… I did a little gardening gig for a family friend a few weeks ago, and he would always offer me water, on these really hot days when I’d been in full sun for hours on end. And I’d always say no, until I literally thought I might pass out. I worked faster and faster, out of fear of costing him too much money. I purposefully put out my back one time. And I couldn’t help but get obsessed over these little things that weren’t quite right, and what started out as “attention to detail” quickly became toxic perfectionism. I don’t know if he noticed or cared; could see my mess of a mind peeking out from beneath the paperthin mask, but it made me feel awful.

You know, it’s funny. I’ve only cried in front of my best friends a couple of times. I cry in public a fair bit to be honest–potentially more than I cry in my house. (By public, I mean at nine o’clock on my street with two people in sight, but still.)

And yet in front of friends or family; people who could actually hurt me in a meaningful way if they wanted, while I’m in that state of vulnerability–that’s what scares me. That’s why I never let it happen, and why I always try to brush it off, say I’m fine, even though I know perfectly well I’m not fooling anyone.

Despite how far I’ve come in terms of dealing with my own internalized stigma, despite all of my inner circle of friends knowing about my mental illness, I still desperately want to come across as fine, and healthy to them. No matter how obvious it is I’m not either of those things.

Lots of love,



the surgery… didn’t go well.

but don’t worry. it’s okay. we’ll figure it out. find a way to patch your tired heart back together, and get you out of this hell...

and so i’ll trust you. because i have to. bite my lip, just like mommy taught me, because all you have to do is try and focus on the pain, on the little things you can control. and not the blinding light at the end of this tunnel, pulling me in for a kiss. again, again, again…

so just make sure you tell all the little ones to avert their gaze. you understand? because i don’t want anyone to have to see me this way.

even after you tie off the stitches. send me home in crutches. trying your best to ignore the little demon scuttling along beside me, that even you could not chase away.

but honestly, maybe it’s all right. because on lonely nights, it talks to me. and i let it stay.

I just get so tired of healing sometimes.

Honestly, it’s boring. And tedious. Nowhere near as sexy as the movies make it out to be. It is long nights spent crying alone about shit that happened years ago. It is struggling to remember all the things you learned in therapy in the moments when you need it the most. It is fucking up.

But, I mean, there are little good things. Amidst all the drudgery and pain. That feeling you get, when you remember your coping mechanisms, and you know that your therapist would be proud, and maybe, just maybe, you’re proud of yourself too. Or… going to bed early, and not waking up feeling exhausted–which is probably normal for most people, but barely ever happens for me, so it feels really good when it does, and I text all my friends to tell them about it. It is spending an afternoon sewing, or writing, or baking bread.

It’s boring, and hard, and painful, and slow, but it’s worth it. It is so fucking worth it.

Lots of love,



trigger warning: blood, medical imagery

put on your mask, and your surgical gown. because it’s tuesday morning, and we know what that means, don’t we now?

time to line up the dirty kitchen knives on the breakfast table, as the birds chirp. sneak a look at your reflection in the foggy metal….

now make the incision at the top of my forehead. quick, and smooth. take notes, as a sickening, relentless guilt starts to bloom. hack off every wrapping-paper petal.

and as my blood dribbles onto the floor, make a quick run down to the dollar store. come back with a cheap, plastic tomb, and a screaming kettle.

go on. because if you really don’t care, why can’t you just leave me there, in the operating room? unplug the heart-rate monitor. disconnect the iv tube…

and close the door, with a furious, thundering boom.

I have cut myself open so many times, it’s practically second nature. I guess it’s just hard to draw the line between self-awareness and introspection and relentless self-criticism for me.

I will see myself through others’ eyes, draw up sketches in my mind of what a weak/awful/pointless person they must think me to be. I don’t know if they’re accurate, but I’ve lived most of my life in third person–and it’s worked out pretty well so far, hasn’t it?

I will analyze every little thing I do, and tear it apart. Tell myself I’m meaningless and awful and I don’t deserve love, over something as little as forgetting to do the dishes. I will squirm in my sticky, plastic skin, shrink-wrapping me in place, wishing I could just get out, get away. But I can’t, obviously.

I will lie awake for hours at night, thinking about every bad thing I’ve ever done, all my mistakes, and all the moral grey-areas I’ve danced upon. And god it’s exhausting, to be so tangled up in my fucking mind that I can’t have so much as one happy moment.

To be honest, though, I don’t know how to stop doing it. Don’t know who I even am without it. I don’t know, it’s really confusing.

Lots of love,