surgery

& please oh god oh please / stitch the fault lines into neat seams / slash and cut and tear me into something else so i can breathe / because i can’t breathe / sometimes / when  your hand brushes mine / and it’s not pretty / or romantic / when i say i can’t breathe i mean i start to fucking panic / & hey / can we just talk for a while because / i think my head is gonna explode into little glass pieces on the floor if i don’t tell someone about it / & i’m overcaffeinated / & useless / reaching out with one hand through the piercing dark / & why / why does my life always have to be this hard? / i mean shut up / you don’t have a right to say anything you’ve been through is hard / and maybe the voice is right / maybe they’re right / maybe it’s time to give up / & just / let myself fall apart


Reaching out to others is really important for me. I guess that’s why I’m writing this blog in the first place–because reaching out to others is probably the only reason I’m in the place I am in life right now, honestly.

(I promise I’m safe, I just wrote this a couple months ago while I was in a really dark place.)

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december 1st, 2019

go ahead. leave me alone. close the door, and turn off the light. it’s fine. you were going to forget about me anyway. don’t try to lie.

and so go ahead, okay? leave me with nothing but dust, and ash, and an empty head. and i’ll curl up in a ball and pretend that i don’t know what i am without another person holding my hand.

because i get it. i’m not that memorable. and if i wasn’t there to remind you i exist, i’m pretty sure you’d probably just forget about it. and go make new friends.

because there are people out there who will help you. it’s just… i’m tired of having to scream my lungs out, and stamp my feet into the ground, and tear myself apart just hoping you’ll notice.

so just… promise me, that if i close my eyes. that if i hand you everything that matters. that if i fall apart in your arms, and give you all the chances in the world to leave me, you’ll still be there.


Ugh. Feelings of abandonment are really hard for me, and definitely something I’ve been struggling with of late. I just want to put a note on this that honestly, in reality, my friends are awesome and amazing and I love them to bits–even if anxiety makes me worry about being hurt or abandoned by them. These thoughts are not, in any way, based in reality, and I’m sorry if this sounds melodramatic. I know it kind of sounds melodramatic. But my brain has honestly been really melodramatic of late.

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november 29, 2019

it’s been a long time since i’ve been alone like this. since the monsters have shouted in my head with no competition, and i have closed my eyes, and just… let it all happen.

it’s been a long time since i’ve disintegrated like this. stared at a blinking cursor all morning, trying and failing to convince myself to do something. anything. even if it won’t be perfect. you made a to-do list for a reason, and wasting time isn’t on it.

and my hands are going numb. and the earth is starting to spin. and for all the times i’ve glorified my suffering i hate having to feel like this. 

and i should be getting back soon. should be going faster, because i have shit to get done. but… that would mean facing myself. and owning up to who i am. and admitting that i’ve got problems. that there’s a hole in my chest i need to do something about.

but if i acknowledge that there’s a problem… i don’t know if i’ll be able to live with myself.


Being alone is weird for me. It’s not a bad thing, exactly–just really strange. I wrote this while I was home alone at night, and just… had a lot of thoughts going through my head. Anyway, check out the spoken word version of this poem here, and I hope it meant something to you all. ❤

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september 13th, 2019

it would be nice. to hear your voice, and believe that it’s all right. because my head feels like it’s melting. and i don’t know what to believe. and it would be nice to not feel this way, for a while, okay? to not feel… alone. or empty. or… like a castle, crumbling to pieces. or like a girl who can’t stop tearing herself to pieces, because it’s habit. and because rather than playing with toys in the basement like a normal kid you had an illness. and now maybe now do you understand why it hurts like this? why it’s so hard to let go like this? and why i can’t even step out of my room without having a panic attack like this? like this? like this? and it would be really nice to not hate myself so much all the time. or to have any idea what’s going on inside my head. or to be able to maintain a stable social interaction, but obviously… that’s not going to happen. at least… not this time. because that’s the thing about mental illness, isn’t it?  if you get a broken leg, you can put it in a cast. and if you get the flu, there’s a shot for that. but there are no surgeries to fix a childhood spent believing you’re worthless. there is no instant cure. there is no miracle fix. even if people can listen. and help. and hold your hand, for however long they have. and give you hugs, and suggestions, and make you feel okay for the first time in ages. but this is my fight. this will always be my fight. and no one else can change that.


i think the thing about getting help is–before you actually get it, at least for me, it had this kind of mythic status in my head. once i got help, i would be okay. i would be normal. i would be cured. just like that. i don’t think it’s like that. therapy helps. it really does help. but it helps you fix yourself. going to therapy is work. maybe i’ve always thought of it like a medical surgery–like something i just had to lie still and wait for the anesthesia to kick in for. but it’s not like that. it’s the opposite. going to therapy is like operating on yourself while fully conscious. therapy is relearning everything you ever thought was true about yourself. and i can’t say how much that has helped. but in the end… you still have to choose what you do with that. no one else can fight the battle for you. they can only support you in it.


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