In this episode, I talk jobs, university, confusion, and the expectations that come with growing up.

Song is “A Cool Rainy Night” by Mike Durek. It is found here (https://freemusicarchive.org/music/Michael_Durek/Piano_Music_for_The_Broken_Hearted_1221/03_A_Cool_Rainy_Night), and used according to this license (https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by/4.0/).
It has been edited by me.

“Mimos Menguados” is from patrickdeartegea.com  and 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.

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a growing list of my debts

this… this was what you were meant to do. i think we all know it. because whatever this system is, it is growing like ivy up onto my skin. and all these beautiful things were supposed to make me happy… so why aren’t i happy? so why am i sinking into the quicksand, drowning in deadlines that i am soon to forget…

as the passage of time starts to bury me. and if anyone is listening, i need you to carry me, far away. from everything going on out there. so if you love me, let me go. if you love me, tether me up with some string and run as fast as you can on an open field, and watch as i begin to float. climbing higher, and higher, and higher,until i’m finally alone…

if you love me, tie my hands, and don’t look back. don’t listen, when i beg, and plead to be set free. take all my things away. and leave me, with an empty stomach. and a cold, glossy dinner plate…

and i’ll owe you. just like i always do. write it down on my calender. paralyzed by the thought of needing you.

Now I think about it, most of my life, I’ve been unable to shake the feeling of owing. Of so much as the ground beneath my feet needing to be paid off, somehow.

When I was little, I learned about money. My dad was an accountant, so I guess it was pretty natural to know all about taxes and stuff at an early age. He taught me about loans, and how I should almost never take one out, and instead make sure I was always the one giving out the loans to other people.

Of course, he never intended for that mindset to stick with me more ways than just financially. For me to take that theory and apply it to everything else in my life. I was a child, and honestly a really weird one at that–no one one could have predicted that kind of thing from the outside.

My mom bought me socks? My friend got me a birthday gift? I owed them. I owed them all. Somehow. I was in debt, and debt was bad, and therefore I had to do something for them in return to pay it off. Or… she wouldn’t love me anymore. My worth to other people was dependent on how much I could give, and honestly… sometimes it felt like I wasn’t going to be able to pay off my debt before it buried me alive. Now I think about it, that’s probably why I like to work alone.

Even now, with two jobs, I constantly feel like I’m drowning, just barely keeping my head above water. Like I have to churn out money faster and faster, take on as many hours as possible, so I can… God. I don’t even know. It’s dumb. But it’s also something I lie about late at night thinking about sometimes, so.

Realizing you’re worthy of the space you take up, without needing to justify it with your productivity… it’s hard. It’s scary, and confusing, and I don’t think I’ll be there for a really long time. But, I mean, hey, we’re all just trying our best. And eventually, we will get there. I guess.

Lots of love,


love letters

i’ll write you love letters from my bedroom. because i don’t know how to tell you this stuff anymore. not in person. not in that uncanny moment, when my eyes meet yours, and for one split second i am forced to confront the fact headfirst… that i’m only human.

and i’ll flinch when you touch me. because i don’t know what else to do. because your pounding vein hits mine, and i am reminded that i am nothing more than one messy, bleeding wound. and for all the times i probably should have said it: i’m sorry. that you’re right beside me, and yet somehow, i still miss you.

and i’ll type it up on a text message. i’ll stare at it for ages. wipe the tears off my cheeks, and mumble happy birthday like everything is fine. when it isn’t.

when i am a post-apocalyptic building, the beams just barely holding. when i don’t let myself breathe in the dollar store; as i am slowly swallowed whole by my own dark humor. but for all the times i probably should have said it: i’m sorry. and i love you.

and yeah. i know i’m not exactly great at this stuff. but… i promise, that is true.

It’s one of the most terrifying experiences for me. To be open. And I don’t think that that’s something I’m in alone in.

I’ve always had trouble with the little things. Holding my mom’s hand while crossing the street. Being touched when I wasn’t expecting it. You know what I mean.

I don’t know why that is. Because all bullying that happened to me as a kid was mostly emotional, I was rarely physically hurt by anybody–not enough that you’d think it’d justify a whole complex about ever letting myself be intimate with anybody. But, I guess something must have happened to cause it, because here we are, terrified of eye contact and cuddles.

Obviously, almost four months of quarantine really didn’t help with letting myself be intimate with family and friends. I spent so long working on letting go of my fear of letting down my guard, and now it’s like I’m starting right from square one. It’s hard not to be mad at myself for that–even though it’s not like a global pandemic is my fault, obviously.

It’s not that I’m scared of other people, I guess–for the most part, although being touched by strangers or acquaintances is another story; in that case I definitely am scared of people. But with those I love… I’m just scared of myself. Scared of hurting them. Scared of getting too close. Scared of losing myself. Scared of letting me down. Scared of how finite I am, how completely and utterly irrelevant. Scared this is all a lie, somehow, and I’m going to wake up someday, and remember how terrible and unlovable I am. And it’ll all be over.

I’m working on it, though. I am. Really, really fucking slowly, but… I am. I’ve overcome this before, and I can do it again. Yeah. I have to believe that that’s true.

Lots of love,



trigger warning: body image issues, implied self-harm, implied compulsive skin-picking

wake up, little girl. do your makeup in the mirror. use the dollar-store sponge you got years ago, and dab on the concealer.

over the scars. over the scabs. over all the bleeding wounds you’ve inflicted on yourself, because you could be so beautiful. you know? and yet, here you go. throwing it down the drain. and in just a second, everything i gave you could be taken away.

you just have to get it away. digging holes into yourself again and again. because this little girl is not okay. this little girl is filled up with things that disgust her, and things that disgust her must be violently ripped away.

wake up, little girl. you can’t go to work looking this way. so put on some foundation. and don’t bother with lip gloss, because that shit never stays.

wake up, little girl. because someone as broken as you… well, let’s face it. no one’s going to see your face in all its honesty, and still call it beautiful.

Looking in the mirror, I’m used to highlighting all of the things I don’t like. My cheeks, which are out of proportion to my forehead, and I’ve always thought make me look like a chipmunk. The scabs scattered across my forehead that most days, I’m too tired and busy to bother covering up with makeup. My forehead in general. I’ve done it so many times, it’s automatic. I’m sure I’m not alone in that.

The truth is, so many of us have been taught, whether from our parents, siblings, friends, relatives, schools, or the media, that we’re not good enough. That it’s normal to pick yourself apart–and, as little kids do when they see a behavior modeled on someone they trust, fear, or look up to, we learned to copy it; take it on. As a kid, I’d often get teased about my appearance–about my messed up teeth or my scabs or because according to a girl who used to bully me, my butt jiggled when I ran. (Which is the stupidest insult in retrospect, but also hurt a lot at the time.) Bodyshaming was a huge part of my school’s culture–it was like you couldn’t even be considered a girl if you didn’t hate yourself. We would ask each other if we were fat while we waited outside the school in the morning, before class would start, and tell each other what we thought were the ugliest features our classmates–and sometimes, ourselves and each other–had.

My parents never really contradicted those things either, and although they never criticized how I looked, they didn’t deny it either–and it definitely didn’t help that, well, my body type just isn’t meant to be skinny, and without a self-destructive level of exercising and dieting, to the point of it negatively affecting my mental and physical health, I will never look like the girls on my Instagram feed. Whereas, my parents were and still are the picture of perfect health, skinny and muscular and outdoorsy, constantly impressing on me the importance of maintaining a good fat/muscle ratio.

But it’s bullshit, honestly. Like, there are so much more important things to worry about than the things we don’t like in ourselves and each other–imagine how cool the world would be if rather than spending all that time trying to fit a messed up standard of beauty, we used it to pursue things we loved, or make each other happy. And, I don’t know, on a good day… I feel pretty. I really do. Which is not something I don’t think I’ve ever been able to say before. I take dumb selfies and send them to nobody, and I dance around my room in my favourite twirly white dress, and don’t feel ashamed of my thighs. Obviously, that’s not most of the time. But still. It’s something, right?

Lots of love,



there is a hole in my head. dripping out onto the floor. there is a hole in my head. and i don’t know what i’m going to do anymore.

there are forestfires, burning down my cheeks. and oh my god, does it sting…

there is asphalt in my stomach. wet, and placid. ruminating on all the wrongs i’ve done, as reality warps and bends in the midsummer air… and i just want to forget. could we please just forget?

because even after all this time, i still don’t know if i honestly deserve to be here.

and because there’s something controlling me. i can feel it. because i’m nothing more than a puppet on a string, even if these joints are weighed with the mistakes i’ve made. even if these strings are fraying, slowly.

there is a tunnel. a spiraling maze, you can die trying to follow. there is a grove of trees, surrounding me. their leaves starting to whisper sweet nothings, ever-so-softly. there is a tally mark on my wall, of all the things no one should ever have to know about me.

and there is a little closet in my room. where i like to pretend… that the cracks in my skull are something you can remedy.

Guilt has never been an easy emotion for anybody. Has it?

The summer of sixth grade, I lost three whole months to it, over a tiny error that plunged me into one of the darkest places I’ve been in for a long time. I never really got over it, in the conventional sense–there was no moment when I chose to forgive myself. Eventually, I just had to force myself to move on with my life. I did learn some pretty good coping strategies though, which I guess is something.

I haven’t had intense episodes of chronic guilt/self-loathing/what-was-probably-depression-but-I-don’t-know-I-was-eleven since, not to that level of severity where it was making it hard to sleep, and consuming my every waking hour. But it’s still continued to be a difficult emotion for me. Sometimes, I can’t even tell, whether I should be feeling guilty about something or not.

Other times, I know it’s ridiculous–I shouldn’t be beating myself up to the extent I do for such small, inconsequential things as forgetting to answer a text; apologizing to someone as though my life defends on it. And I do it anyway. Because… well, because I can’t help but feel that it’ll keep me safe. I guess that’s just anxiety for you. Sometimes, I do fuck up. I make a mistake, and I learn my lesson from it, and I apologize, and take all the steps I can to make sure it won’t happen again, and then proceed to cut myself off from all social interaction for two weeks because I’m the scourge of humanity now, apparently.

It’s something I and many other people never learned to regulate properly as a child, is what I’m getting at. But I’m working on it.

I don’t have an easy answer–and I don’t think there is one; the process of learning from mistakes is yours and yours alone. But I hope, wherever this post finds you, it brings you some form of relief–from whatever you might be going through.

Lots of love,