you are imperfect. you are the wind in the leaves, you are the broken branches, and the buckling trees.

you are dollar store hoodies. you are old navy jeggings, and clashing teeth. embarrassing diary entries from 2015.

you are sappy fanfiction, password protected on your broken hp. and maybe it was cliched. maybe it was messy. but god knows, it made you so happy.

made you frenetic and crazy. made you shaking hands, made you quivering leaves. dancing around your bedroom to songs about turning sixteen.

because deep down you have always been the art of wandering through shittily paved suburban streets. of picking honeysuckles off the vine, and searching for something sweet.

and… i think that’s beautiful. in a way. think that maybe, if all i could leave behind were those simple moments of childlike joy… well, maybe that would be okay.


i put myself to bed early last night, you know? wiped the tears off my eyes with the sleeve of my sweater. and i dreamed of something strange, and cold.

got lost. in these long, winding roads, lined in an endless funeral procession of cornflower and yarrow.

and as the tendrils of smoke start to tighten around my throat, the chickadees beg for help. and i will try to let go.

try not to listen too closely. as the walls press in around me. and the monsters under my bed to scream, and shout, spittle dripping off their hungry, serrated mouths.

the riptide lashing against my flimsy island of blankets and pillows. a thousand empty sentences, and mismatched syllables.

Ever since I stopped seeing my therapist, I’ve had to do a lot of coping on my own.

I know that sounds sad, but honestly, I feel like I’ve learned a lot about myself, and I feel a lot more confident just knowing that I can manage myself, even when my friends are off their phones, and when I don’t have a mental health professional to turn to.

On a good day, I can do it. I can care for myself the same way I would a small child, with compassion, and patience, even when my brain is at stubborn and slow. But… on a bad day; when I’m so deeply consumed in my own mind, well, that tends to go out the window.

This is the thing with depression: you have an army of supportive, loving friends and family surrounding you, and yet still–it has this way of making you feel so alone; distorting your reality in whatever way it pleases. I’ve heard people describe depression a loss of interest in things they used to get pleasure from, but for me it’s more like I can’t remember, in the moment, what those things even are–and nor do I care enough to try and remember.

For the record, in no way would I recommend just trying to cope on your own before having seen a therapist. I tried using small mental health blogs (rather like this one, now I think about it) as a substitute for therapy for a very long time–and the fact is that reading this post will not help you manage your illness. Working really hard with a professional, for a really long time will help you manage your illness. I spent about two years in therapy before I started going it alone. I’m not writing off therapy forever, just taking a break for the foreseeable future.

Even if you can’t afford to see a therapist–which is totally reasonable–there are always crisis lines you can call to talk anytime, anonymously, for free. Here’s a masterlist, which should have something in your country. 🙂

Lots of love,


fire with fire

don’t you just want to forget, sometimes? crawl into the freshly washed sheets, and let yourself drown in the strangling humidity.

or just stare into the mirror, unable tear your eyes off the bulge of your stomach. or those chunky thighs. and i know it’s just a game, i know it’s just a lie but… i guess it’s hard not to fall for these things, sometimes.

so i’ll beg my false god for forgiveness. i’ll kneel at his feet. i’ll say thank you, and please. and yet still… no matter what i feed his hungry jaw, it will never appease.

so i’ll fight fire with fire. i’ll set my good luck charm alight.

i think it’s long past time i learned to accept that this twisted fantasy, of crisp dollar bills, of fortune and fame… it doesn’t love me. doesn’t care, if i make it through the night.

all it wants is one more flame. bright, and desperate. and so full of life…

I guess I’ll start at the beginning.

I’ve spent so much of my life thinking money was the endgame–if that makes sense. That if I could just save up this much, suddenly, all the problems in my life would just go away. I literally have kept thousands of dollars of birthday money over the years, and honestly, that was one of the best decisions I’ve made in my life. I would much rather be able to move out after I graduate than have blown it on tacky animal hoodies circa 2012 at the dollar store, or Diary of a Wimpy Kid books, you know what I mean?

But back then, spending it ever wasn’t the goal. It was this strange safety blanket, something that set me apart from everyone else. Whenever I felt threatened by a situation, that money was the first thing I reminded myself of. Spending so much as a dollar–it felt like giving up a limb. It still does, now I think about it. Sometimes, I just lie awake at night panicking that something’s going to happen to that money, that I’m not going to be able to get enough of it fast enough, my mind flashing through all of these nightmare scenarios.

I think part of that is caused by the way I was raised. My parents always brought me up as an independent person, which I am glad for. But that combined with my anxiety combined with the culture I was brought up in really only served to reinforce the concept, at as young an age as five or six, that if I didn’t have enough money, bad things were going to happen, and when they did, no one would come to help me.

For so long, all I dreamed of was wealth. I didn’t care, about liking my job, or about having a loving relationship with friends, family, or whatever. All I wanted was to know I’d be safe–forever.

When I was ten, and starting to get into writing, I remember casually telling my mom in the car that I could always probably fund my career with a rich husband, if all else failed. She laughed like it was a joke, but honestly, it’s still an option I consider sometimes.

I don’t think of myself as a selfish, or ruthless person. But in a thousand tiny ways, I can be. And I hate that.

But it feels like it’s what I have to do right now to survive. Even if makes me feel awful.

I don’t know. Just something that’s been on my mind of late .

Lots of love,


thicker than water, i suppose

blood really must be thicker than water, i suppose. if it can ooze down the stairs this way. slip into the cracks in the sidewalk, so i don’t notice when it follows me home.

or when slips into the bombshell eyes of the people i used to trust. the people i used to know. and now a thousand spiders find me, in broken promises. and frantic whispers. but when their shining eyes beg silently for help, i will always say no.

and i will ignore the stories. oh, the thousands upon thousands of stories, swimming through my lungs. devouring my shaking body whole.

and i will listen closely, when the butterflies say… oh, little girl, wouldn’t you like to fly? wouldn’t you like to rip up the rotting pages of history, and just rise above it all.

and so i will live vicariously, through telephone poles and long-passed airwaves. leaving behind nothing but crumpled yellow wings, and crimson bloodstains.

play the hero

the woodsmoke contaminates our lungs.

because no matter how hard i fight, in the end i’ll always lose you. i was never cut out to play the hero. but what else am i supposed to do?

so i stay up until 2am, painting the glass ceiling a perfect shade of blue. even though my mask, i can still smell the paint fumes.

but i will keep going. i will ignore the blinding sunrise, digging its pins and needles in my eyes; i will grit my teeth, and push through…

but i don’t understand. how come the rivers of poison always seem to follow you?