She Needed Time

“She needed time, like we all do. Time to be ok with being ok… because sometimes feeling right after feeling so wrong for so long, is the hardest thing to get used to.”-Unknown




Staying Put

Growing up with absent parents (or with their intermittent presence) seared a need in my soul, not only to be accepted, but also to find someone who could help me understand what it is about me that makes people not want to stay.

Even as a child, I felt that I was hard to love because why else would my parents leave me? So, all of my life I’ve searched for a soul brave enough to recognize my need for their approval, someone who wouldn’t be put off by it, but would, instead, take the time to sit with my flaws and help me figure them out.

In my quest for that, I’ve given people more chances than they’ve deserved, or even cared for, because once I find someone, I have an innate tendency to remain by their side-no matter what-until they decide they no longer need me.

Experiencing abandonment does that; It makes you incapable of walking away from people even when you KNOW they wouldn’t hesitate one bit to leave you.

The shitty thing about it is, I know that. I know that in the core of my being. I know it’s unhealthy and counterproductive but I do it anyway.

I allow people to disrespect, and dishonor me (sometimes for years at a time), because although I know better, the twelve year old inside of me still feels the need to stay put.

Maybe if I stay long enough, maybe if I put up with just the right amount of wrongdoing from them, those who hurt me will realize that I deserve better and treat me better-just as I believed at twelve years old that if only I stayed put, my parents would eventually come back home and find that I was still there.

It doesn’t work that way…

I’ve found that out over, and over, again.

All the contrary. The more I allow people to hurt me and disrespect me, the more they seem to think I deserve it. If they don’t already think I deserve it, and I question their behavior, they will find reasons to justify it and somehow always manage to make me feel as though it’s my fault.

Someone once actually told me that the things he did (cheating and lying among other things) were in fact wrong but that he never asked me to put up with them, or to remain by his side.

His exact words were “I never asked you to do any of that for me, you chose it for yourself”.

Here lately, those words have been resonating as if on a loop in my mind and
inside of me there is a war between the twelve year old me who wants to stay put and the adult me who no longer wants to wait around for anyone to realize her worth, anymore…


“She can handle the pain but it’s the little voice in her head that reminds her of how long she’s handled it that haunts her”.

❤ ,


Broken Hearts

Life feels like it’s going by so fast, my head spins if I stop long enough to notice it.

I’d been doing well…

Until, recently. It’s almost as if the only way to be ok is by being numb to everything but I can only remain numb for so long because after a while, numb feels worse than giving in to the old familiar sadness inside of me.

Sometimes, a long time goes by without feeling the void I’ve always felt. In that time, I can function. I feel normal-almost. Then, out of nowhere, it turns into a gaping void that demands attention, or it will swallow me whole, and I reach for the same old familiar things that make it feel better.

I hadn’t done so in years but I’ve picked up cigarettes again. It’s a coping tendency, a distraction from the things I don’t want to feel, the ones I’ve carried all my life.

On the outside, I’m just fine. I go to work and function as well as I can but the long drives home are more time alone than I can bare without a distraction from the things inside my head.

I blast the radio and sing the songs like my life depends on it-some days, it feels as though it really does-but in my heart there’s a sadness I can’t understand. It’s overbearing.

I don’t like pity but I feel it for myself when I realize, even as I’m in the middle of singing a song, that there isn’t really a time I can remember when this sadness wasn’t a part of me, my heart has always been broken and there is nothing that will ever make it feel entirely whole again-I get that. But the realization of it only makes the hurt that much worse.

I’ve started to believe that I’m so used to having a broken heart, that when I start to feel differently, I place myself in situations that I know will-inevitably-break it all over, again, just to see how long it will take to heal this time.

The thing about broken hearts is that they are never, ever, entirely put back together at all…

They are held together-in intervals-by hope that life can be different, that we can be different. Until, we hear a song, smell a familiar scent, see a familiar place, or a face that reminds us that we are not put together at all. And it shatters all over again without us even realizing until it’s so broken that the weight of its shards is overwhelming.

So, I smoke, not because I don’t know that cigarettes can kill me but because it feels as though the sadness inside of me already is…

I think I’ve left pieces of my heart in every place that’s made me feel alive, in all of things that I’ve lost, in the people that I’ve loved, and in every “almost” that will never be.

And I’ll spend all of my life searching for them…

I do my best to feel better. I stay close to the things I cherish, I don’t let many people in, and I focus on the things that keep me together instead of on the ones that are tearing me apart but it’s hard… So. Damn. Hard.

I’ve been here before and I know that in time, I will be fine again.

I just needed to come here and write to remind myself of that…


“Something inside is hurting you, that’s why you need cigarettes and whiskey, or music turned so fucking loud, you can’t think.”

❤ ,




“Maybe each life is just an echo of the ones that came before, bouncing on the things they learnt to land on something more. Maybe it’s never ending and our sound just travels on, with distance it gets quiet but is never truly gone. Maybe we’ll find peace in our silence when our time comes to be still, and know our voice can’t last forever but the truth it carries will.”

❤ ❤

I Love Wondering


“I don’t think I love very many things but here are the ones I can think of: I love the first sip of coffee in the morning. I love reading someone else’s words and finding a connection in them. I love the feeling a good song invokes. I love wondering. I love driving at night with no destination. I love the gentle kind of sadness like a reminder that I can feel.”-Marianna Paige

❤ ,


Two Places at Once


“The only thing I trust less than my mind is my heart. Life is like that sometimes and I’m so busy feeling out loud that when I hear the knock on the door, I can’t always tell the difference between opportunity and the sound of warning. So I answer to both of them. Opening it wide and letting whatever’s behind it inside. There’s something about souls disheveled, and a spirit unsure of its strength. When you can’t make sense of me, know I’m exactly where I’m meant to be: two places at once and alive in between.”

❤ ,


Long Gone

We tend to fear, and judge harshly, what our minds can’t comprehend. Mostly, because the unknown scares us. A few days ago, was the suicide anniversary of someone I knew and it reminded me of my own darkness.

Writing about our experiences is as healing as it can be dangerous. There are things I’ve never written about because to do so means to go back and (to some extent) experience the pain I felt when they happened. But sometimes, it takes looking back in order to move forward.

There was a time when I was so tired of not understanding life and the purpose of mine that I ached to vanish. It wasn’t so much a wish to die but just to disappear. To find life elsewhere where everything made sense. I imagined a parallel universe where I’d be born to parents who wanted me, who never left me, and taught me to trust in someone other than myself; A world where I did not feel completely isolated.

I didn’t want to die, I just no longer wanted to be here.

That yearning was pervasive and, for years, I tried hard to suffocate it. I drank, I smoked, I was promiscuous-I lost myself in lovers I never took the time to know, then discarded them like empty cigarette cartons.

I lived dangerously and I was reckless with the life I had because I felt broken; something inside of me was missing and I couldn’t figure out what it was so I thought I’d never find it.

I felt lost in a world where everyone else seemed to have come with life instructions and I was dying to keep afloat while simultaneously fighting the urge to dissolve into nothingness-because nothingness felt like the next best thing to existing that way.

In spite of it, I grasped at anything that made me feel grounded and for a long time, I convinced myself that I stayed alive for reasons outside of myself. The truth is, I stayed alive because even when I wanted to disappear, there was inside of me a sliver of hope that life was worth living.

But that isn’t always the case with broken people. Some reach their breaking point before they realize that they don’t want to die, that what they want is to stop hurting-or they reach a place of numbness, which is much, much worse than sadness…

People like me, we feel much more deeply and so we build walls around us, some to safeguards ourselves, some to safeguard those around us-that’s our way of loving them.

I don’t know what makes us different, or why we are so, I just know that I was born already hurting, with my heart on my sleeve and an innate understanding that there was more to life than the life that I’d been living. But it wasn’t until I learned to tell my story differently that I truly understood that.

In this world there is so much of what looks like love, and sounds like love, and calls itself love, but it isn’t. It’s just people saying and doing what they think they ought to say and do. And when you feel more than most, knowing that makes it difficult to get close to anyone. The thought of someone getting close enough to feel your raw edges only to leave when they touch them is terrifying. So, I’d unknowingly isolate myself even in crowded places.

Time has a way of becoming more valuable only after you’ve realized how much of it has already been wasted and after you go through life dragging all of your monsters with you and there’s enough history behind you, you just learn that though you may feel broken, you’re not meant to walk alone, or carry you demons everywhere you go. I’ve learned that if you hold on long enough, you shed yourself of what weighs you down, eventually. Then, you begin living.

The person that I am now is not who I used to be. I’m no longer afraid of loving, or of living. I’ve sat in the center of my own sorrow and didn’t let it shrink me. I’m no longer afraid of people leaving, I’m interested in seeing who sees my scarred, and bruised up, heart and still finds beauty within it-and if they leave, so be it. Now, I walk through life with a sense of wonder, seeking magic even in places where I once found only sorrow.

Still, I can’t help but understand those who’ve lost their battle, their will to keep on living, to keep on fighting, to keep on striving when there seems to be nothing left to hope for. The ones who became so sad, there was nothing left to fan the flames of their own fire and so they wore their darkness in silence until it became too much of a weight to carry.

Suicide is real, it’s the ultimate cry for help, for understanding, for someone to reach out and save them. And It pains me to hear those who have never dealt with darkness call it “an easy way out”.

You know what is easy? Judging someone who’s in a place you’ve never been, in a kind of pain, and sadness, that you have never known, with a heart that is still beating in your chest while the beat of theirs is long gone…


“You wake up every morning to fight the same demons that left you so tired the night before. And that, my love, is bravery.”

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