2.46. The Wounded Soul – My Proudest Failure

This post is not about the many known names who have died over the course of this year from apparent suicide. Their deaths are sad and a loss to the world but there is nothing that can be done for them.  Their chances have ended. It’s sad but what can you do about it now? This is not about the unknowns who are gone from this world. Their story is no different. This is about the ones we can save. 

When I was 26, after my son was born, I suffered from postpartum depression while simultaneously suffering from an infection, which caused me to lose part of my right breast. The fake glue that was holding my doomed marriage together melted away. My world crumbled very quickly. I recall sitting in a bathroom and penning a letter to my child in which I apologized for failing him, for not being strong enough to have the desire to continue. I remember calling a crisis hotline while sitting on the curb of a dark street and telling some stranger I was a horrible piece of shit because I had a child but I wanted to die. I remember going to a hospital and asking for an evaluation. I sat in a cold, bare room, and waited for someone to tell me I was insane. After talking with Tom, he informed me I was suffering from PTSD, from events earlier in my life,  and Postpartum. When I said I wanted to die, he explained, I was simply asking to sleep…for rest…escape from pain I could not seem to get away from. I was released and attempted to pull myself out of that darkness. 

When I was eighteen, after being caught in the act, I admitted to battling Bulimia. It was a slow way out but I often hoped I would just become extremely frail and collapse and that same sleep would come. My mother told me to get over it. 

When I was 13, my father found me in our trailer in Clintondale, New York. I’d swallowed a ton of his painkillers and anything else I could find in the medicine cabinet. I was ashamed of my life. I was scared of being a nothing. I wanted to quit. 

When I was 11, I was admitted to a mental health ward, against my will (and my parents) for a mere 16 hours (a lifetime to an 11 year old btw). I’d gone in after a referral from a childhood therapist. Because I wouldn’t discuss things that were happening but implicated myself in several acts of self-harm, I was held for evaluation. I can still remember the screams and belligerent rants of those held in rooms next to me. After those 16 hours, I conned my way out of that hospital, claiming it was all an act and absolutely nothing was wrong with my home life. I learned how to lie on that day. 

When I was 5, a sibling found me on the ledge of our apartment window. When asked why I was up there, I said I wanted to die. My mother beat the ever-living piss out of me and sent me to bed. 

I have tried to die, thought of dying, hoped for dying…TOO MANY times in my life. I’ve purposefully put myself in dangerous situations, in the hopes that I would find release. Through those years and failed attempts…I never found it. 

I’m not telling you this because I want pity. Because I want you to think I’m epic and strong for “surviving.” I don’t know why I wanted to die from such a young age. I don’t know why I wasn’t “built” to better deal with the hardships of life. I don’t know why the unknown seemed so much better. 

What I do know are two things. 

  1. I was already dead. My body didn’t have to perish. TRULY, I believe I was a walking tomb. My son gave me my soul. I still struggle. I still panic. I’m still a hot mess. But I have never hoped for another breath the way I do now…as I have my son in my life. 
  2. Someday, I will die. I will not try. It will be against my will. And I will not want it to happen. I will feel pain as it all slips away because I will not see the tomorrows of my child, his children, the life I will miss. Someday, I will not have a choice. 

All of that being said…

I AM NOT AN EXPERT but I know the helplessness. I know the desperation. I know that feelings of sad hope that the damn phone will ring and someone…ANYONE will pull me back from the ledge and say, “I care about you. Please don’t go.” We all want to know that someone wants us to stay. That someone NEEDS us to stay. That our fire lights another persons world. We all need a reason to have no desire to step on that ledge. It’s ALL about love. 

The trauma that happened in my life, very early on, stunted my growth in MANY ways (so the doctors say). There are many times that I am stuck back in that mind frame of a child and I am terrified. I am frail. I am lost. It’s a fight to not go back there. To train my brain that I’m not reliving those traumas. That things are not repeating themselves. That I am capable of dealing with it IF they are. 

I am telling you all of this because we all know someone who struggles. Who is fighting. Who may be too quiet. May say the wrong things. May lash out at the smallest occurrence. May come off so angry. May push people away. May be an emotional punching bag. May live a lifestyle that is reckless. May be unaware that they are begging for help. May be pleading for rescue in their eyes but not their words. 

If you are that person…tell someone. ANYONE. Talk until your blue in the face. But keep talking. If you’re talking…you aren’t dead. AND THAT IS BEAUTIFUL. If you know someone like that…listen. Listen and really hear. You don’t need to fix it all. Just listen. Sometimes, that is all a wounded soul needs. 

Dear Suicide – I am proud to have failed you. 

Sincerely not yours…this girl. 


2.26. Damn You, John Hughes

In light of my current read, Damned by Chuck Palahniuk, and the continuous reference to the John Hughes film, The Breakfast Club, I’ve decided to answer the detention assigned question in 1000 words. Here goes.

Who Do You Think You Are?

I ask myself this question time and again and the answers are numerous and yet nothing substantial for personal growth. It is always a reflection of where I came from, experiences that have influenced my life. So, I’ve come to believe I am my history. To answer in this way is to imply that I am what I was and therefore have no idea how to unearth the me I was supposed to be despite circumstance. But I suppose everyone needs a place to start and my history is all I know. So, maybe, in recollections, I will find the answer of who I am in the ashes of who I’ve been. 

I am the daughter of a con artist and a retired police officer. I am the step-child of a deceased Jewban who could probably answer this question for me better than I can. I am an incest and rape survivor. I am a diagnosed Bi-Polar/PTSD patient. I am an aspiring writer and an avid reader. I am a Puerto Rican female who does not feel connected to anything culturally, socially, mentally, spiritually, or physically. 

I am a divorcee. I am a problematic human being who delves into the deepest trenches of pessimism because optimism means I have hope and hope scares the crap out of me. I am a college drop out. I am a closet romantic. I am a scared little girl. 

I am a mother. I am a soldier for my son and his number one cheerleader. I am an example of all the things he should probably not want in a companion. 

Yo, this shit is depressing.

I am all of the labels I have ever been given over the years. And I am a trapped entity; unable to escape the baggage and drowning under the weight. 

I am a spirit lost in what I wanted and what is. 

I am a bitch when I think I have to be, which seems to be a lot. I am a woman willing to forgive but searching for my own forgiveness. Yearning to be cleaned of my sins that leave me in the spiral of hopelessness I continuously fall into. 

I am far more vulnerable than I am comfortable with admitting. I am weaker than I want to say. I am struggling to know why I am here. 

Perhaps I am still damaged from the ongoings of recent years. I am still buried under the pain of loss, death, failure. Perhaps I cannot answer who I think I am because I’m not ready. Because I’m scared to leave a page blank and admit that I think that’s all I am. A blank page. A nothing. A mistake. 

Nowhere near 1000 words and still no answer. But an honest, horribly honest start. Something to revisit. Something I will attempt again at a later date.

2.21. I’ll Take That

“If you can’t accept me at my worst,

you sure as shit don’t deserve me at my best. 

Call me crazy

For every outlandish, brash, bold, blunt verbal vomit I will lay on the land. For every lapse in judgement and weakened moment. For the insecurity that beats in my chest. For the endless array of questions as to what and why and how and when and what-if?

Call me crazy

For wanting love despite the madness. For believing in a pure, true, and deep connection based on something other than violent thrusts and faked endings. For dreaming about love stories even greater than the sun and moon leaving letters of adoration in the stars. For anticipating something so profound, the world just won’t know what to do with us.

Call me crazy

For expressing the happiness, sadness, joy, horror, thrill, worry of what this life has to offer. For being a cryptic read. For wanting effort, loyalty, honesty, integrity, passion, romance, intensity, forgiveness, growth, inspiration, laughter, conversation, sincerity, hope…and more laughter.

Call me crazy 

For feeling frail after the world I called forever crashed down upon me. For not being as strong, as tough, as bold, as brave, as resilient, as optimistic as the next one. For feeling just a tad broken after the glass castle broke. For not healing to your liking.

Call me crazy

Call me what you will. A failure. A disappointment. A mistake. A burden. I’ve heard it all before.

I am a beautiful chaos. Not meant for just anyone. Not meant for those weak of mind and heart. For some, a blessing to never know. To each his own. Souls like mine aren’t meant for the world to love. Being me comes with the risk of loneliness and labels.

Call me crazy. 

From a cowardly lion, that’s a fucking compliment. 

2.20. The Crusades


The majestic strummed a line on the violin…blood soaked fingertips…forcing melancholy melodies into the universe…bounced back from a red planet…echoing in the midst of gunfire and a decrepit womans screams.


Story telling empty pages of empty books…eating from empty baskets of rotted bread…swimming in salt baths minus the water…frozen in gasoline icicles…waiting for ignition…for…release…from still rivers and looming typoons.


Shedding her skin…she slips under and sighs with the sinking feeling of weightlessness. As nothing has felt so freeing as the intoxication of maddening drum beats and electric currents. A senseless sense of sensibility.


A lifelong concussion…forbidding sleep and sanction…love that died…resurrection sucked from the realm of possibility and replaced with a fucking song that means…nothing.


But the sun shines…


No, not whatever. The sun shines, despite memories. Despite mistakes. Despite the scars of a lifetime. Despite seeing the skeleton in the mirror instead of pushing it back into the closet. Despite the nightmares that lurk in the shadows of daylight. Despite the recorder that relays a constant replay of regret and rejection and “you’ll never do any better.”

No, not whatever. The sun shines, despite me. Despite a fear to live and a fear to die. Despite each breath one takes and the ones we hold in during those questionable hours right before the moon has bidden farewell to muskrats in meadows that never really existed.

No, not whatever. The sun shines and the world moves and the people continue despite the false pretenses recognized but ignored by carnage infused children living in the catacombs of our alternate selves.

Oh shit, none of this makes a lick of sense.

But it does.

To the lost spirits who will spend a lifetime hoping and wanting and praying and needing and wishing and dreaming but refusing…to accept…to claim…to feel. To the lost spirits who will self sabotage rather than bask in the heat of magic and the draft of cooing heat. Yes, cooing.

Because we choose this life. We choose to forge on in this crusade. Alone. Altered. Unarmed. Seeking mercy but expecting malevolence.

Sinking to her knees, that girl, she begged the wrong one to accept her. To embrace her. To forgive her existence. She relinquished control to someone who knew not the damage that could be done.

A lost spirit that believed she was safe behind brick walls. Refusing to allow a soul to know a soul. Safe…no. Wrong…more than likely. A ghost lay behind those stones, all the while, that girl lay submerged under the rubble of defeat.


Yes, whatever. As today is, like no other day, a reason to emerge from the shell. The sun shines. The crusade is not to hide from, but to feel, the heat.


Some are mine and some are borrowed. All are true.

It is of wasted body and breath to want to fix the world. It is with great respect I look to those who walk off the beaten path because it is never easy.

I am here not to validate or condemn a soul. The life I’ve chosen for my time here is mine alone and the only one that is my business. You take care of yours and I’ll take care of mine.

It is the human condition to love and want to be loved, it is the human curse to hurt others and to be hurt. We judge one another relentlessly yet wish not to be judged, a never ending cycle that shall bring us to our end.

Please don’t ask me about someone elses feelings, opinions, judgements, actions, etc etc as I am only one person and therefore I can only answer fully and without bias, for myself.

On that note, don’t ask me why I do what I do. If I thought it important enough to discuss, I would have by now. I do EVERYTHING for a reason, I just don’t feel the need to consult with ANYONE.
That is all.

“We must see all scars as beauty…take it from me, a scar does not form on the dying. A scar means, I survived.” – Excerpt from Little Bee by Chris Cleave.

If my mind doesn’t intimidate you, my mouth probably will, not for the faint of heart.

“Like uncharted territory, I must seem greatly intriguing…you’re not allowed, you’re uninvited.”

“I only care about the words that flutter from your mind. They are the only thing you truly own. The only thing I will remember you by. I will not fall in love with your bones and skin. I will not fall in love with the places you’ve been. I will not fall in love with anything but the words that flutter from your extraordinary mind.” – Andre Jordan

You must never shout at the concrete
You must always shout at the stars
Concrete cant hear you.

“Words need not endorse the obvious.”

I love life and the strange people in it. No two alike, eccentric and chaotic, mellow and mysterious, everyone is a story waiting to be read and Im the avid reader. I am continuously enthralled by the wonders these people show me, teach me, allow me to see, blessed to learn more about our universe everyday from the living stars amongst us. Don’t be afraid to know these people, to care about these people, to love these people. It is the divine gift we have been given which makes us human. Enjoy.

“To enter the mystery of timelessness is to enter the sanctuary of the here, where we are given a chance at every moment to begin our lives again. Not one of us is perfect, and sorrows press upon us all. But, the universe is a merciful one, in which unlimited opportunities for new beginnings are built into the very essence of things.”

Let us take our head out of the clouds and into the light. Dwelling on fears of loneliness only creates loneliness, rage begets rage, and chasing a dream only makes it run faster away.
“I know my destination, I’m just not there…”

I always say something wrong
I always speak right when the thought hits me
I always offend at least one person in the room
I always talk too loud, too long, too fast
I always make people >.< o.O or =O
I always second guess the last 5 things I just did
I always do them anyway
I always share how I’m feeling, even if its ugly
I always fuck up
I always say I’m sorry
I always mean it
I always fall
I always get back up
I always want to win
I always lose
I always dream the impossible dreams
I always come back to reality
I always live in the past
I always want to be in the future
I always forget the present is the gift
I always care…even when I don’t.

It’s not what you say but what you mean
It’s not what you give but what you hold back
It’s not who you were but who you are
It’s not who you are but who you’ll be
It’s not what you do but why you do it
It’s not why you care but when you show it
It’s not what you know but what you don’t.

That’s exactly how much of me you know. Judge that 1% Label that 1% Hate that 1% because not even blood knows the 99. It’s all in my head, all in my heart, all in my soul and you aren’t welcome there. These are the places you can never molest, never dictate, never contaminate. This belongs to me. *Locks the door and throws away the key*

You are full of fatuity…and so I forsake you.

“The writings easy, it’s the living that is sometimes difficult.” – Charles Bukowski

Dont play dead before you have to.” – Wally Lamb – The Hour I First Believed –

Sometimes, we sacrifice who we are for who we think we should be, who others will accept us as. In seeing friends/family/strangers battle this, in seeing myself battle this, I know nothing is greater then having self. Flawed; work on it…but don’t lose you. I wont. This is my face in my mirror, and I’m alright with seeing me.

“We’re always looking in the wrong direction. We ponder the stars while burning the earth, the bullet we’re running from is almost never the one that hits us.”

1.154 – The Captives Struggle

Clink Clink Clink

The wardens gone and the keys fall

Like dirty water down a drain

This is my freedom

My time to cast away the darkest of shadows

Mistaken for my skin

This prison was mine

A life sentence deterred by a lapse in judgement

And just when you weren’t looking

Warden…I’m gone.


Not quite.

Clink Clink Clink

That’s the sound of my shackles

With the keys just in my reach, they mind as well be transparent.


Have you seen it?

Can you hear it.

It’s against the bosom of slaughtered babes.

It’s that tidal wave of sunshine

That ripple effect of heat

A mirage in the desert.

Clink Clink Clink

Warden, will you notice?

Will it matter for one less?

Perhaps not

But something causes hesitation in me

Where to go

What to do

Who to see

What life to follow?


Have you seen it?

Can you hear it.

It’s against the bosom of slaughtered babes.

The metal is in my hand.

Crisp. Clean. Solid. Pure. Ready.

Returning it to its place upon the ground

Slinking back into my cell.

Warden, you will never know

I had the chance

A chance I did not take

With nowhere to go I recede into a black stricken corner

Awaiting my next lashing

Because I’d rather feel pain than nothing at all.

Because I’d rather stare at four walls than be lost in a world of endless pitfalls.

Because I’d rather know what’s going to kill me than to await the unspoken…

Clink Clink Clink


Have you seen it?

Can you hear it.

It’s against the bosom of slaughtered babes.

1.149 – Erotica and The AHA Moment

So, technically, I should be packing…seeing as I’m supposed to be moved into my new apartment in like…two days. But I’m not packing. Not because I don’t want to.  I really don’t want to BUT this particular moment of packing procrastination has been brought on by an Oprah “AHA” moment. (Did she patent that, because if she did…yeah, she can’t take much from someone who doesn’t have squat, right? Here’s hoping.)

Anyways, my “AHA” moment happened while I was putting books away in my new place. I used to be a hoarder of books. Seriously, in the past 4 years, I have visited the library at least 4 times and donated at least 70 books per visit. Needless to say, my current library is slim pickings and yet…I feel like I should be getting rid of more things instead of just transferring all of my garbage from a two bedroom box to a one bedroom box. But moving right along…

The “AHA” moment happened when I held a book called Smut. It speaks true to its title but I only know that from reading a synopsis of the book. I’ve never actually read it. I bought it a few years back during my erotic reading phase. (Aqua Erotica, Master/Slave, Different Loving…all good titles…I’ve actually read these…and FYI to all you bandwagon Fifty Shades of Grey readers – feel free to read Different Loving to understand that Dom/Sub relationships don’t have to be all about hard, rough sex. It doesn’t have to be about sex at all. This stupid craze with this book is going to push some desperate lonely housewives to go out searching for the type of relationship they touch themselves to from that book when in all actuality, it’s not that simple. Period. And now I’m done with that little side rant).

I realize that I haven’t read this book and yet, I don’t want to toss it. And I ask myself why. I’m not reading it. I have no desire to. The price I paid wasn’t a doozy so I’m at no real loss. So what am I holding on to?

I’m holding on to the thought that if I toss it…I will suddenly need it when its gone.

Yep, that was the moment. I just related a smut book to relationships. Ain’t it funny how we hold onto things that aren’t good for us, people who remain toxic to us and our growth because we are so scared that once we dispose of them…we will have nothing? We keep bad friends, relationships that aren’t fulfilling, we stay in marriages that died so long ago we can’t even recall when we liked that person, we master the art of bullshitting ourselves into believing that we need something we really don’t. Instead of having a bookshelf free of useless nonsense that is no longer applicable to the person I am today, I’d rather have a full shelf of things I will never touch. Meaningless, insignificant but full.

Sounds like the story of my life. I’m going to admit that I put the stupid book on the bookshelf. I’m not friggen superman here, people! I had an “AHA” moment, not a friggen personality makeover. But I think it’s still a start.

The first part of letting go is realizing you don’t need to be so scared of having nothing that you’ll hold on to anything. Apply this to your life, relationship, career as needed. I know I am.

1.145 – Did You See Her 2.0

This is not about being caught between a rock and a hard place. This is about those that freely violated the soft space of my mind. A cerebral vortex of shame and stains left behind where my imagination was supposed to develop. Instead it’s homicidal sperm, that’s spermicidal fluid, sent to ruin the chambers of this tomb because I’m the walking dead. A corpse painted semi-pretty so you cant see all the stains they left upon me.

This one says I’ll always feel broken and this one is a self-deprecating spot that has soaked into the very core of my being. This one shouts how much it still hurts and these record the number of times my demise was a real consideration. Up for deliberation is my worth, my beauty and the lack thereof. Wondering how many can see the target and how many will attempt to score. Because I was never a women to caress but a child to molest and a sleeping beauty who woke up to a pillow on her face. Disgraced in explaining that I’m not quite sure if it was rape because he was my boyfriend but I didn’t want to.

Did you hear her tears as she wept

Did you see her?

Did you feel the pain in her heart

Did you know her?

This is general and this is specific. This is for every man and for no man at all. This is the rage of a gender and the plea of a woman. This is the voice of a tear and the echo of a child’s feet. This is from me to you, from us to them. This is for mothers with sons and fathers with daughters. This is for every person who wants to feel beautiful and for every person who took away that chance.

Did you hear her tears as she wept

Did you see her?

Did you feel the pain in her heart

Did you know her?

This is for the Queens of the world. In every shade and every shape. For the scarred and the scared. For the bold and the wise. For the revolutionary and the traditionalist. For the swell of your breasts as you feed our kin and hide in closed quarters in shame. For the stories of your tongue, the stories of your hips, your eyes, your hands. This is for your battles lost and those you’ve yet to win. But you will. This is for the eccentric thoughts in your mind, your hopes and dreams.

Did you hear her tears as she wept

Did you see her?

Did you feel the pain in her heart

Did you know her?

This is for our sons, our future Kings. Know that your manhood is not measured by your dick and what you do with it but the heart you so genuinely share. Love her and know her and speak her name with honey on your lips. Tell her what this world could be and shield her from what it really is. Give her a piece of you and nurture every exhale she shares. Use your hands to wipe away the tears versus inflicting them. Kiss away the bruises versus gifting them. Call her name – call her name sweetly so she will come to you with eager anticipation. Remind her, every day until the end of days, that she is your equal. Your matching puzzle piece. Your mirrored image of hope.

Do you believe in God sir? Well, if you do…”God took a rib from Adam to create Eve…so she would walk beside him. He did not take a bone from his heel for her to be beneath him.” Ask your God to clarify.

This is for our daughters, the soldiers of capturing the voice. Where we have failed, you will triumph and persevere. You will flee from cages of insecurity, you will dance freely and know your body and express your individuality with certainty and conviction. You will not be his slut or his whore or his conquest. You will not be his angel captured on a harpoon, dangling off cliffs edge while he gloats of his barbaric instincts. You will soar. You will taste the stars and make love on clouds and touch sands of far off places and sway in the eclipse of time into sunsets of days yet created.

Did you hear her tears as she wept

Did you see her?

Did you feel the pain in her heart

Did you know her?

Does it count if it’s marital, family, a female? I’m a woman so you take my pain as fact but if I were a man screaming of my violations, you’d be thinking “well, how the fuck is that” but sadly it is, not something to be dismissed because it’s happening right now. And some wife somewhere is saying “please don’t” and some husband is saying “what’s mine is mine”

This is for that man…you know who you are. Not under one name or one face but one type underneath it all. You have tainted rich soil, conquered and pillaged sacred plains, delved into the deepest corners of unexplored caverns and declared ownership. As if her pussy was property. You have created superiority in your name and claimed sanction in corners of the world, yet you are everywhere. You will tower over the beauties of this land and profess false prophecies of a God like stature because of your dick.

Did you hear her tears as she wept

Did you see her?

Did you feel the pain in her heart

Did you know her?

You will hide behind money, power and muscle mass. You will press her body down and take what is not yours. You will crush her bosom and pierce her lips with your own as you inject anguish into her every crevice. You will rape her mind far longer than her body. You will ravish her in dreams and eat away at her until she is skin and bones and bones and skin and skin and skin and scarred and ruined and pained and lost. You will shadow her eyes and teach her that this is it; she will die today. No man will love her, hold her, cradle her, and forgive away every flaw upon her name. You will stomp out her light, snuff the candle and make a film about it.

This is about the bruises left unseen, scouring my skin but I’m still unclean.  On the inside. Was I too weak, too soft, too vulnerable and how much of this was my fault. But how does a child ask for it? She doesn’t and yet we question a girls slut rating to deem if there was probably cause probably cuz we are too busy telling our girls to clean up their shit instead of teaching our sons not to be rapists. And with each new agenda, we pretend our offenders are just men and mistake perversion for homosexuality. Because this isn’t about sex or gender or orientation. This is about a sick stimulation, a war waged on an unsuspecting country.

Did you hear her tears as she wept

Did you see her?

Did you feel the pain in her heart

Did you know her?

She is my future, my past. She is me and no one I know. He is every man I have ever met and every man I will avoid. He is what I will teach my son not to be. And in some other realm, I see her and she is free. She is without shackles and without daggers. She owns her essence and is euphoric in splendor of possibility. And there will be one, one to defy all others. One to touch her cheek and melt away those stains. He will whisper and elevate. She will taste the salt of tears seasoned with wonder.

Did you hear her tears as she wept

Did you see her?

Did you feel the pain in her heart

Did you know her?

Be a light to the woman you know. Be that man. The one I know exists in dreams. For her, I will write him into life. He will touch one. Just one. She will be his country and he will be her soldier. And this moment, this one lost moment will not be in vain. My prince will be a King someday. And she will know beauty again. Whoever she is…she will know and never have to.

1.140 – All The Things You Said

Someone’s playing the piano somewhere but I can’t hear the beauty of the art because you’re screaming again.

I disown you. You aren’t mine anymore.

Someone’s painting a masterpiece somewhere but I can’t see the smooth strokes of possibility because you’re screaming again.

No one will ever love you. No one wants you. You’re going to be alone. 

Someone’s singing a melody of hope wrapped in vines of tranquility and I can’t quite understand the words because you’re screaming again.

Why don’t you just kill yourself already.

Someone’s knocking at the door…convinced they can save me but I won’t open it because you’re screaming again.

All I can feel are the daggers of 10,268 days, 246,408 hours, 887,068,800 seconds. Of every living, breathing moment I didn’t choose to have…and yet, I’m still here…despite your screaming.

I wish you were never born. 

Some days, I feel the same way. I’d put on the headphones to stifle the sound, the gut-wrenching echoes of your vocal attacks but such things cannot kill the scars that fester in my mind.

1.137 – Invisible

When I was seventeen, my mother figured out that I was living with an eating disorder. I don’t say suffering, I don’t say struggling, I don’t say battling. I was living with it. I ate. I threw up. I hovered over the fridge at 3am and engulfed everything in sight only to vomit it in a toilet five minutes later. I’d gotten so good at it, I evolved from using my fingers to just thinking about it.

“Vomit, damn it.”


It was that simple. But I was discreet. Yeah, I’ve always been skinny but at that time, I was convinced I’d only stay that way if I kept my body as empty as my heart felt.

But she figured it out. She sat me down in her poor attempt at being a mother and asked “why are you doing this? What do you want from me?”

I never threw up with my mother in mind. I never thought, “this chicken thigh is for you, ma!” I threw up because it felt good. I threw up because I could control something. I threw up because I’d failed at trying to be a cutter so I needed something that was mine. I threw up because I didn’t feel so dirty. I threw up because I was convinced someone would love me if I was tiny. I threw up because  I didn’t have any other great attributes. I threw up because it felt good to flush away garbage and not have to carry it for years on end. I told myself I didn’t do it for her. I didn’t do it because I hated life, the world, myself.

“I just want you to see me,” I replied.



I just wanted her to see me. To acknowledge me. To say I was wanted. To say I was loved. To admit she messed up but she did care. To show one ounce of loving me more than she loved herself. To show some sense of pride in having had me. I wanted her to see me…as something good. She never did.

The story of my mother is a book all on it’s own. One I could not write because it’s one I couldn’t ever reread…relive. Not just for me. For my sisters. For my nieces. For my nephews. For my son. I cannot relive it all. Because poison kills. I made it threw once…just barely. I wouldn’t take my chances with a second go-around.

I haven’t forced myself to throw up in years. I think about it. Sometimes, I know this sounds stupid as all hell, I miss it. But I haven’t. Because I don’t care anymore.

Quite frankly, sometimes, I’d be happier if no one saw me at all.