Personal Post #1: Finding a Mentor

I feel quite weird writing about myself, I usually share these thoughts with my diary, and nobody else. But I feel compelled to at least try to open myself up, and to allow people to get to know me better as a person. I do not think I’ll do a great job of this, so I’m sorry in advance if this is just a huge waste of time for you.

This week has been so weird for me. A little over a week ago, I emailed an author, let’s call her L. I was reading one of her books, and thought, “What the hell. I’ll give it a shot.” I did not expect anything out of it. I really did not even expect her to respond; she is a busy woman. After a couple days of constantly checking my email, I stopped hoping for her to respond, and I stopped thinking about it.

I got her email in the middle of my shift, and I was FLOORED. I was SO happy that a published author, somebody that I was so interested in speaking to, RESPONDED TO ME! She actually took the time out of her day to reply to my long, sappy email.

She was so kind and interesting (she is also an INFJ) and really seemed genuine with her words. I asked her for advice about finding a writing mentor, to help me maybe get out of my funk, and get me back on track and writing every day like I did for years before. She gave me a great referral to one of her clients, lets call her K, that happened to had just start up a mentoring business for herself. I was skeptical, excited, and so fucking nervous.

But I emailed her. I emailed K before I emailed L back. I texted my boyfriend right away and told him everything L said to me, and that I had emailed somebody that could potentially be mentoring me and helping me get me, and my writing, back on track.

I felt this huge rush of adrenaline. I felt like, if this worked out, my life could really be taking a (good) turn. I felt like this was potentially the start of something larger than I could ever fathom. Opportunities like this have never presented themself to me. Never having any real (positive) adult influences in my life, especially ones that cared about my work or passions… I crave(d) that kind of influence in my life. Someone to help me in the things I cared about the most. My writing. My art. My feelings.

K emailed me back within a couple of hours. We spoke on the phone that same day, and within the hour, I had signed up to be one of her clients.

Speaking on the phone with her for the first time was euphoric. It was like I was high, and drunk, and happy. Happier than I had been in so long. It was the first time I had gotten to speak to an INFJ. At least, like that. No need for small talk. No need for judgement. I was so comfortable, and it felt like I KNEW her. I was so interested in talking to her, being her friend, learning from her. She went through so many similar things… I wanted to know how she survived it all. She seemed interested in me, genuinely. I find hidden motives in EVERYONE when they speak to me, but I did not, and have not, done that a single time speaking to her.

It has only been (a little over) a week since emailing L. And I have a mentor now, I have motivation now, I have somebody that speaks to me like they care and want to see me succeed.

She has encouraged me to step out of my shell, she understands the struggle of being such a… INFJ. She is funny and interesting and motivational and caring.

K, if you’re reading this I’m sorry I’m writing about you, but I had to share how awesome you are.

It has been a crazy week. But I’m so incredibly happy, and I’m so excited to have this experience and opportunity, and to see where it takes me.

Thank you if you read till the end.

Talk to you later, maybe.


Promise me something.

Promise me that when we are old, and our skin is peeling off of our bodies, that you’re still going to touch it with the same love that you do today.

And promise me that you’re going to kiss these lips with the same passion that you feel now.

And promise me that you’re going to still sleep on my chest and fall asleep to this heartbeat.

And promise promise promise me that you’re going to let me take care of you on those nights you’re crying, or when you’re head is slamming against your skull.

Promise me that it’s going to be me there.

Promise me that it’s me that you see past our kids graduation, sitting outside on the porch.

Because I promise you, you’re what I see.

Synonyms for Love

I’ll never understand him.

I’ll never understand what his definition of forever is,

and I’ll never be told what his synonyms for love are.

I’ll never understand how his feelings work.

If, when he said he would stay,

he was trying to convince himself,

as much as he was trying to convince me,

and why being together still meant

I slept


I’ll never understand if being his

really just meant

I was his when he wanted me,

and I’ll never understand

if he loved her too

or never loved either of us at all.


I thought I was going to lay in my bathtub and drift off to sleep and they’d find my hair flowing beautifully around my pale face, but it didn’t happen that way.

I thought I was going to stand on the bridge next to my house, looking back to see my parents lights still off and I’d smile. Then I would slip off my shoes and climb up to let the cold bars greet my feet and send sympathetic shivers up my spine. I’d fall off into the river and drift down to the bottom and they’d find me in the morning floating on by, and I’d look as if I was in peace, but it didn’t happen that way.

I thought I was going to cry and the makeup would run perfect streaks down my cheeks, but it didn’t happen that way.

I thought my suicide note was going to be neat and meaningful, but it wasn’t.

It wasn’t fucking poetic. Nothing about it was fucking poetic. My makeup stained my face black to the point I looked like I had been beaten, and technically I guess I had been. And the only thing that I could make out on my suicide notes were the stains of my tears on the paper and, “My god, I am so sorry but I can’t do this.” and “Please don’t be mad at me, I need you to be okay.” and it was hardly legible.

It wasn’t fucking poetic. My wrists were stained from my elbows down in large welts and blood and I was sitting beside my own bile on my bathroom floor with two bottles of pills. My mother walked in screaming on top of her lungs and my eyes wouldn’t stay open and the last thing I remember of that night was her horrified face and the last thing I felt was her tears hitting my cheeks before I woke up in a hospital room.


And I can’t keep those fucking images of my mothers face and her sobs and her screaming out of my head that it makes me wish even more that I would’ve just died.

I (didn’t) think about you

I didn’t think about you for a long time.

It’s not that I couldn’t remember,
I just chose not to.

I would drive past where it happened,
and no memories would crash into my skull.
I would wear those jeans,
And I wouldn’t feel you.

But, I do now.

I drove by your old house, recently.
I could hear myself screaming inside.
I slammed on my breaks,
and just stared at your window.

It was weird staring at the hedge from the outside.

I could still hear you laughing from inside,
And I could have sworn you were dragging me in,


I don’t know how long I stared at your window;
At the hedge I locked my pain into.
I wanted to tear it from its roots,
And take it with me.

Like you had,
That day.

I drove home,
And threw up for hours.
Scratched my skin off,
Burned parts of me
I didnt even have anymore.

I could feel you,
Every detail is cut into my skull,
And it will not heal.

And now,
I think about you all of the time.


I’ve never empathized with my pain. 
It has never felt real,
So I didn’t think it was.
But recently I’ve lost something I couldn’t put my hands on.

Love without touch.
Love without a word. 
Love without a sound.

Before I could even grasp onto the idea of how much I loved her,
She was gone. 
She was here. 
And then she was gone.

And this is pain.

It was the first time it felt real. 
It was the first time I felt real feeling something.

I dont want this.
This kind of hurt. 
I haven’t slept in weeks. 
I lay awake in my own nightmare,
And when I can sleep I dream about what 
Her hands and feet would look like. 
If she’d have my eyes or his nose,
My white hair, or his brown.
I dream about playing with her 
and holding her
And living my life with her.

I dream about her dying
Over and over and over and over

I wonder if she’d hurt like I do.
If she’d too start hearing sounds at night,
And if I’d be able to comfort her back to sleep.
If monsters would feed off of her psyche
Until she couldn’t breathe. 
If I would be able to run them off and be what 
She deserved.
If I would be able to be the parent I wish I had. 
One that understands the insanity. 
One that loved her for everything she was.

I would have loved her for everything she was.

I wonder if she would have loved me.
I wonder if she knows I love her.
I wonder if she would have been happy.

I have nightmares of the blood.
It covers me head to toe,
Like I’m soaking in her goodbye. 
Sometimes I wake up and still can feel my legs 
Drenched, and a faint cry will echo.
I’ll scream to make it stop,
But even once the blood disappears,
And it is just me in the silence with my tears,
I still don’t have her. 
The nightmare doesn’t stop,
And I have to face the reality
That I can’t make her mine.

I didn’t know I could love somebody this much.
I never even got to hold her hand,
And my mind is still haunted with her touch.

And I feel selfish

And guilty

And broken.

Because I lost my baby,
But I feel like I stole his,
And I think he blames me for the loss
Of our unborn kid.
And he says it’s okay, because 
he already has a baby, 
and that it would have been a mess from the start. 
But he also cries to me drunk about her;
A baby we never got to know. 
He says he wish he could have had us all together,
And together we’d have a home.

But I didn’t mean for anything to happen,
The doctor says 
“It just does”
That sometimes babies die,
And that is best to move on.
That I’m lucky I wasn’t further along.

That it would hurt more.

He says it’s for the best,
I should be on my medicine.

My brother says it was a bullet dodged,
That she would have ruined my life.
That he doesn’t want to see me stranded with a baby,
Broken and eaten alive.
Strangled without freedom.
He says he doubts I would have survived.

But I’m sitting here dying with the memory of a baby I never got to hold, 
And they’re telling me it’s okay because babies are hard and babies are loud. 
That she would’ve made me want to scream and pull my hair out. 
They say they’re happy I didn’t have to go through a full pregnancy.

They say they’re happy for me, 
Because she would’ve ruined my life.

But I just lost a baby. 
I just lost a baby and they’re telling me I’m lucky when I feel like I’m dying. 
As if I wouldn’t of dealt with the crying and hard times. 
As if I don’t feel the loss because she never was laid in my arms.
As if she wasn’t mine. 
As if I would have chosen this over her. 
They’re telling me it’s okay, and it’s not.
It’s not okay.
It’s not okay.

I’m not okay.

Last Words

I’m just looking for someone to blame.

And it has to be your fault!

It has to be


Because I was the one that got hurt.

I was the one that got abondoned.

You walked away with bloody hands

And nothing to lose.

And I could hardly breathe with the gashes

Left in my torso.

It has to be your fault.

I don’t know what to do if it isn’t.

I can’t look myself in the mirror anymore.

That shame

and guilt.

It’s been building on the outside of my skin now,

I’m surprised you haven’t noticed yet.

But, I’ve noticed.

Life has been drained from me.

I’ve been opened,

Left bloody,

And emptied.

I need it to be your fault.

I need you to take part of the blame for destroying me.

For making me empty.

For making me run in my own tracks,

The same fucking circle,

My entire life.

For making me scared

And lost.

Always looking for somebody to latch on to,

Somebody to yell when I’m disobedient.

When I’m human.

For making me hurt

And hurt

And hurt

Because your pain

could not be

just your own.

You’ve taught me so well.

To disregard their lives.

Their futures.

To just,

Get in,

Do the damage,

And run.


Because God knows what would happen if they caught up.

If their bloody corpse stood in front of you and yelled

“You did this!

Tell me what to do next,

Because I have nothing anymore.”

I wanted to tell you so many times.

How you hallowed me.

Set me on fire.

Tortured me.

Cut me.

bruised me

Scarred me

Burned me

Left me.

But instead,

I never confronted you

You don’t deserve it

You don’t deserve to know it still hurts.

That these wounds aren’t healing,

But instead are still gushing,

and that blood is now covering the people I love.

That your damage is exponential.

That your poison is leaking through my pours

And I’m just watching them die.

And I need it to be your fault.


Tell me what to do next.

Tell me where to go.

How to fix this.

How to heal.

I know you went through this.

I know you bled,

and I know you used to regret how badly you hurt people.

So, tell me!


Give me a sign,

any direction.

Because I have no more options anymore,


I’m suffocating.

And I don’t want to hurt myself

By hurting them


Dissociation Vs. Reality

Do you ever feel like you’re drowning in your own skin?

Like the reality around you is engulfing fake circumstances to make up for your lack of sanity?

Do you ever feel dead and empty walking into a room, any room, that isn’t your own, but you smile and laugh as if you’re not disabled and crumbling.

And you get home just to fall into bed and bleed on your sheets?

Do you ever feel hallow and sound proof?

Like you could scream and scream and scream until you could no longer breathe, and still nobody would hear a thing? It would just echo inside your rib cage until you tearlessly cried yourself to sleep, again.

Do you ever feel abandoned from yourself?

Like, nothing connects anymore. You glance in the mirror, and you can’t remember if your eyes have always been blue or when your hair got this long, and it’s hard to convince yourself that is you.

Do you ever forget if you’ve ever felt anything at all?

Like, you can’t remember if you have ever felt a real emotion in your life, until you’re feeling it? And than it’s all too familiar once you’re, again, drowning in it.

Do you feel empty too?


You questioned if I ever had anything to say.
I think that was probably the one thing that cut me in half

And burned my bones to ash

and I knew that you didn’t love me anymore after that.

I wasn’t interesting.

I didn’t add to conversation;

I no longer made memories for you.

I was a repeated inconvenience in your days.
And I really hated myself for it.
I just didn’t understand how everything changed so quickly.

How you were so convinced I was the one until the very end,

but now you’re wondering if you’d rather be fucking that redhead that likes to get wasted every night.

How did you ever forget how much I love you?

How did you ever forget how much you loved me?

You wouldn’t be ripping out the very veins that pulses the blood that is stained in you,

if you loved me.
I couldn’t fucking imagine hurting you this badly

And you really don’t want anything to do with me?

I never destroyed you.

I wasn’t toxic.

I wasn’t unsafe.

You loved me until you woke up one morning and wished you were somebody else

and forgot that there is a human being on this planet that would rip out every organ

in their decomposing body

to save your life,

and you aren’t

“Sure if they care.”
I don’t know what else I could have done to show you.
We had the world in our hands,

and don’t tell me that you didn’t feel it too

because I saw it in your eyes

In every goodnight kiss

And good morning shower,

and I saw you.

I saw you smile and I saw you laugh.

I know when you’re faking them,

and you weren’t faking with me.

You weren’t.

And now you’re not even trying to fake a smile or stay and try after 4 fucking years.
Do I not deserve that?
I am fucking trying.

I was always trying

and I know I got lazy sometimes

and I forget to remind you that I love you,

And I know that sometimes my anxiety got the best of me

and I didn’t scoot closer to you at night or tell you what was wrong.
You always got so angry but I couldn’t worry you anymore.
I am sorry that I wasn’t better to you.
But I never left your side, and you never held on to me. Ever.
But I am still the only one to blame for a love that burned brighter than the galaxies you captured in your eyes to have burned out,

And I don’t want the blame.
I love you so much,

Please tell me where you’re going.

You Can’t Keep Me (Safe)

I am bad
at loving people. 
I’m invested one moment;
Planning the memories that will
shape how they’ll destroy me,
And the next I’m 
Ripping apart words that they’ve said.
Telling myself that love 
does not
Love can not
Keep me


I’ll stop responding to messages;
Stop picking up when they call. 
I’ll miss dinner once,
They’ll wonder where I’ve gone. 
Weeks go by with the same 
short responses.
“I need some space.
This is suffocating.”

Why can’t I do this?
People will touch my soul. 
With care,
and I’ll treat them like they
Were the ones to create these
Pieces that are engraving scars
On my skin.
I’ll treat them like horror scenes.
I’ll run.
I’ll convince them I love them,
Until I can no longer convince
Myself, and then 

I’ll run.

I’ll misread every situation,
It almost seems intentional. 
Creating problems just for kicks,
as if I get pleasure out of 
Losing everything,
By my own hands. 
Maybe it’s because
It feels better being alone
when you’re not waiting for 
the phone call where they say
“I still love you.”
Maybe it’s because 
You’re not the one 
Waiting by the door for somebody
Who will never come
Maybe it’s because 
Being disappointed in yourself
Is easier than being disappointed
In somebody you love.

I’ll cast blame on anything 
That doesn’t make me face 
The fact that I can not have a
Not with another person,
No matter how badly I try. 
No matter how badly I want to.
I can not trust my own bones;
Why the fuck do I keep thinking
I can trust anybody else?