I do fine.
Then I don’t.
I feel numb.
Then I feel pain.

I just don’t get it. I gave up cutting. I gave up drinking. For the most part I’ve even given up binging. So… Shouldn’t I be feeling better?

More often than not, I just think about how great it would be to just take a bottle of seroquel and sleep for a long, long time. The one thing in this world that keeps me in check is my heart and soul, Benjamin. I have no idea what I would do without that dog. No matter how hurt, how alone, how depressed… One look from his little eyes can heal a lot.

But here I am. In bed. Benji happy with a bone. Me crying. Three seroquel in and sleep just can’t come fast enough.

I just want to mean something. I want my life to mean something. I want some sort of purpose. I want to be hugged and told everything will work out in the end. I just want to know that there’s some reason for me being here.

But for now I have my seroquel, stuffed minion, and dog. And I guess for tonight that will have to be enough.


Guilty Happiness

I’m sitting here playing with trains with an adorable kid. And I feel happy. I’ve had thoughts about going out and being a normal, social being. I’ve wanted to go shopping to look cute. I haven’t really been counting calories.

But, I feel guilty about these feelings. I feel like I’m supposed to be sad. If the ones I love aren’t happy, how dare I be?

I want to take away every bad thing I’ve ever done, every nasty word I’ve spoken, and start fresh.

But, it is not possible.

So, I’m going to just be. Just live. In the here and now. Life is good. Life has the potential to be great.

I’m finally starting to feel okay. Thank god for meds, and thank god for good friends (and doggies and books).


My friend told me last week to stop playing the victim. What happened in the past has already happened, and to get over it. At first, I found it harsh. How dare she? She doesn’t know all the shit I went through.

But then… I started thinking. She is right. What happened is in the past. I can’t change it. Worrying about it, living in a bubble, being reclusive… None of that is going to change what has already happened. All it will do is hinder me from actually living a happy, fun, productive life.

So, I’ve tried changing. I surprisinly had a very fun time on Valentine’s Day. My roommate had a date, so I got in sweats and prepared for a night in with the dogs. She got home from her date early. She asked if I wanted to go out. Normal me… Hell no. However, I got on some jeans and went out. At the bar, I actually talked to random people. I didn’t sit with my head down. I even got a kiss from a cute chick. And we have texted since then. I also tried the mechanical bull. And even tried riding it with some other girl at the same time.

Then, the other night my friend had a guy over. Typically, I would either leave, or take a handful of sleeping pills and nod off. But, I stayed out in the living room. I talked. Interacted. Laughed. And in the end, had a great time.

That is the life I need. Not my old life. Not a life allowing my abusers to still have control. I can be happy. I can have fun. I deserve it. And I intend to start living this way. I like fun, carefree me.


Currently… I don’t really know. Sometimes I feel my meds are working perfectly. I feel like my mind is clear, I am happy, and something “bad” can happen and I won’t be affected. Other times… I swerve badly when I drive because my head is cloudy. It takes me twice as long, with twice as many errors, to type a sentence on the computer.

In the end, I am me. I am a depressed individual who feels my life doesn’t mean shit. I know I’m not horrible looking. I know I’m not stupid. I know I can survive in this world.

However, in the end, I am perpetually miserable. I need work done on my brain. My brain is fucked up. Wires just aren’t right. And I can’t change that. Even on my good days, even the days I can put on cute clothes and makeup, and socialize… in the back of my mind… I know it is just mania from my bipolar. It won’t last.

In the end, if I kill myself, I won’t regret it. I won’t be alive to feel regret. But maybe, just maybe, my death would make everyone in my life look at their own lives differently. Make them become better people for each other.

I’ve been cutting almost every day. Nothing big. Nothing deep. Very superficial cuts that go away. But that’s the only way I feel anything.

No matter how happy I am… I’m not. I am depressed. Depressed beyond any meds. My mom fucked me up. My dad fucked me up. My grandma fucked me up, but mostly Clyde and his family fucked me up.

I will always be me. I just need to find the strength to let everything go.

Depression vs Anger

I was just having a conversation with someone about x, y, and z. She said that just reading what I wrote got her blood boiling, and she asked how I wasn’t angry. I got to thinking… I am very, very rarely angry. I don’t get angry. I get sad. I get hopeless. I get offended. But… I don’t get angry. Then she told me she thinks depression is just repressed anger. It got me thinking… maybe she is right.

I have so much in my life that I should be angry about, but I’m just not. I am such a sensitive person. I get offended easily, and I take every last thing to heart, and every single thing personally (even if it isn’t about me or directed toward me).

What does anger even look like? I can yell. But, I don’t see yelling as anger. I yell when I am sad or scared.

I don’t know how to move past hurt and offended to even make it to angry.

Right now I feel very depressed. Betrayed. Tired.

I want to feel angry.

I want to have the feeling of hatred boil up in me and cause me to take action.

I want to feel worthy of anger. I guess in the back of my mind, I am not worth anything, so everything that happens to me, I deserve. So, who am I to get angry over it?

I see my psychiatrist tomorrow. I am thinking of asking him to up my meds. But, in the end, I don’t know what that will even do. I am just tired of feeling so… blah?

I went a very long period feeling numb. Not crying. But, I cut last week. And then the last maybe five nights, possibly a week, I have cried myself to sleep every night. I spend my nights thinking and crying, staying up until at least 3am just in my own head. Eventually, it exhausts me enough and I fall asleep.

What kind of life is this? How do I not be this way?

I don’t know. Maybe crying is good. Maybe thinking is good.


There seem to be so many different things my mind is trying to process currently. I get so ADD sometimes that I move so quickly from one thought to another that I never have time to work through even a single thing, just little pieces of five million different things.

Douchebag rapist has been messaging again. Sometimes I don’t even read the messages and just delete them. Sometimes I read them and laugh at his stupidity. I am over him and his empty threats currently. But, the memories, not so much. What he is saying currently kind of flies over my head– I am a completely different person than I was when those things were happening to me. However, it doesn’t take away all of the memories and flashbacks I have of all of the things he has done to me.

I barely slept at all since Friday. MAYBE three hours each night?

And yet, it was still a chore to even climb out of my bed. I think I spent the majority of the weekend in bed under the covers either reading or watching Netflix on my ipad. I would get up to eat or to let my dogs out.

Currently I want nothing more than to crawl into bed and sleep until tomorrow.

An old friend of mine, one whom I hurt very badly, recently started talking to me again. It has been the most amazing thing in the world. I missed talking to her so much, but didn’t blame her when she had originally left. But, we’ve been texting and facebooking back and forth constantly for almost a week now. It feels good. We used to talk for hours every day.

I’ve finally lost a bit more weight. But I am starting to think it will never be enough. Logically I can see myself getting smaller. I see that my yoga pants are too big, that my fairly new jeans don’t fit right anymore. But… all I see is fat, loose skin, and too many scars. I am starting to feel that I will have to get to 100 pounds to even start to like my legs at all.

I think I am completely done with men. I have never been a huge fan of men, but now I am just done.

Men like to take charge. Men like to ┬ábe the boss of everything. Men think they know everything. And a man will always be bigger and stronger than me and can always physically hurt me if he wants to. I can’t even think about being around a man again.

I slipped up and cut last week? I think it was last week. A part of me regrets it, but only for the scars it will leave. Another part of me wants to start cutting again, just instead of the deep cuts I like doing, just a shit ton of shallow, superficial ones that will let me get my frustration out, but in the end won’t leave a scar.

I think I am going to ask my psychiatrist to up my prozac. I’ve been in the thought process of hating myself even more so than usual. I just don’t see what point I serve. I am just a lazy fatass who takes up resources and space, and the world won’t miss me if I am gone. But, I can’t even think about my dog going to a shelter if I were to do something, so that will always keep me around.

I just want the images to go away. I want to be able to lay down and go straight to sleep without a care in the world. I want to not hear a song and cry because I am so pathetic.

I feel so hurt and betrayed by life right now. I must have been so fucking horrible in my past life to be where I am in life today.

And I know where I am in life is my fault.

I could suck it up. I could move. I could get a big girl job. I could date.

But, in the end, I just don’t think I am capable of anything. I am just so miserable and tired that I seriously feel like I deserve an award for getting dressed in the morning.

Fuck depression


I’m tired of being sad. I’m tired of crying. I’m tired of feeling empty inside. I’m tired of feeling worthless. I’m tired of feeling stuck. I’m tired of feeling crazy. I’m tired of being alone. I’m tired of yelling. I’m tired of pretending. I’m tired of dreaming of a life I will never have. I’m tired of missing things. I’m tired of missing people. I’m tired of remembering. I’m tired of wishing I could start all over. I’m tired of not being able to just let go. I’m tired of faking it. I’m tired of being different. I’m tired of being angry. I’m tired of needing help. I’m tired of always wondering when God is finally going to let me be happy. Most of all, I’m just I’m tired of being tired.

Here is the tragedy: when you are the victim of depression, not only do you feel utterly helpless and abandoned by the world, you also know that very few people can understand, or even begin to believe, that life can be this painful.

That’s the thing about depression: A human being can survive almost anything, as long as she sees the end in sight. But depression is so insidious, and it compounds daily, that it’s impossible to ever see the end. The fog is like a cage without a key.