Category Archives: Life

It’s 2:33 a.m. I turned 26 yesterday.

Now I’m rocking back and forth in my bed trying to drown out the sounds of my mother’s emotional breakdown.

How dare she have children when she is still a child herself in her 60s?

Between her and my meth addict father, if I didn’t have my brother I would have lost my mind. I might’ve fucking killed myself by now.



Maybe I could be like her. Maybe I could be for you.

I’m an idiot. I’m not that bold.

She’s your wife. Your real one…I just play a part onstage.

It’s almost over and the pain is rushing at me. I’m stressed and tired but you walk in before the show and everything’s better. I feel lifted.

This is bad. Awful, really. But it’s okay.

You don’t know. You never will. I’m that good at pretending.

As a kid, I knew I was different. My parents and brother too. But my individual self was slightly out of phase with the rest of the world.

I spent a lot of time alone. Which was fine until I turned 9. I had books and an imagination so vast and limitless that it amazed me when other kids were so…boring. Uncreative.

But one night in 1999 changed something. I guess in a way, that was the end of my childhood. The fear and anxiety that came after cannot be considered the emotions of a child, nor my thoughts those of one.

I wonder now…I thought my depression began in 2009. But maybe…the early signs of it were certainly there back then.

Maybe I was doomed from the start. Destined for dark thoughts from the day of my birth.

It’s strange to think of the things that haven’t changed in 14 years. And sad to think of some that have. I wish I could unburden myself. At least as a child, my imagination was able to get me through the worst times. Now it feels like it is shrinking into Nothing. Which is one of the worst things I can imagine.

I don’t know how to be myself anymore. I started antidepressants a year ago this month, and in many ways I feel no different. Or, at least, not different enough.

I’m trying to rebuild myself from fragments and ashes. Trying to fit together a few pieces of who I used to be with who I am, and who I would like to be. But maybe the time for introspection is later. After I fix all that lies ruined around me.

Four Years

Well, it’s that day again. The day that changed my life forever.

My depression is always so much worse this time of year, but after fighting hives all weekend and being stressed about owing money and other things I can’t control…it’s hitting me quite a bit harder.

Summer hasn’t been a good time for me since high school. It just doesn’t feel right anymore. It’s like everything slows down and begs to be more closely examined. Like my world gets darker while the world around me gets lighter. Things weigh more heavily on my heart.

But my summers got far worse in 2009. Because on this day in that year, the sins of my family years before I was born led to my cousin’s suicide.

Only I’ve never thought of it that way until now. I always put the blame completely on Tim. He was the selfish coward who hung himself in a park, and what if kids had found him? And then the anger flares up and I start shaking like I am now.

But it wasn’t just his fault. Or his dad’s, or his grandfather’s. It was ours, and saying that is crazy because I wasn’t even born, but I feel responsible.

His dad was molested by Tim’s grandfather. Then Tim’s dad molested Tim and his sister.

When my family found out, that was it. Divorce, estrangement. My mom admits she punched a wall and stopped speaking to the man who’d been like a brother to her for years. Everybody hated him, including Tim, who changed his name and, as far as I know, never spoke to his father again.

Tim’s sister decided to reconnect with their dad. To forgive. But Tim couldn’t, he wouldn’t.

And he didn’t tell any of us what he was going through. What he was doing to his partner’s nephew. He lived with the shame until his victim threatened to talk.

It’s our fault. Because look how we reacted to his father? How could we possibly forgive him when we couldn’t forgive his dad?

He couldn’t face us. He couldn’t live with himself. And four years later, I’m only beginning to understand that. My anger is finally fading, and all that’s left is a hollow ache.

So I told my therapist about this blog today. Not sure that’s the right word for it, but whatever. I didn’t tell her the name or anything, just that it exists and what I tend to use it for.

She’s the only person in my life who knows about it. I haven’t even told my best friend.

I guess it’s nice to have something for myself. A place to go where I won’t be ignored, where at least a few people read what I have to say and get it. Or just find it the least bit interesting.

A place where the people who care about me will never go. Where everything I feel that would scare them is locked away.

I wish I didn’t need this. I wish I didn’t need therapy or antidepressants. I wish I could go back and have a second chance at starting my life.

But I do need this blog. I need it more than I ever imagined. I need to know that my words mean something to someone other than me. I need to feel just a little less alone.

I need this blog to survive the moments when anxiety overwhelms me and everything seems pointless. When the past only hurts and the future is full of loss.

I continue to struggle with the idea that there’s something wrong with me that can be fixed. Maybe this is just who I am.

But if this is who I’m meant to be, what hope is there?

I can’t live the rest of my life the way I’ve lived it so far. I’ve made so many mistakes and I’ve been so unhappy.

I’m trying to change, but I don’t know if I have the will to make it happen. Maybe this is as good as I’ll get.