Posted in Being Vulnerable

Is this burn out or depression?

Do you ever just want to go home and drown into your bed?

Imagining your bed will allow you to sink into the oblivion beyond the pillows.

I come back from vacation and I’m still exhausted.

Still barely motivated.

Hoping to find that spark of energy I once had.

Is it the never ending covid media cycle or is it me?

Why do I feel this way?

This lethargic.

I’m not sure.

But all I know is

The answer is somewhere under my blanket.

Posted in Being Vulnerable

Perfect isn’t pretty

I feel as I get older I start to resonate more and more with my mom’s wise words, “looks don’t last forever”.

Yes, I was a shallow kid. Like most university students, I wanted to date the hottest guys. And I remember drooling over one guy and my mom gently reminding me, “it won’t be like that forever.”

And at the time I thought she was just talking about his body, but what I’ve come to realize is she was talking about all bodies.

Our bodies change.

We get older and they transform.

And this is usually met with denial and resistance, but maybe it doesn’t have to be.

Maybe perfect isn’t pretty.

What if what’s actually pretty is people’s “flaws”.

Because aren’t our flaws what bring us together and say, me too?


Posted in Being Vulnerable

Pain with style

I get tattoos so I can feel my pain externally rather than internally.

And don’t say that’s what cutters do.

Because there’s no art in slicing and dicing.

There’s only a mess.

And I’m a mess already.

I don’t need a massacre in my room to prove that.

What I need is black ink on my skin as a biography of my story.

Because I want you to witness my pain in my art and see that I own my story.


Posted in Being Vulnerable

Until recently

I thought I would die young.

I thought something would happen at 40 and I’d just be crushed.

So I never dreamed of owning a home or building a life.

I only dreamed of living in the present and wandering through life with complete abandon.

I’ve always seen myself that way.

A free spirit.

A trapped soul, even.

I have felt like I don’t belong for so long that I stopped caring.

I would just skip down the halls anyways.

I rejoiced in my oddity.

But then I met a boy one day who didn’t think this way.

He didn’t see his time as finite and that was new for me.

It kind of sparked a curiosity in me.

Will I live longer than 40, I asked myself?

Should I consider owning a home?

If I live that long, what do I actually want out of this life?

And these thoughts kept following me like hungry children in Target asking for popcorn.

I couldn’t shake them.

Until one day, I realized, why continue trying to shake them?

Why don’t I feed them the god damn popcorn?

So I gave them a little.

And the thoughts relaxed.

But not only did they relax, they opened up to me.

They started whispering, what if you’ll actually be happy living longer?

What if commitment is not that scary?

What if you’ll be okay staying?

And that’s something I never had considered before.

What if, I whispered again, I’ll be okay staying.

What would that look like?


Posted in Being Vulnerable

All I remember

Was you in pain

I’d wake up to the sound of him screaming at you

Then you crying and pleading

Yet staying

I remember the vomiting

The headaches

The bleeding

The fake smiling

All I remember is your pain

And then she died

And I remember the last sparkle of joy

Leave your eyes

Then I watched as the depression

consumed you

And every day I wanted to save you

Heal you

Protect you

But you were told to stay

She told you that’s what god would want

So you did

And once you made that final choice

I knew I had to separate from you

I couldn’t save you

And that broken every piece of my heart because I love you

And I want to see the joy in your eyes again

But I realize now that is not my role to play

So I could not stay.


Posted in Being Vulnerable

It’s not about blame

Another lesson in therapy.

It’s not about blaming your parents for your pain or blaming your religion or culture or anything.

Blame actually doesn’t help.

It feels good.


But it doesn’t heal the wound.

And that’s something I’m having to continue to remind myself.

Because I come from a long line of blamers, similar to Brene Brown.

I’m so comfortable with blaming others because I didn’t witness much accountability as a kid, let’s be honest.

So of course I want to blame you.

Because I watched you blame him or her and think that was okay.

And I’m sure you want to blame me too.

But like I said, it doesn’t help the healing process.

What helps for me is talking about my pain.

Connecting with others about our mutual pain.

And hearing someone say, me too.

That shit heals.

So that’s another reason why I share.

Because I want to fucking heal.

I don’t want to continue to be this angry, bitter Betty who thinks her family fucked her up.

I want to be free from this pain.

I want the wounds to scar over and stop itching for Christ’s sake.

I’m tired of the anger.


Posted in Being Vulnerable

I share because

I don’t want to forget.

I don’t want to forget these moments when I was learning to crawl.

Because that’s what I feel I’m doing.

I’m learning how to love myself with a baby’s progress.

I’m learning how to heal my heart and it takes time.

Days upon days until they turn into years.

And I don’t want to forget this time when I first dived into my own heart.

My own pain.

Because I know myself.

One day, years from now, I’ll think I have it figured out.

I hope that day never comes

But knowing my superior egotistical self, it will.

And I hope someone points me back to here.


Posted in Being Vulnerable

Therapy 18.10

Why do you think he’s with you?

Me listing my reasons…


Therapist: You forgot to mention because he loves you.

Me: Laughs awkwardly…and then realizes why…

I have never felt a love like his and am so overwhelmed and in disbelief by it that I try to avoid it.

Who would love me, I think?

A girl with so much baggage.

He would, she says.

He would.