Sorry about that.

I haven't looked at this blog in months but I opened it this morning. My last few posts are quite depressing. I'm sorry you had to read it. But I just want you to know that things are better now. I thought I wasn't going to get through anything, but I did.

I always do. 

Things got really bad last year. I couldn't eat and I lost 30 pounds. It was hard for me to breathe. I passed out a lot. I couldn't function. My body was failing and my mind was going insane.

But then the doctors figured it out.
They had me taking two medicines together that were reacting. It was killing me slowly.

So I stopped taking them.

And I got better.

I could breathe again. And my mind became less insane. I will always be somewhat insane, but that's okay. It makes life more exciting.

Also, I got married.
I married the boy I wrote about.

And I may be crazy, but I'm happy.

I made this ALL BY MYSELF

Hey Nelson. I made this because I thought more people should see it…It's pretty great. (Also I wanted to try out this new drawing software I got). Anyways…This is how to become a poet. 

Being five is fun.

I sleep with a stuffed animal.

His name is Bear.

This is because he is a fluffy white bear.

If I wake up and he’s not in my arms I panic.

I cry myself to sleep a lot.

I used to cry once a year.

I don’t have to make myself cry anymore.

It just happens.

I don’t know how to make it stop.

I am afraid of the dark.

It takes me to places I don’t want to go.

I get scared when it’s time for bed.

I make my three-legged dog sleep with me.

He snores and he farts.

But I sleep better with him there.

He is good at cuddling.

It’s probably his only talent.

So basically I AM A 5 YEAR OLD GIRL.

And I just reread this and realized how sad it sounds. It is not meant to be sad. In fact, I find it quite funny. All these things started to happen when I turned 19. That’s not normal, if you were wondering. And no, I don’t pee the bed, but sometimes I wake up and I’m in a puddle of liquid. And no, it’s not my period either—it’s my feeding tube and it leaks. It’s disgusting.

My dad keeps telling me I’m mentally unstable. My mom keeps telling me I’m the strongest girl she knows. But I stopped listening to my parents awhile ago so it doesn’t matter. There’s no downside and there’s not upside. I’m just focusing on existing.

And I have to go to these doctors and they stick needles in my stomach and I feel like a voodoo doll and I try not to scream-squel-squeak out in pain but sometimes it hurts really bad. It makes my scarred tummy all purple and puffy. And people keep asking about my EXPECTATIONS for life. But I have no expectations. I must have misplaced them somewhere.

Also, I farted during family prayer yesterday.

And I’m not happy but I’m funny.

What goes on in ones brain in the middle of the night.

It's 4:56 A.M.
I haven't gone to sleep yet.
I probably won't.
Typing is hard when you can't sleep. My fingers feel funny.
I can't remember the last time I made physical contact with someone.
I cried myself to sleep again tonight. But I didn't actually fall asleep so I just cried. In the middle of the night. Into my pillows. For a period of time.
College is ridiculously easy here.
I'm confused.
My parents are slightly insane.
I didn't hook up to my feeding tube tonight so if I die of malnutrition that's why.
I can't comprehend why people are so afraid of dying.
Tomorrow I am going to wear my new giant sweater with a skull on it.
I still hate this girl that I haven't seen since eighth grade.
The reason being is because she is very pretty and seems to have everything put together.
She's a model.
I have left campus less than 4 times since I have been here.
The relationship I have with my parents is a rollercoaster that is only moving down.
The only constant in my diet is toaster stroodles.
They are quite delicious.
My hair is falling out.
I am easily intimidated by overweight people.
If I wasn't so scared of them I would have said "fat girls." But I went with overweight people instead.
My eyelashes are all na-tur-al and blonde because I haven't worn mascara in very a long time.
I have made a goal to not shave my legs until Christmas.
Luckily, I do not keep my goals and will probably shave my legs this week.
I miss you.
I have to see my therapist on Wednesday.
On a scale of 1 to 10, one being "if you had a gun you would shoot yourself" and 10 being "you've never been happier," where are you today?
I'm a solid 2.3
I don't think I can have kids.
I genuinely like some people. I genuinely dislike most people.
I believe I may have issues with authority.
I love reading.
My biggest fear is that my dog dies while I'm gone.
He's not doing so great.
I forgot to kiss him goodbye.
Did you know that owning cats gives you a higher chance of getting depression and other mental illnesses?
They don't have Grandma Sychamores bread here.
I found this highly upsetting.
Almost as upsetting as having to talk to my mother.
I throw up.
I have a high chance of getting cancer when I'm older because of it.
Why can't I just bite it now?

Welcome to Rehab

Maybe it was the way I took a nap in my oversized suitcase for 2 hours instead of packing.
Maybe it was the way each time I cried I ended up hysterically laughing.

Maybe it was how we kissed in front of terminal 2.

Maybe it was my carry on. Everyone else had purses and bags. I had my record player.

I think it was my mom. I told her what was happening to me. And she did nothing. She said "well if it's that bad, we should probably get you to the hospital." It was that bad. I had it all planned out. It was all I could think about. But she didn't take me to the hospital, she just left. 

Maybe it was the low paid psychiatrist.
Maybe it was the plethera overweight girls.
Maybe it was the dress code.
Maybe it was the online shopping.

I think it was my birthday. The random presents left on my pillow. How the 4 people took me to dinner because they felt bad for me. Or maybe they were paid to do so. I don't like pity. I don't like being a burden. Or how for the first time in my life, every single one of my nine siblings called or texted to say "Happy Birthday, hang in there, things aren't as bad as you think." And when anyone asked how I was doing, all I could think to say was: "It's my fucking birthday." But I can't say that to my professor. So I'm silent.

Maybe it was the absence of food.
Maybe it was how my sister told me she didn't want to talk to me anymore.
Maybe it was the extra furniture piled up in my room.
Maybe it was how everything was worse than I thought it would be.

I think it was that Skype call. I fell asleep talking to you, which I like to do because then I don't cry myself to sleep. I never used to cry. Now I do. But I opened my eyes to look at you on my dimmed laptop screen, and you were crying. Big tears. And my heart broke a little bit. 

Maybe it's the amount of sex offenders in this town.
Maybe it's how my roommates are afraid of me.
Maybe it's how I haven't gone to church yet.
Maybe it's the Breakfast Club poster hanging in my room.

I think it's how I don't belong here.

Of Chances and Changes

I started high school with short hair. It had purple and blue streaks. All the other girls got in trouble for having brightly colored hair, but I didn't. I think it was the confidence I had. No one questioned what I was doing, even the adults.

I don't have that confidence anymore.
The kind that says "I'm perfect--I would never do anything wrong."

I was quiet and kept my head down. I blushed when the football players talked to me. I studied for tests. I had never been kissed but I had read so many ridiculous romance novels that I felt like I had. I didn't swear. I didn't lie. Ever. I only had one notebook filled with my random musings. I never pushed the rules. I never questioned anything. My bra size was 32A and and my jeans were a size 7 and I really didn't mind.

Now I'm starting college.

I have a different confidence now. One that says "I don't give a shit about anything."
That would probably because I like to pretend I don't give a shit about anything.

(I give a shit.)

So, college. I've already been kicked out of an apartment. I flip off the football players. Police Officers have caught me making out about 5 times. I swear too much and I lie. ALL THE TIME. I keep my head up and I have an excellent "don't bother me face" that works incredibly well.  My sarcasm has reached perfection. I have at least 35 notebooks filled of my random musings. I'm a feminist and sometimes dress slightly slutty. I'm a size 3 in jeans and my bra size is now a 34D. Let me repeat that, because it's kind of a big deal. My boobs are now a D cup. I would like to end there, because my bra size is very important, and it would create a nice emphasis but I won't, because that would make things uncomfortable.

Actually, I AM going to end it here.

I am officially a big-boobed blonde.

Here I come world.

I might have a chance now.

Shipments from Urban Outfitters

Things that fit in a box.

Frozen Mozzarella Sticks

Condoms

Ticket Stubs

Film Negatives

Toothbrushes

Envelopes

Cookies of any kind

Rock collections

Shipments from Urban Outfitters

Sticky Notes

Mexican Coke

Things that don't fit in a box.

Kisses

Souls

Reckelessness

Music

Things too big for boxes

Excuses

Stereotypes

Fears

The world probably doesn't fit in a box

Maybe we're just living in a giant box

Time

Sarcasm

Second Chances

When you first kissed me I tried to put it in a box but it didn't fit no matter what I tried. I still felt it on my lips but it was disappearing rapidly. I desperately needed somewhere to put it. But the box wouldn't accept it. So I took the kiss out of the box and gently gave it to my memories. The kiss meant something. Every kiss must mean something. Is there such a thing as a fake kiss? The staged ones, the planned ones, the filmed ones, do they mean nothing? A kiss is never just a kiss. And kisses don't fit in boxes.

Sometimes my soul does the talking. It says hello and introduces itself. It knows you're going to be my friend. It keeps talking while I stay silent. And when I begin to walk away, apart of my soul latches onto you. The first time we met my soul knew, it knew, and it gave a piece of itself to you without any doubt. It does that sometimes. I don't give it permission and I don't really appreciate it. People are walking around with pieces of my soul. I would like them back please. I can put them in a safe box where they won't get hurt. But they don't fit. It doesn't work that way.

The psychiatrist always tells me to put things in my box. "Put your fears in your box my dear" she says. "Put your past in your box" she says. "Put your cynicism in your box" she says. "Put your recklessness in your box," she says."This will help you get better!" she says."Lock up your box. Now throw away the key," she says. "Throw away the spare key, too. Now throw away the box," she says.

"Shut the hell up," I say.

Please stop trying to put me in a box. 

Even if I fit.