(in no specific order)
- Earn my Bachelor’s & Master’s Degrees, then maybe a doctorate
- Rescue many more animals
- Adopt a child (maybe 2)
- Start a nonprofit
- Fix America’s healthcare system (or at least start)
- Reform America’s for-profit prison system
- Advocate for decriminalizing drug use/possession
- Advocate to release all non-violent drug offenders from prison
- Advocate, advocate, advocate!
- Build my dream home
- Improve education
- Publish a book
- See my art in a museum
- Have my photography published in a magazine
- Finish getting all of the tattoos I want
- Have bright colored hair
- Meet Bernie Sanders and thank him
- Learn sign language
- Read all the books I own
- Own a business with my life partner, Tanner
- Learn yoga
- Learn a foreign language
- Scuba dive
- Wear a black wedding dress
- Meet with a psychic
- Have a garden
- Learn to love myself
- Advocate for the use of all renewable energy sources
- Make wine
- Visit the Murder House from AHS (it’s an Airbnb, ya know)
- Figure out my religious beliefs
- End racism
- Be a barista
- Make the world a better place
I could go on and on with this list until I actually die. This will be interesting to look at in years to come.
What do you hope to accomplish?
Happiness is sipping an iced mocha at your favorite local restaurant that only serves organic, local farm-to-table food.
Softly, she whispered, “I’ve never loved someone this much.”
He thought, “I’ve never loved you at all.”
I haven’t felt the need to write lately, mainly because I feel like no one cares what I have to say. But tonight, I have that heavy, anxious feeling in my chest as if words are slowly filling up my veins, and if I don’t let them bleed out, then I will undoubtedly explode.
There are so many topics, sentences, and questions flowing through me – how do I pick out what to write down? After months upon months of nothing, why is this happening now? Words often flow through easier through my veins when I am in a state of depression, so my mental stability comes into question. I know I have been feeling more down and emotional lately, but surely my body realizes that I don’t have time to fall into a state of depression. Right?
Time has made a habit out of making the loss of a loved one easier. Time, this time, has failed me. It has been two years, three months, and six days since I lost my father. The longer he’s gone, the more of my life he’s missing, and the more it hurts like no pain I have ever experienced before. I can feel the emptiness swell through my body like a disease that eats every ounce of energy and happiness that I have left. Mannequins enjoy life more than I do sometimes.
I earned my Associate’s Degree (although useless, it’s still somewhat of an accomplishment), graduated with honors, on the Dean’s List, and a member of two National Honor Societies. You weren’t there, and honestly, I didn’t really want to be there either. I transferred to the university that I swore I’d never go to. I got into the Social Work program, and I’m a member of a couple of organizations. But I haven’t been able to tell you that. You haven’t been able to tell me that you’re proud and that you love me.
That’s what hurts so deeply, Dad. My life is moving forward without you in it. Some days, I want to just stand still. I want to quit, go back to bed, and never wake up. I want to be where ever you are. You are supposed to be here, at least until I’m done with school and get married. No twenty-four year old should have to lose their father. I’ve thought I was an adult since I was a teenager, but losing you was a harsh slap in the face. I still need my daddy, so come back. Come back and guide me, love me, and show me all of the things that I still need to know.
I live in two different realities:
- Depression, anxiety, sadness, irritability, anger, swollen eyes, exhaustion, migraines, aches, and pains. Nothing is worse than the sound of my alarm. I dread the thoughts of simply existing. I lack motivation. What is the point in all of this? Why do I stretch myself so thin all of the time? Why do I try so hard and care so much? We are all going to die anyway.
- My passions overwhelm me and I have too many things I want to get done. I am ready to start my day with a shower and an iced latte. The weather is beautiful and I want to sit outside, feel the sunshine, and listen to the birds sing. I feel my depression awakening, but I’m able to put her back to sleep. I put my anxiety back to bed as well. I’m able to overcome my negative emotions and everything is okay. I am going to change the world for the better.
To those who don’t struggle with mental illness, I may seem like a manic mess. To those who can relate, they know that this is a normal part of life. To outsiders unaware of my internal struggle, they would never assume anything was wrong. I seem like a ‘normal’ person. Some days, I even feel sort of normal.
My veins no longer feel like they are going to explode from the accumulation of unsaid words. Self-care is important, necessary even. Writing is self-care for me. I am still learning to love and respect myself.
Time. Everything takes time.
Sometime before she fully reached adulthood, she traded in her Dr. Pepper for a whiskey and Coke and sweet tea for a shot of whatever was being offered. She was lost in a whirlwind of emotions and the alcohol made her feel numb- a pleasant state of laughter and what she thought was happiness. The happiness later turned into numerous one night stands (well, sometimes she would go back to the same person), drunk driving, and breakdowns in bathrooms where she vomited and cried by the bathtub of a stranger. None of her questions about life were answered the way she wanted, so she drank more and more until she eventually did not know who she was. She went through the motions, either drunk, hungover, or trying to get through work until she could start the cycle all over again. The panic attacks were getting worse and more frequent, and she could say the same about her depression. The alcohol numbed these and the numerous boys made her feel wanted and beautiful. She felt whole. The problem was that when she woke at 4:36am, she was naked, dehydrated, had a migraine, and was next to someone that did not care about her deeper than what he saw- anxiety and negative emotions flooded her as she gathered her things, got in her car still a little drunk, and drove away.
I often find that it’s hard to know how to feel.
Sad? Mad? What is real?
Am I imagining things? Should I really be upset?
Surely I’m crazy.. surely I’m crazy..
Validate my feelings!
Tell me that my emotions are okay;
I know I’m crazy, but tell me that you’d feel the same way.
Tell me I’m not being illogical.
Tell me that everything will be okay.
Wipe away my tears, and please, tell me you’d feel the same way.