Broken Dreams

It’s the adults who ruin it for you. They take your dreams and shatter them. They explode with a force. The shards enter your body to stay with you forever as a constant reminded of what could have been. Imagine what life would have been if your ambitions were nurtured, tended like a precious garden – tilled, weeded, replaced with only the best soil. What a beautiful soul you would have become. Instead you walk around with scars and the painful memories of the broken dreams you carry with you until you dream no more.


An Ugly Game

It’s cold. An unbearable chill. Ceasing my existence. I can’t breath. I feel my muscles clenching, trying to create warmth; failing. Water flows from my eyeballs, freezing on my cheeks upon impact. It isn’t me who is crying about my situation, it’s my body. My emotions are frozen. Locked into my soul which is escaping; the only thing smart and brave enough to set itself free. Minutes pass like hours as the sun sets and the black clouds crawl across the sky. The wind increases. The Earth falls silent. The last tear falls, reaching the corners of my mouth. A fighter, unlike myself. I am cold until nature warms the soil. By then, it will be too late.

It seems amazing how one sentence can form into a group or a even a thousand groups of words. One sentence can nag at me for hours until I set it free, or I don’t. When I do not, the guilt sets in and I tell myself I could be writing with all my free time. Instead, I look at my phone for hours; submitting my self to the lazy side of life. It’s easy. Easier than trying, than working, than giving myself a chance.

I fall victim, but I am not a victim. I am the criminal. I am the one who sabotages. I hold myself for ransom. The price is high, nothing I can afford, so I torture myself to compensate for not getting what I want.

It’s an ugly game. I play it everyday.

It’s a habit now. Nothing changes when we secretly want it to stay the same.

I’m trying my hardest to break my habit. I remind myself of what I could be doing. I am trying to change the way I think. It isn’t easy. I suppose it never is.

I am good, in my own way. I have had my share of praises and failures. I am okay with this. I try to remember all the positives. Oddly, it’s the positives that scare me. I am stricken with the “what ifs” of success.

When I stop, I ask myself why. What stops me from being driven? The answer is simple and yet complex. Unfortunately, I don’t have the answer, and if I did, I would stop myself from answering.

I write this week about anxiety, failure, success, and the drive to get everything I want, if only I would let myself grow.

Anxiety is what keeps me cold, frozen in my own cycle of self-destruction. I am my own criminal in storm created by my own self-doubt, my own anxiety.

I thought of the first sentence today because I was, in fact, cold. It led me to my own self-realization. A story that transformed.

My only way out is to write. An ironic twist in my own hands of fate.

Anxiety – My Ultimate Demise

It happens every time. I cry, I feel something, and I write. It’s just that I am so fucking stressed. I am not coping well and I really do not know what to do. So here I am, contemplating all that I am. My finances, my job, my assists, my life. I am not alone. I know this. There are some who are much less fortunate than me. I have a place to stay. I have people that care. I have a job. It’s one of the most unstable jobs I’ve ever had next to dancing on a pole, but I do have a job.

It’s what’s next that I can’t stand. I hate it because I have no idea what “it” is.

I ponder. I probably ponder too much. Overthinking will be my demise. It’s why I can’t finish projects. It stands in the way of my success and welcomes failure with open arms. “Hello OverActive Brain. What shall we burn today?”

There is something I need to do and I stop myself from doing it because it exposes too much – an oozing open wound I am ferociously trying to heal. It is a project, an idea inspired by a new friend and idle talk. It needs to grow, but it also need to flourish. My brain will not let it. After all the inspiration leaves, I’ll be left with pondering of what could have been.

If you were ever curious about what anxiety must be like, this is it. Read this. Read between the lines. Open yourself to interpretation. Anxiety hinders my every being. I often can overcome, but anxiety will never let me succeed. It will let me settle. I’ll write metaphorically about my life and what it could have been. It will never subside to let out who I really am. I will forever be trapped by the constraints of my mind. Tortured by my own grief.

If this is how it is supposed to be, perhaps I can just give in and learn how to cope.

Perhaps one of my loyal readers has some advice.

It Sucks

It’s been a while. In fact, any piece you have read lately is just a repost. I haven’t had the drive . It sucks. Many of us go through a dry spell, but mine has lasted over a year. It sucks. I have spells of wisdom ever so often. My mind creates a great idea and I run with it for about a week, then I stop. It sucks. What can I possibly accomplish. I am my friend’s quilts. Start one, put it down, never come back. I’m a closet full of quilts. Except for me, it’s a warehouse. I need a forklift and that’s not pretty.

Writing can often seem like a chore. Something I am forced to do. However, no one is forcing me to do anything. Except myself and I hate listening to that nag. Bla, bla, bla. That’s all I hear. She’s annoying. But I need her to tell me what to do. If she would actually shut up, I’d lose all ambition. I’d be gone.

I talked to my ex-husband today. The conversation gave me closure. We talked about who I am, who he knew I was(am), and how he hoped I was happy because I deserved it. He deserves it too. It made me think about how I may have used him as an excuse to not write something that has been plaguing me. I did. Now, I wont. I can write that story. I will write that story. It’s about who I am; who I have always been.

It sucks, but it’s an amazing journey. To write about it will help me more than I may be prepared for and it will help others in the same way.

I’m so glad I talked to him. I am so thankful for my friends who give never ending support. They are the ones who give me the strength.

I can’t say it here. Not everyone I love knows.

You’re smart. You get it. Keep it to yourself. When the time is right, the world will know. They will say, “you know what? Good for her”, or “you owe me money.” Some will not be happy; the ones who say they love me. They will never understand. It will never be okay. That is their demon to struggle with and mine to let go when they know the truth. I don’t want this demon anymore. It has nearly killed me. It has affected me in every aspect of my life. It has always kept me running, searching, lying, and never living my truth. It has kept me in denial. It sucks.

I don’t want it to suck anymore – literally and figuratively.

That's my demon. He keeps me silent and bound. One day, I'll break free.

I Was Brainwashed Once.

I have a rant. You can say what you want, but please, for the love of all things, stop judging.

This rant has been building in me for years. I hope you’re ready.

I have a dog. He has a big head, large muscles, and he is very sensitive. He knows when you don’t like him. He knows when people are sad, mad, happy, and all our other mix of emotions. He will gladly lick your face, clean the inside of your ears, and sniff your feet. He cuddles. He leans on you and uses your body as a recliner. He wants to be with you at all times. When he can’t, he patiently waits for your arrival.

He scared me at first. I was unsure. I was worried that he would turn vicious. I was brainwashed.

Before my dog, I was a volunteer at a humane society. I was one of their dog trainers. They saw a large number of dogs. Some dogs could be saved, some could not. I’ve seen all types of dogs. When I walked into his cage, I was nervous. He came from a bad past.

He sat in the corner and watched as I entered his space. I didn’t make eye contact. I came in, locked the cage, and took a seat on the cold floor. I sat against the cage wall. I sat away from him. I was nervous.

He walked over slowly. He was sniffing. I kept my eyes directly ahead. When he was close, he stopped, then he sat. I always kept a stash of delicious treats in my hand and a training device in the other. When his butt hit the floor, I clicked my device and put a treat next to his paw. I stayed looking ahead. He stayed focused on me. This routine kept until the treats were gone.

I was still nervous. What if all the news reals were true? What if he snapped and went for my throat? What if his jaw locked and I couldn’t break free? The “what ifs” flooded my brain.

His tail wagged so hard it thumped on the concrete. He was staring at me, waiting for my next move.

During his life, humans beat him, shocked him, left him out in the Florida heat, and tied heavy chains around his neck. If there are any “what ifs”, it should be coming from the dog.

He should be wondering if I am going to beat him, shock him, or make him fight for his life. He’s the one who should be nervous.

Instead, he wags his tail. He takes the treats. He waits for me. He watches my behavior. He trusts me. He is still hopeful. He has so much love that he can’t help but be happy even though I might be the next human that does him harm.

I hold out my hand. He leans forward, sniffs, and licks my skin. His tongue can’t help it so he licks my arm. His tail wags harder and he licks my face. I give him a gentle pat and before you know it, we are playing, cuddling, and loving with all our hearts.

It was in that moment my closed, brainwashed heart became bigger. I fell in love with a breed that is hated for how they look. They are hated for their sheer power. They are hated and they are feared. When a human is scared, it is the most scariest place to be.

I love my dog. When I first saw his face, I knew he would be great. However, the media is a powerful thing. My nerves took over, once again. I knew my new love would become big. I knew he would become my greatest protector. I knew his strength would make others and even me stand on edge.

He tested me.

He is two now. He loves, he plays, and he shows people he isn’t what the media says. He isn’t what the scared human creates. He is just a dog.

I saw him change a mind today. He changes minds all the time, but something struck me with this lady.

I come out of my car. She is standing on my steps that lead to my home. She is nervous. I see me standing there, opening a cage, and not knowing if I would leave.

He approached. She asked if he was vicious because “he looks vicious”. I calmly said no. He’s a lover. He licked her hand gently, as if he knew he should. “Here, let me lick your hand so you can know I’m not mean, I just look that way”.

She smiled and giggled.

A wet nose and a soft tongue can make the worst cynic smile. She followed me into my home and while we talked, my dog sat and waited. She commented on how good he was and I said, they all are. We just have to give them a chance.

My rant is fueled by my own previous bias. My rant is fueled by a public who knows only what they read and what they hear. My rant is fueled by all the abused dogs who only want to love. They only want to be friends. They only want to teach us to love the same; without bias.

A large head, large muscles, and a strong will mean only one thing to me now – a dog with a heart large enough to change a brainwashed mind.

I own a pit bull. He owns my heart.

This is Einstien.

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A Little Taste 

When I have time, I write small portions of a book taking space in my head. It is in first person and it is meant to look like an authors account of true events, or rather my life story. When I put it all together, it will be about a woman who struggles to cope with mental illness in a world that constantly judges. She copes in other ways too, but that’s the voices talking.


When I was young, I would question my existence. I would ponder the meaning of why. Why did we bother to do anything if we were just going to die in the end? What was the point? Why try?
I managed to press through the thoughts. I sought out other ideas, hobbies, and allowed myself to live a little.
Once in a while, the thoughts come back.

When I was younger, I wasn’t aware of the state I put myself in when questioning why I bother to live. What a sight it must have been for others to see me sad; so suddenly.

I’m better at hiding it now. I work, I form relationships, I seek some sort of happiness. It looms, the agony, the dread. But I’m better at pushing through – sometimes. Lately, it hovers longer than I’d like. Often, it clings and I can’t shake it, wash it, peel back its decaying skin. It hangs like the air on a humid day.

I become stuck. I stick to my thoughts. They control my fighting mind; the part of my mind that resists the constant question – why are you still here? Why hasn’t anyone found you in a pool of blood?

I’m not sure, but my resisting mind wants to know why these demons keep lurking around? What is their purpose? Why did they choose me?
When you think of yourself, others don’t find themselves into the equation. Depression, for me is a one way street. Ahh, but that isn’t really true because the anxiety in me only cares about others, and the looming psychopath in me wants to murder every soul I see.
Mental illness isn’t cute anymore. It never was.

I grew up in a time where it was a growing trend of weirdos who dressed in black and were always sad. They made depression somehow glamorous and soon nearly everyone I knew wore eyeliner and combed their hair over one eye. But what about the people who were trying to act normal because they fought real demons? Not ones that pretended to just so they could fight the establishment and in return draw attention to themselves because no one at home gave a shit.
I had parents who gave a shit, they just didn’t know they had to. To them, I was normal. I did normal things, had normal friends, and had a normal mind.
I actually wanted to be normal. Instead, I fought to live. My mind wanted my soul and it almost won, more than a few times. I prayed to die and hoped I wouldn’t make it past 25. In fact, I was certain I wouldn’t live past then. I was so sure, I started doing things to speed along the process. It never happened. When 25 came, I cried until I nearly went into a psychosis. I took some pills to wash away the pain, and I woke in a heavier dispair. I was with someone then. Someone who saw my crazy. They seemed to embrace it and I’ll never know and never want to know why.
At this point, I gave in. I stayed with this person and just became someone I wasn’t – normal. I thought I should so I could at least stop the voices. I had to stop the demons.
But they were still there. In fact they came on full force. I started taking meds. It was a tragic sight. I changed. The voices stopped. The demons stopped licking the gray matter, but the claws never retracted.
I started living. I went to therapy. I was normal. But we’re not really normal, are we? We just turn into zombies.

I made cakes, made friends, cooked dinner, and went to parties. I was a wife. Sometimes I was really good. Sometimes I really sucked.

The demons played sometimes. They broke the med spell and when they played, the voices were worse than before. I would cry until I lost parts of me that I’ll never see again. I broke. After I broke, I broke again and again until the meds were gone and I started to sabbatoge my existence. If I was miserable, so was everyone else. No one was safe.
My unstable life made the voices more active. I had boughs of hysteria,as the old school doctors would say, more often than boughs of sanity. I longed to be institutionalized. I joked about it. That’s what you do. You joke about how crazy you are so you can deflect your problems. People laugh with you and it reinforces the behavior until even you start to believe the lies. They are just jokes, you tell yourself. You’re not crazy.
So you live your life. Like normal people do, but your thoughts are more demented. So you hang around people who are almost the same. It makes you feel better about yourself.
They don’t know the truth. No one knows the truth. When you confide in someone, they disregard you and just say things that they think will make you feel better because in reality you’ve made them feel uncomfortable and now they don’t know how to act around you and you find your list of friends getting smaller and smaller.
Don’t worry, you have the voices.
I do. The demons are nice as well. I enjoy their powerful hold. Their tight, crippling grip of despair. In fact, I’ve grown so accustomed to their presence I’m not sure I’d know how to be without them -which actually scares me to the core.


I enter this realm once again. Not for you, but for myself. For my sanity. I have neglected what I love, what I am, and what I long to be.

Much has happened during my sabbatical and I hope to return with only one word in mind: change. It is what I have done and it is what I hope to continue to do.

I wrote something today that I would like to share. I hope you enjoy. If you relate, I hope we can teach each other ways to cope because I am so often lost.

Thank you for reading.

I felt really ambitious today – as if I were going to conquer the world. Then it happened, a series of events that would lead to my suffering and ruin my conquest. I wish it weren’t so, but as I type these words, tears flow because I feel defeated and mentally exhausted. The sad part is not the defeat, but the uncertainty of how to cope with the past, present, and future.

The anxiety seeps inside and covers every crevice until it fills every empty space. It takes control. I don’t fight, I flee. I shut down and run. You can’t speak to me, I can’t breath, and my brain beats my skull in pain. For a short while, I am non-existent. I am lost in my own spinning thoughts. My eyes are frozen. My energy is expelled. I feel insane. In those moments, I would stand by and let you commit me to a mental institution. For in those moments, when I am frozen, I feel as though I am lost forever.

It’s brief, but it feels like eternity, and all this for only one brief explanation: too much stimulation.

I can’t process it all. I need time to move from one step to the next. I’ve had a few days in a row of noise – constant stimulation. I didn’t give myself enough time to breath. Because of this, I panicked, in a way. It was quick, but the results last for hours. I still can’t talk and I even forced myself to write.

What I can only hope will be a relief is uninterrupted sleep.

These attacks drain every cell and your only solace is silence – paralyzing silence.

They’ll label me. I’ve been labeled before. Major Depressive Disorder, Attention Deficit Disorder, Post Traumatic Stress Disorder, and the newly not so recognized, acquired at a young age, Sensory Processing Disorder. Yay. Oh yes, let’s not forget my anxiety – social along with general.

I feel like a badly labeled clearance item. Let’s mark it one more time, maybe then someone will take it.

Losing My Way

I’ve lost my way time and time again.

Searching through the ruble,

wiping the dust from my shins

I often find a clearing,

the light shines through

I start to climb to freedom,

hope fills the air

I reach for a boulder,

to make my last steps

It was an illusion. 

It was never there.

I lose my grip on the vanishing air.

My feet slip below me

The darkness settles in

And now I’ve lost my way

time and time again.

It’s Time

I paused yesterday during my internal struggle for peace and realized I have been neglectful. 

I have been neglecting myself. I preach what should be done and when it comes to it, I fall short. 

It’s what happens, I suppose. We are supposed to learn, fail, and grow. 

I wonder when I’ll succeed. When I’ll stop falling short. But these questions I’m never suppose to know. That’s the complexity of life. We live, try our best, and share our wisdom. 

It’s a turbulent journey. 

When life becomes too much to bear, I have to pause and think about being grateful. It doesn’t come easy. I’ve come to realize, it never will. 

In the tradition of using Friday to think about what I’m grateful for, I’ll give you a list. 

It’s small, but it’s truth is real. 

  • In times where I feel alone, a friend shines through and reminds me they’ve always been there. For this, I am grateful for my friends. I have a handful that really know me, and I love them all. 
  • I am grateful for my parents. They do all they can for me, and I never say thank you enough. 
  • I am grateful I have a job. I often loathe it, but it’s still there as long as they find me worthy. 
  • My niece. She’s amazing, smart, funny, and when you’re sad she knows exactly what to do. She’s a true gift. 

Take some time to pause and be grateful. It can be difficult, but it gives new perspective and sometimes that’s all we need to silence the mind. 

He’s pausing, but it’s possible he’s thinking about cookies.