Like Him, Like Me


I cannot listen to the words of this man anymore, I really cannot. I’ve been avoiding him for two weeks now, maybe more, I’m not sure. Time drags on when you spend it avoiding someone and spend it anxious of what will happen should he contact you. He’s had a recent heartache, you see. He made the mistake of engaging in a relationship with a married woman and now he’s ended up with his heart broken and he speaks of it with any and everyone who will listen. I’ve heard from my Boss that this man, my coworker, spent a great deal of the first week crying over the breakup. Crying right there in the middle of the salesfloor. There’s not a one of us who feels sympathy for him, he knew she was married when he decided to begin a relationship with her, but he’s been so lonely for so long that he decided to take whatever he could get. When she left him, he was devastated. He stopped eating, he stopped sleeping, he’s steadily been losing weight- this confirms what I’ve always believed to be true about love- it will kill you in the end. He asked my thoughts on the situation, as have most of my male friends in his position, because I was once like Her. I ripped the heart out of a man I loved very much and seemingly moved on with my life, plus I’m a good listener. At first all I could do was offer my explanation of situations in my own life and suggest that perhaps this woman is feeling much the same as I did. Of course he wanted to believe that, he needed to believe that- I’ve had quite the happy ending and I know he’s hoping for the same. But I’m not her and she’s not me. I never went back. I cannot listen to him tell me anymore that’s he done with the whole situation when clearly he is not because it’s all he speaks about. I understand how he is feeling, he fell in love and after so long of being miserable, he had a taste of what happiness is like and he wants it back. Happiness for a single man with a married woman is a fairytale though, maybe more like a horror story. He’s living in this black pit of depression and trying to fool himself that it doesn’t exist, that his world is mostly sunshine and rainbows but that sometimes it’s darkness and painful. Why does love do this to us? Make us do this to ourselves? Why do we choose to see things that aren’t truly there? Why do we read into every word, every situation, every touch, every glance, why do we torture ourselves and then call it love? I’ve never understood it, only that love is painful and if it don’t hurt, it ain’t love. Sometimes I make my own heart hurt when I think about the love I share. I think about all the “What if’s” and get my anxiety going. I go through my days with a racing heart and spinning thoughts, slowly becoming unable to distinguish up from down, reality from make believe, truth from my own lies made up in my fucked up brain. If you can’t feel pain you ain’t alive. That’s what I tell myself. Of course I’m wrong. Love shouldn’t feel like this, and love in my case doesn’t feel like this. Mine is a good man, the best man that I’ve ever known. But when I’m in my “issues” I can convince myself otherwise. I’m completely content being open about my lack of self-control when it comes to my emotions and my thoughts though. This man I work with is not this way. He’s up and down like a damned seesaw, one second he’s on top of the world, swears he doesn’t care any longer for this woman and the next he’s talking about his plans for them when “she comes back,” tears in his eyes, his words coming out in a rush, tumbling and tripping over each other. “The first step in recovery is admitting you have a problem.” And me, too nice and listening to it all, all the while my anxiety is slowly climbing, just wanting him to stop rambling about this woman so that I don’t have to feel these unwanted emotions, the aggravation and dislike for her, the disappointment at his weakness and poor judgment not to mention his decision making process- it could use an overhaul. All of this and I can’t help but remember myself a year and a half ago when my own anxiety and depression were spiraling out of control and I was quite the basket case, rambling and crying unexpectedly, every moment of every day filled with unwanted thoughts and worries, filled with darkness and pain. I had such great support then, the same people who should be supporting him as they supported me, but instead they tell me his case and my case are nothing the same. More frequently lately I have been told that the difference between their treatment of him during this hard time and their treatment of me during mine is the simple fact that they like me. And we call ourselves a “family.”




If you could compare the way things really are and the way that I perceive them to be, you would think I’m crazy. My mind tortures me sometimes, whispering it’s insecure nonesense to me until I feel like I’m going to scream until my lungs bleed. The things my brain thinks up makes my skin itch sometimes and it’s frightening.   But what’s even more frightening is that it doesn’t always bother me. Sometimes he asks me what I’m thinking and while the image of me bringing harm to someone who hurt me very much in the past flashes through my mind, a bloodbath of horrendous magnitude, I smile and say I was thinking of what to snack on. He wouldn’t understand the horrors my mind creates. He sees it as living in the past and thinks I should move on. If it was that easy, I would have done it long ago. These things that are in my head, they irritate and disgust most. It’s why I’m usually so withdrawn. They think it’s because I’m shy, because I only speak when I absolutely have something to say, and really it’s because they don’t understand me. I’m much more content to write these secret things down privately, my journal is a psychiatrist’s playground, but no one has ever asked me what’s on my mind with the honest desire of wanting to know which is another reason I keep it to myself. He’s not like me though. He thinks about the workings of the world, the how’s and why’s. He’s brilliant. His curiosity makes his eyes light up and makes me envious. I cannot remember the last time my eyes lit up over anything. It won’t always be this way though, I only have to figure out how to use my creativity to release these demons, bring them out of me and then maybe I can be free. It’s like being on a damned merry go round, the darkness and the light trying to out spin each other until the two become nothing more than splotches, combining and creating something different, something almost beautiful, something that cannot be harnessed.

Self Portrait


They can think what they want about me but I know who I am and who I am is better than they could ever hope to be. It’s not vanity if it’s the truth, right? I don’t hold myself above anyone else when it comes to status or looks or wealth, honestly I could care less about these things. It’s my attitude that riles people up and makes them an enemy before they’ve even taken a chance on knowing me, really seeing me. If they stuck around for a moment they would see me crying on the aisle we sell laundry detergent on while I remember how many times I was beaten as punishment for a faulty washing machine. It wasn’t like I made the damned thing, regardless, I was taught a lesson because of it. I find myself wondering if you think of me some frivolous airhead who is only worried about how it looks like and not how it really is, but rest assured, I have no alterior motives, I am drawn to beautiful things and it’s not my fault that you’re one of them. Would it offend you though if I told you that you’re not broken enough for me? I picture myself blackening your pure skin with my hard working hands and despite the cynical air you carry about you, I think it would disturb you. My dirty hands, I mean. I think you might be as crazy as I am, but yours is more a Norman Bates type crazy, quiet and trying to convince yourself you’re not while mine is more, well I have no one to reference to this, no one you would know at least. I never thought that you might be like Them, not when you’ve spent so long trying to convince me that you’re not, but life is full of surprises, sometimes nasty surprises. While you’re sitting in that little dark room, painting your skin with the images you see in an attempt to display the insanity you claim to have, I’ll be out here painting the world with mine.



Sometimes I want to screenshot your words because they make me feel things. Sometimes they make me cry, and it’s not always a bad type of crying, but really would it matter whether or not it was? The point would be that your words made me feel something, anything, more than what most other’s words do to me. I get lost in your tempo, it’s like a dance that I have to finish, a story I have become interwoven in whose end I must know or have it drive me mad, but there is no end anywhere in sight and for this I am thankful, but also pained. What if I never make it to the end? What if I never have the opportunity to find out what happens for you when there is nothing left? It’s maddening to think about and kicks my anxiety up a notch. Have I told you I’m in love with your words? They are a rare type of magic, as are you. But, of course, I may be wrong. After all, I don’t know you at all. All I know is that your words are a treasure for me in these days where treasure is hard to come by. They keep me grounded, remind me of what is real while also levitating me to the highest altitudes where I am more than happy to become lost in the clouds. Your words leave my mind spinning, my heart pounding, my palms sweaty. They are like a suspenseful novel and a lullaby, all rolled into one. Your words are a guiding light and that thing in the dark with the glowing, red eyes and sharp teeth. Your words are… there really are no words for how I feel about your words.

Women Like Us


I’ve been listening to his voice for two days now, the pain I hear in it is unbearable. He can’t figure out what he did wrong, where he went wrong and he doesn’t understand that it has nothing to do with him. Women like us, we’re just fucked up in the head and always trying to stay one step ahead in this game that we call life.

I can’t find the words to comfort him and I’m so afraid that this heartache will be his demise. He swears his health is fine, but I’m calling his bluff. I hate her. A woman I felt close to only days before, I now hate her with the intensity of a billion burning suns. She’s ripped out the heart of a man that I care deeply about, a man who has become a father to me. I know she’s been broken in the past, but that doesn’t give her the right to break someone else. But maybe this is just the habit of women like us.

And this is one of my biggest flaws as a human- I feel much too deeply. My own heart feels broken and has for days now. I thought it was my own depression kicking in, but I haven’t had any reason to feel this way. Even with my illness, life has been good and I am still taking my medication. I have no reason to feel this way. And then I found out what she did. She broke his heart and all I can think of is that I hope someone breaks hers soon as well. Because this is what we do, once we’ve been broken, it’s like a disease inside of us that takes us over, growing, spreading, until we infect everyone else around us. This is what we’re like, women like us.

I met him at work. He seemed to be a grumpy old man, not in the least bit friendly. I had been warned that his personality wasn’t the most pleasant but I saw something in him that reminded me of myself. He was afraid. Afraid of letting people in. I was patient though. I took my time getting to know him and little did I know that he was defending me as well to the rest of the Team when they would comment that I was standoffish. He understood that I’m just guarded. I’ve been hurt too many times in the past, the same as him. I cannot afford to have my heart broken again. I couldn’t survive it. I think I would lose my mind. I would lose myself. He understands that even without me having to say it aloud because he is the same. He understands because he understands women like us.

He came with me twice to court. He held me when I broke down into tears, he kept eye contact with me while I was on the stand. He gave me strength. Once, he even offered me the ultimate gift of freedom. I wanted to take him up on his offer but the consequences were too high and I’m a firm believer in Karma. I know he just didn’t want me to hurt anymore, because me loves me. He wants to help fix me if he can. He knows how hard it is to live with the things she and I live with because he understands women like us.

It’s not an inappropriate type of love. He loves me like he would love his own daughter. He understands that we are from the same mold. He knows that I am here for him when he needs me to be but that I also understand when he needs his space because I am the same way sometimes.

And now his heart is broken and his mind is running wild with the “What if’s” and I hate it that there’s only so much that I can do to help him. I hate her. I hate her for putting in his voice the pain I have heard for the past two days. I hate her. I hate what she’s done to him. And I hate it that I don’t know how to help him. I hate it that he has fallen for and now had his heart broken by a woman who is like Us.

While He’s Here


Just more horrible news to top off my already funky mood. A friend from work told me today that one of our other coworkers is joining the military because he wants to work as a paramedic in less fortunate countries. He says he wants to do good in the world. He’s just that type of guy, you know, big heart, still believes in the good in people. He wants to make a difference.

I felt like I was going to cry when she told me. With the way the world is today, this news frightens me. I want him to be safe. True, bad can happen anywhere in the world, but he’ll be so far away. My chest hurts thinking about it. I wonder if my heart is breaking.

Maybe I’m what’s wrong with the world, believing that my friend’s presence would do a world more good here, where people like me need people like him. He has an optimism about him that’s contagious and uplifting. I think it’s because he has so much faith in God. Every day when I come in for the morning, he’s sitting down to breakfast and praying. It’s not something you see every day and I admire him for it. In a time where faith isn’t openly spoken about, especially not in the workplace, he stays true to his. I really think my heart is breaking.

A few months ago he and I were talking about my relationship with the Mister and he was saying how lucky he felt the Mister is for having been brought together with the kids and I. He says this is what he wants, to meet a woman who already has children, children he can be a father to. He says he would be happy to meet someone and fall in love and then have kids, the traditional way, but that he doesn’t deny he would be happier to come into a ready made family. I didn’t know what to do with that when he told me. I still don’t.

He and I chit chat in passing, sometimes we end up working together for the day, but not often. I know he enjoys motorcross racing, the adrenaline that comes with it. I know he’s not afraid of hurting himself in the sport. I thought he was crazy when I first learned this about him. I still think he’s crazy.

I feel horrible about not wanting my friend to go to countries that aren’t safe right now. I feel horrible that his words made me cry today. But mostly my chest aches with a tremendous heaviness because in a life with so many who come and go, I’m about to have another one leave and this news couldn’t have come at a worse time.

I still admire him for his bravery and for his big heart, his desire to do good. I’ll pray for him every night until I forget about him. I know that sounds horrible but in reality, he and I are not that close and as time goes on I will have forgotten these feelings I’m feeling right now. But that’s a long ways off, just like his departure, so for now I’ll appreciate his presence and his friendship and mostly I will pray for him.



I wanted to hear from you today, I could’ve used your words. You would have said some poetic shit about how nothing was meant to last forever, except maybe our words, but even those will be forgotten over time. Don’t think I’m saying your words are shit, it’s only how I talk when I’m feeling like this and too often I censor myself for the little ears and eyes that I don’t think could handle the vulgarity of it. I save those words for my bound pages. I thought about writing in those bound pages today, I almost did, but so far I haven’t tainted them with what I write that I feel is crap. I’ve ripped a few out and will probably rip out many more before I decide the book is useless. What I really want to do is let you destroy me from the inside out, not literally of course, unless it would make you smile, but figuratively, so that I can start the process of being reborn. I feel dirty and disgusting right now, it’s what the building rage does to me, and a total reconstruction of my soul is the only solution. But the process is so damn exhausting and while I crave solitude, I become lonely when I’m in the depths of it. I don’t know what I’m trying to say. I needed to talk to you today. I wanted to be reborn.



Just like that my whole mood has been turned around. It’s like storm clouds have moved in with icy cold winds and pelting rain. What is it about you that sets my soul at unease? Maybe it’s nothing but maybe it’s something. Maybe it’s everything about you, maybe it’s nothing at all.

You set the damn fire burning in me, an anger so intense it makes my teeth feel numb, much the same as they do when I’m about to have an anxiety attack. How the hell do you do that every single time? My rational side keeps telling me it’s nothing, that it’s just the PTSD trying to make something out of it. Or maybe I’m right. I don’t know. I don’t have the strength. You make me weak.

I don’t want to think about it anymore but that’s not how my brain works. It’s turning and churning and whirling and spinning, all the while the rage is burning deep inside of me. Rage over nothing, the nothing that might be something but that is most likely nothing. I’ll spend the next week wondering if it was something or nothing, blowing the whole incident out of proportion. My mind is my prison and it wasn’t your fault. You only found me like this, you didn’t make me like this. But you can’t fix me either.

In My World


It’s so hard sometimes, being like this, living with a mind that picks something out of literally nothing. Letting the paranoia and anxiety get to me whenever I don’t even have all of the facts. But that part of me is so good at picking up on the most subtle of things, my brain hones in on these things, things I could live without hearing and seeing and knowing.

Sometimes I blame it on my writer’s brain. I blame it on my ability to pick out the most obscure details and turn them into things that they most definitely are not. Maybe not even most definitely, but at least probably not. I blow these “maybe nots” up into “probably are’s” and then over time they turn into “most definitely are’s.” It’s an exhausting way to live, but it’s all I’ve ever known.

I’ve spent the past two days building a fictional world, taking the time to create a place that I would very much enjoy living in, people I would very much like to know, and it makes me like my own world  a bit less. That’s the problem with writing fiction, reality is never quite as sweet. Not for me at least. I find myself becoming lost in these worlds, waiting patiently for the next moment when I can return to it. It’s like a drug, it’s my addiction.

I am exhausted. There are too many days when I am exhausted. These days it hasn’t been because of my overthinking brain though, it’s been a normal, pleasant type of exhaustion. It’s been one of work and children and puppies. I have too much to do and not enough time to do it, which is always better than having too much time and nothing to fill it with.

Sometimes I read these beautiful words and I wish they could be about me. I find myself wondering what would happen, what would have happened, mostly what could happen, if I was given the opportunity to experience life in these places, with these people and their words. Would they write words about Me? Have they written something about me? I could only hope so. But I am not there and they are not here and we never, ever meet and so really all I can do is hope that something I’ve said means more to you than it does to those who don’t even take the time to read these words. Those who should already know these words but for some reason don’t care to.



Watching the truths of my childhood becoming the truths of my adulthood. Love does not exist, not like it does in the fairytales most grow up on and it’s disappointing. Settling for crude groping and inappropriate comments that make my skin crawl but that I call love, gifts that only money buy because it’s too difficult to try to show any other form of love. I tell myself this is as good as it gets. It’s exhausting succumbing to this life, one that I was tired of from the moment that I could understand it’s irony and cruelty. Yet here I am still, wading through the murkiness of it all. Performing mindless tasks every moment of every day, the only time I’m alive is when I’m pouring my mind, heart and soul out to eyes that cannot comprehend where I’m coming from. I’m all alone in this world, not another like me to help make the days a bit more bearable, a bit brighter, a bit more hopeful. On days like today I am weary and ready to give up. I cannot go another moment in this repetitive existence where there is no relief. I blame it on the lapse in my medication or maybe my paranoia is valid for a change. Maybe it’s always been valid and I’ve wrongly been trying to convince myself that I’m simply crazy instead. How tragic that would be. Searching for someone to share all of the small moments with, those moments that make my heart smile slightly, those moments that break through the darkness inside and I realize I have no one, no one that truly understands at least. Maybe I’ve had a spike in my hormones and it’s putting my brain and emotions off balance or maybe I’m right and I usually only turn a blind eye to these things because the truth is so damn painful sometimes. Until I take my last breath the only thing that matters is writing these words down and hoping that they reach the right person, someone who is like me.