Some days all I yearn for is a beer. Something tall and dark, something Irish. I daydream about a bar I used to frequent in my early twenties, I was there nearly every night after work in the summers. I’d have a few drinks, half watching what was on the televisions behind the bar until it was well past time to drag myself off home to a life that I should have appreciated but very much didn’t.

I didn’t write much back then, not at all actually. I was too busy working fifty hour weeks and living life. Did I search for love back then? Sure. I’m always searching for love but up until half a decade ago I never found it. I sought adventure and noise, noise that would quiet the one ever present in my own head. It was never really quieted, but many times it was overpowered by the exciting, frivolous life I was living.

I drank mostly. In groups, in pairs, alone. I drank alone more often than not, mostly because my appetite and tolerance for alcohol far surpassed that of anyone else I knew. I oftentimes outdrank even most of my male friends, which I think impressed and disgusted them at the same time. Drinking was the only way I could escape from life. The only way I could be free. The only way I could be happy. Drinking silenced the insecurity, the irrational fears, the anxiety, the depression. Well, it silenced the depression for awhile and then it hit me full-force once I was done.

Some days I would dabble in other substances. Those are the days when I would write. I would think of the caterpillar from Alice in Wonderland, the Mad Hatter, the Mad Queen, the White Rabbit. I would think of that magical world I had loved since I was a child and wish I could be there. I would chase substances and try to get as intoxicated as I could in order to just catch a glimpse. Never did I find it in my waking moments, but my dreams were always colorful. Now I wish I would’ve written more of those dreams down. It seems such a waste to have kept them to myself all of those years.

I can’t remember the last time I had a colorful dream. I can’t remember the last time I dreamt at all. The medication prevents me from remembering them. I can’t say this is a bad thing, I have more nightmares than dreams anyhow, but just for once I would love to remember one in detail. Something I could write about. Something I could share with you. I just can’t.

The pain has been unbearable the past couple of days, sparks of it that leave me convulsing. I’m not one for doctors so I suffer in silence. Yesterday as I was picking up last minute items for my daughter’s birthday, the pain nearly had me on me knees, right there in the electronics department. Sharp, stabbing pains and I convinced myself this was it, this was how it was going to end- in an aisle of a store, on my knees, only a few hours short of an early birthday party for my oldest daughter. The pain passed but revisited me early this morning. I’ll make it to a doctor eventually.

I want to write something that moves you to tears, that has you reflecting on your own life, that has you wondering more about mine. I want to fill you with words that have you pulling out your drawing pencils and sketch pads, bringing my words to life- magical places pencilled down for me to escape to when it all becomes too much, and it often becomes too much. I want to write something that inspires you to respond, inspires you to create, inspires you to remember. I want to write something to fill the space that drinking left, I want to write something that makes me feel alive.





I once wrote a story, over 50,000 words and then deleted and destroyed it after a year. It was the most painful thing I had ever written because even though it was fiction, it was based on truth. The words I had written made me relive the past and I think this is when the nightmares started. The past is so painful and it’s hard to learn from it when you’re still trying to run from it. I’ve worked so hard to put the past behind me and the medication had helped a great deal. I’ve long since stopped going to therapy and no longer have anyone to share my pain with, except for You. I can’t remember the last time I had a nightmare, the last time I caught myself looking over my shoulder, the last time I had a panic attack, but today, the thoughts were too much and I don’t even know what started it. My mind tumbled and fumbled over itself, around and around and the anger overwhelmed me. I could feel the paranoia creeping in at the edges of my mind and your face was all that I saw, all that I could focus on. Your face is like that of an angel, although I’m sure you would disagree and maybe even laugh, but your face, it is heavenly. Everything about you sets me free, everything about you is all that I need to keep me grounded while still experiencing the beauty in the clouds. You know my truths and yet you’re still here, you keep coming back even though I can’t understand why. There’s nothing about me that’s particularly interesting, there’s nothing about me that’s particularly unique, yet here you come, once again, setting my soul on fire. Everything about you is all I’ve ever wanted, at least, the parts of you that you’ve let me see. Everything about you is perfect and I’ll never understand why you keep coming back when all I have to offer is Me.



Feeling so weary sitting on this couch. I’m exhausted. It’s not a physical exhaustion, although the physical demands play a part. My soul seeks rest. The places that I used to find it hold no comfort these days and I feel as though I am floating from moment to moment, waiting for when I can close my eyes. The anxiety makes all the sounds too loud and distorted, the lights too harsh and bright. I find myself longing for the quiet and solitude of my bedroom, although even then I rarely find some peace. The noise inside my head is the loudest, it will not quiet even for a moment. The thoughts roll around and around, becoming louder and louder and I turn to the words I love so much, the words that quiet my soul. I thank you then for creating for me a safe haven, even when the words aren’t so beautiful, even when the truth is dark and painful and rips open old wounds. I thank you. Your words remind me that there is another way to see this world, another way to see the beauty, another way to find release and this is all I’ve ever wanted.



When I cannot find the words I admire his face instead. I trace every line, every strand of hair, the depth of those shimmering eyes and I try to mentally will him to cry. Sometimes I think he isn’t human, he seems so jaded by life, it makes me wonder if his mind thinks of the things he has been programmed to think, subconsciously he thinks them, repeats them, never believing them and always trying to convince himself that he doesn’t really think them. Every inch of him is so beautiful and all I really want is to watch him bleed, whether it be his heart onto paper or his pain into tears that roll down his cheeks, I want to witness his weakness. I want to see that he bleeds red just like me. I wouldn’t take advantage of his vulnerability, as much as I would want to. I just want to see him fall apart, just one time. I want to see that he is real and not something that I have dreamt up. I want to wipe away his tears and feel their weight between my fingertips. I want to see if they sparkle as brightly as the rest of what I love about him does. I want to see if his blood will stain me as deeply as the rest of him has.

The Artist


Looking at some older photos of him and once again becoming lost in his beauty. He destroys my soul while calling it love and I love every minute of it. His beauty is different. His is a beauty that I initially believed to be a mirage. When I think of him I tell myself that he proved me wrong by showing me how gentle he can be, how he just as much loves to watch the autumn leaves dancing in the golden sunset as I do. He demonstrates this by listening to the whispered conversations of the ocean’s waves, holding my hand while we dig our toes in the sand, the breeze ruffling that beautiful head of hair of his. He smells of cotton and detergent and natural things, not spice and whatever else is put in those sprays for men to attract a partner, a lover, a one-night stand. No, he smells pure. A smell that makes me feel at home. He makes an enormous effort to remember my favorite thing to do on those days when I cannot go on and he does this with me without judgment. He hums his favorite songs to me in a way that makes them sound like lullabies, even when they are the heavier bit that he listens to. He paints me a picture, his easel set up by the French doors that I don’t have, facing the sunlight, or the moonlight (which I much rather prefer), a glass of something strong and amber in one hand, a paintbrush between his teeth, a cup to rinse in his other paint-streaked hand. He paints me the worlds I dream of, the worlds I long to be a part of. He brings them to life for me through his colors, colors that only he can breathe life into the way he does. Beyond that, I’m not sure what he’s like, only that his heart is kind, he would rather die than hurt my heart and his colors are what light the way for me in my darkest of moments. I could be wrong about him. I usually am wrong about people. But this is how I’ll think of him, in those passing moments when I think of him.

When It’s Like This


When it’s like this, it’s almost like being reborn. I can’t help but think of the Phoenix, born out of the ashes. The depression is like this. I don’t know what started it, something in my paranoid mind, no doubt. A spark of something ignited a fire in me. It’s always the same- I’ve seen or heard something that didn’t sit well somewhere inside of me and it gnawed at me and gnawed at me. It’s snowballing. The anxiety blossomed into depression which is slowly dissolving into anger, red hot, boiling rage. I hate it when it’s like this. I hate feeling so out of control. I hate hating the things I usually love. I hate everything. I mostly hate feeling like this. He tells me I need to get some rest, that he’ll handle all of the errands on his own today, but he doesn’t understand that when it’s like this, there is no rest. My mind will keep spinning, my insides will grow more and more blackened by the second until I finally explode. He told me once that he would rather hear the craziness that bumps around in my brain because it’s better than wondering what I’m thinking but once I’ve told him what’s happening he gets frustrated and it makes me feel worse. This is why I’m a woman of few words. People say they want to know, but they really don’t. Not when it’s like this.



When the anxiety is like this, my teeth feel numb. I didn’t think your teeth had too much feeling but apparently, they do. My teeth have felt numb for the past two days. It’s a strange sensation. It feels like they’re tingling but it also feels like they’re not there. The words consume me, yet I cannot find the appropriate ones to write. They tumble in my brain and jumble together and on days like today when I’m filled with a red hot rage, everyone looks like an enemy to me. Everyone looks like someone who not only can, but wants, to hurt me. Especially those that I love. I ran into someone today that I used to know and it was awkward as he raised his eyebrows at me and forced a cheery “Hey.” His girlfriend was trailing much farther behind him as they browsed for a door. She looked unenthusiastic as she followed him from aisle to aisle before they finally exited the building, him at a quick pace and her still shuffling behind him. I saw them together in the store a few months ago and they were standing so close together, hands linked, eyes glowing with that new love. It made me a bit sad to see them this way today. But maybe he was in a hurry. His ex does work there still of course. Maybe he was afraid he would run into her and it would just be awkward. His ex has been promoted and will be leaving the store soon, which I’m thankful for. I never much liked her anyhow. I wondered if he was feeling a red hot rage like me. If he was anxious and restless with the urge to move around, break loose or maybe to destroy something beautiful the same as I was feeling. I didn’t ponder these things too long because she’s in his past, and he is in mine and there’s no point of reliving that mess. It was confusing enough the first time and my anxiety is too great for anymore confusion.

Beautiful Words


Sometimes it’s hard being the only one who always has the words, even when I cannot find them. It’s hard to sit in silence when the silence should be filled. I turn to my pages and fill them with words- words that have otherwise been ignored in my life, words that I cannot say out loud, words that I cannot empty my head of. I know you know what I mean. These words cannot be wasted on just anyone when they are so precious to us and so we wait for the right moment or maybe the moment when we cannot think of these words anymore and then we let them spill forward. But not in a reckless, haphazard way. No we find a beautiful way to say the most ugly things because sometimes making those ugly things beautiful any way we can is the only way we can endure them. We are birds of a feather. Most times you understand what I am trying to say and sometimes I understand what you meant and this is when we come together to remind ourselves that we are not alone.

Highway at Night


If you asked me why I write, I would ask you not to ask me that. You already know the answer. But if I must tell you, I am searching. And you already know what for. In a world that moves too fast, that moves too slowly, that never seems to move in a way that makes sense to me, I am searching.

The answer lies by the oceanside, of course. It floats around me in the salty, sea air. It ebbs and flows towards and away from me on the crest of each frothy, cerulean wave. When I’m ready to find the answers, the ocean is where I’ll be. The ocean is where I’ll be, if you’re ever looking to find me.

I write because too often my lips trip and stumble over words that are too inadequate for the tumbling thoughts in my mind. I write because there aren’t many souls in my life who would understand what I meant, and also what I didn’t. I write because sometimes the words build up on my clumsy tongue and I begin to feel as though I may scream. I write to find release.

If you ask me why I write, I would tell you it’s because I love you. I love so many You’s. So many like You. So many who aren’t like You. I want to share with you the things I cannot share with those I hold so close to me. You could say I hold you closer. I write to not feel so alone even though I don’t too much mind being lonely.

I write because the night hours stretch ahead of me like a damned, black highway, leading to something that leaves me feeling unsure, a highway that leads nowhere. I write to fill the silence. I write to quiet the noise. I write to fill the emptiness. I write when I need to be alone.

I write because I am searching. Like so many others like me, I write to find what I am missing. I already know what it is I am looking for. I just don’t know when I’ll find it.

The Light


What was I trying to say just then? The words didn’t make any sense once they touched the page. My thoughts, a whirlwind of butterflies, dancing in an autumn breeze- beautiful but still I cannot grasp them. I was trying to tell you about the emptiness, but now I’m emptied of words, there’s none left to use. I’ve lost my momentum. I’m not like the rest of them you know, who take and take and take. I want to give you all of me and show you what it’s like. It has to be you because there’s a weakness in you that I can fill with the dimming light in me. Let me fill you with my darkness and I’ll drink from yours in return. It has to be You because you understand, even when you don’t. We live these mediocre lives, always searching for the greatness inside, telling ourselves we don’t need another soul. But I need you and you need me and it’s a pity it wasn’t written in the stars for us because together, we could’ve created something magical.