Not So Speechless

I’m finding myself rather speechless after today. After I had so many words for my sister-in-law, after discussing it with my mom, with my birth mom, with my friends… I don’t even know what else to say. And my readers here (which mostly consist of the friends who already know the dirty of it) I don’t even have the energy to elaborate the whole fight my wife and her sister had over facebook messenger (yeah, she wouldn’t answer my wife’s phone call at all) today. But it was nasty. Nasty enough that my wife for the first time has decided to be done with her family. Just. Done. She’s blocked everyone (or is going to?)

But I’m here to focus on the emotion. I guess… I mostly just want to try to write every day. I mean today I was going to do my Tarot spread but I’m too damn lazy to do that right now.

But anyways, the jist… “Everyone” is keeping their distance from us because of our “life style” of being “too involved” with Star Wars (um do you know us? We love a lot of stuff a lot) and our son’s hygiene issue. Ummm… what hygiene issue? Sometimes he smells like pee because he peed on himself because he’s SEVEN. Yeah some of his clothing is stained and old because it’s hand-me-downs. Kids grow TOO DAMN FAST to be buying new clothing for them all the fucking time. Are they talking about his FAVORITE Batman shirt (that has been handed down from his 25 year old uncle to his 16 year old uncle to his 13 year old uncle and now to him) that has holes in it? I mean, it’s over 20 years old well loved shirt that HE LOVES. I’m not gonna get rid of it because it has a few holes. My favorite Lord Voldemort shirt has holes in it and I still wear it (very little) and keep it because damn, it’s my favorite. It still works as a damn shirt. So does his Batman shirt. Sorry we use every item of clothing for as long as it we can??
Also our kid bathes regularly and you try keeping a 7 year old’s nails clean for more than a day. I can’t even keep my nails clean for a day.

“Your house smells.”
You’ve been to our home TWICE. Once for Blake’s birthday when it was deep cleaned because we knew people were coming with cat allergies so we banished our furry friends to the bedroom and cleaned up ALL THE CAT HAIR WE COULD POSSIBLY COULD. And the second time she came I was sick and hadn’t cleaned in the few days and sure the litter boxes needed to be clean but we hadn’t gotten to it yet. Like everyone has their bad house day.

Also there’s the thing that animal owners have a house that just…smells like animals. Our house smells like cats because we have FOUR CATS. UGH.

Oh what else was there. The whole thing that I’m going to snap. That she was concerned about me so went behind my back to tell her mom who then called Aunna and was just as confused as us… sure she doesn’t read this I think. God I hope not. But fuck, can’t someone who has a disturbed mind get their emotions out and out of their fucking head. Because if I didn’t write it would bottle up inside and explode out of me in a source of self-harm, crying, or trying to kill myself. So… writing it out honestly is better than keeping it in where it hurts. It fucking hurts. I can’t pretend I’m “normal.” I can’t pretend I’m “Okay” to their standers. But damn it, the past two days I was Okay. I felt GREAT. I felt, like I had emotion and I was happy and I was spending time with my son instead of being a lump on the couch, curled up, doing as little as I could because I was so fucking depressed that I wanted to die but had to hide it from my son so he wouldn’t worry.

She’s worried about my son being around me. She’s voiced this before and I called her a cunt. She knew I would call her a cunt again… but if the shoe fits.

Blake is the happiest, most polite, sweet, funny, and kind kid I know. He’s well fed. He’s clean (as a seven year old can be) He has lots of toys. Video games. Stuff animals. He loves our cats. He’s good with animals. He’s smart as fuck. He’s creative… tell me where I went wrong as a mom? Like god damn it I’ve done an EXCELLENT JOB on my part with Blake despite my mental conditions. I put all of my energy into my child that I leave so little for my art but you know what, it doesn’t matter. As long as my kid is happy and knows he’s loved. And he does. I make sure he gets every hug he wants and needs.

Then there was her back handed “she’s in the hospital every week.” uh it’s every few months, thanks for paying attention. And “what if we get the call that she’s dead.” Like do you actually care or are you pretending to care? I have NEVER once felt loved by this family or her. Never. Fucking. Ever. Your significant other’s family is supposed to love you too, right? Right? But no. They think I’ve taken Aunna away from her and changed her. (Yeah I’m blamed for making her trans…) Like they didn’t even knew who the fuck Aunna was obviously. I haven’t changed Aunna as all. Tonight we were sitting with my *other* wife/life long best friend/My Padme, Claire and going through year books and oh man, Aunna and I haven’t changed personality wise at all. We’re still the same dorks we were in High School. Just hotter and wiser.

But fuck her, fuck any of the family that thinks like her (because not all of them do, I know because I asked.) My friends and my family are on our side. They know the truth. They actually give a fuck about Aunna. They give a fuck about me.

And next time… before making up shit that has no merit, just admit you’re scared of people with Borderline Personality Disorder. You’re scared of Manic Depressives.

And if I could say anything to her right now I would say, try being in my head. Try being a victim/survivor of violent and repetitive rape. Try being a survivor of being raped at six fucking years old. Try being a survivor of being just…fucking raped by a friend. Of having a predisposition to sensitivity because you were born with Bipolar. Have BPD because your mom didn’t love you.(or from being raped at 6 or going though a divorce at a young age, which is a lot for a six year old’s head to process and that’s why they think I have BPD)  Oh your anxiety is real fucking cute. I don’t have enough room in my head to deal with your abusive insensitivity. Cunt.



Welcome to the Asylum, We’ve got fun and games

Comment if you read the whole thing, I’m curious 
No, seriously, they had so many board games and card games and puzzles and paper activities… but without the fun. My title is a lie. But I hope you sang it in the tune to “Welcome to the Jungle” because that song is stuck in my head. From Thursday the 9th to Monday the 13th I took a short stint in the Bridge House Mental health center. And I documented it. Probably badly, but I had to write and what I did write I am going to share here because I am an attention whore and plus I want to keep this blog going and not let it whether and die like every blog I touch does.

Later this week I’ll also FINALLY share some more of my witchy stuff with the last Tarot reading I did. I’m going to try to read Tarot and discuss it here for at least once a week. More if lucky. Hahahahaha. I am probably going to make myself a liar.

But on to my Asylum Stay.

Inmate Again 2/9/2017

I always mean to journal whenever I’m in here. Because of EA or because I wish to document, I can’t decided. But this time I’m prepared. I hope they let me keep my pen. First off, I’ll exhaust you on my past five committed times when I have more time. I already like this place. It’s not an ER but a Crisis Center. As long as there is nothing medically wrong (like I took a bunch of pills) they will admit you. It’s not crowded. Since I entered an empty waiting room two people have come in after me. I’ve been here for four hours. (One thing compared to the ER, they are faster) A councilor has determined yes I need to be admitted. My insurance has approved. Now just waiting for a doctor to give me the yes then I move from crisis center to… BRIDGE HOUSE. A hospital that I’ve been dying (lol) to try for a change of pace from my current Hat Trick of Highlands with my last crisis adventures. Now, will this one do the trick and help me process what fucked up things Damien did to me? Or will psych wards become a revolving door I am stuck in for the rest of my life?

I’m here because I’m suicidal 2-10-17

Bridge House is a locked down center in the same parking lot of the for-mentioned Crisis Center. Literally ten minutes from home. They, so far, are 99x better than the last three places I’ve been to. First off, it’s got a beautiful view of a backwoods area and bike path. I hope we get to go outside. Our caged area looks more like a garden than a place to hold us crazies. They even have tables on the deck where it looks like we can eat on warmer days. There is eight of us. Not feeling a lot of welcoming from the others so far but maybe this time I should keep to myself?I debate keeping my cuts covered or not. It’s like a game of “Street Cred”  Look I’m hardcore, I cut, you should see the monster on my thigh.
I want to be the most sick one and that in it’s self make me sicker. I have being like this.
But isn’t that why I’m here?
I’m suicidal and at this point I might do something. No I will. Unless I get Damien processed out of my fucking blood. Maybe this sickness can be bled out. Maybe I just like the idea of blood?

I don’t have a pen to write with, just this tiny golf pencil. So I may not write much. So no history lesson on my last five stays.


Have I possibly been blessed with a marker? I have! The freedom of non sharp art supplies here is wonderful. Groups here are pretty much the same as other places but the one on one therapy and psych is amazing. I already feel like I’m getting more help here than any where else. I’m not socializing well is the problem. I’m the new kid. I don’t know, maybe it’ll be better later.
I’ve seemed to have befriended an old hippy guy. We talk art and draw together. It’s nice.  Hope I can keep this marker during my stay. I write better at night.

Being off my meds for 24 hours have made my hands go numb and my head heavy. But I got night meds early. Hope I sleep better tonight. My first night I tossed and turned and kept waiting for it to get light outside so I could go out in the day room to read and possibly get some tea as soon as breakfast started.

Ignored 2-11-17

I miss my mom. I feel sick inside because I feel like she’s ignoring me. I just want to talk to her. I want my momma. I imagine she’s busy, trying to tell myself she is just busy. But I feel so empty.


I had a hard conversation with my mom but she assured me it was out of love. Didn’t feel like love. I feel like she wants to get rid of me. She wants me to do things on my own, alone. But I can’t. She wants me to stay here for a long time but I don’t know if they’ll let me stay here. I’m stronger than I think though. I’ve been to Hell, I’ve died. I need to live again.
Aunna is not answering. She’s at work but I’ve been calling from 12-1:30. When is her fucking lunch? Will she remember to call me? I need someone right now. I feel ignored and abandoned. I have no one.
Tate hasn’t answered all day. Where is my support system. Aunna finally answered but I have to wait another four hours to even talk to her again. I probably won’t see her until I’m out. I’m spending Valentine’s Day without her. Just like last year. I’m the worst person alive. I’m still suicidal. I’ve  been here for two full days. I feel like I’m going to fucking lose it. When I get out, which I’ll get out before my mom is happy I know, she wants me in long term care. They don’t do that here. Will they transfer me? Where will I go? They try to convince me Ill be out and it’ll be okay on the outside. But I’ll end back in a a few months. It’s a fucking cycle. My mom is going to be upset at me when it’s not going to be my choice to leave. Pain Pain Pain Pain Pain Pain Pain Pain. I’ve cried so fucking much today I feel sick. I can’t seem to socialize with anyone today. There are five of us now. Everyone sat at a different table than I. Back to feeling lonely. Ignored. Abandoned. I think I’ll try to call Tate again.

They Don’t Get It 2/12/17

New People. My table mates think they are in another mental state than “us” but if they really knew me… One girl is crying hysterically. That was me on my first day in a place like this. Scared. Begging God. Making excuses. I was truly Hysterical. If they saw me yesterday after the phone call with my mom. If they ever saw me off medication…
Or is this me being my usual “I’m so Sick” routine. Which wouldn’t that be another disorder? Or just more fucking with BPD!


Did you know that the treatment I’m getting is still in the fucking “stone ages?” That makes me feel great. Bring back the fucking straight jackets and drugging us until we have no more personality. Maybe then I’ll feel better. Give me a fucking lobotomy. Do the Electro Shock Therapy all fucking ready. I AM DONE testing medications. I’m done with this band-aid therapy. Let me open wounds because there is a lot of pus that needs to be drain. Gunk. Poison. Take it out. How do I get that across. There healing methods don’t work on me. How do I get that clear to them. Meds. Yes Therapy…

More Therapy

I cried. And I cried. I worried about coming off manipulative, told them that. Then cried some more. Explained the rancid open wound Damien is in my life. Out patient treatment, no, INTENSIVE Outpatient is needed. But will it be for trauma? Will it ACTUALLY be about digging into that wound and healing it? Everyone tells me pretty things…like how this place does trauma, and how that was a big fucking lie! I’m not going to trust a fucking person anymore. It’s all lies lies lies lies.

All fucking lies! Did they really believe me or did they just wanted to get me out. I honestly thought they were going to keep me until we knew if the Zoloft woked or not. But I guess fucking not. I feel very Emilie Autumn right now in my striped stockings, but I got to keep my clothing and I wasn’t accidentally thrown in max. I’m even with people where I am the most mentally ill. These people don’t have Bipolar or BPD or PTSD. They just have depression or a bad fight with their spouse or no support system. I am not among like minded people, am I? Oh but the two new people who shake as I do, and mutter about God. They might be like me.  They probably are. Robin. The girl. She yells and cries. Maybe I should start yelling. Then maybe they’ll keep me here longer. I really want to yell. But I remember that I’m supposed to keep my feelings in check. And it just builds up inside my chest and it hurts. It hurts. Or maybe they’ll transfer me to a hospital level. This isn’t a hospital, I’m reminded. It’s a crisis center.

Mommy Troubles

I’m so afraid that my mom is furious with me. She probably thinks I’m pathetic. I just want my mommy right now. I’m scared. I’m angry. These people here listen to me but are they listening? Don’t send me home. My mom is right. I need to stay. I’m scared to go home. Scared of my mom being disappointed. I’m always afraid of her being disappointed in me.

Waiting for Aunna. She said she was going to visit me. But she’s not here yet. Feels like forever. I’m twitching at every door opening. “Is it for me?” I keep looking up to hope to see her in the door getting wand down. She said she’d be here. She promised. Didn’t she? I’m feeling abandoned again. Should I call? Would that be too much? What if my mom is with her? I must practice patients. But I can’t practice what I don’t have. 6:09 pm… We only get an hour. Doesn’t she know that? I bet if I call she’ll say “pulling into the parking lot” Or not answer because she crashed on Santa Fe. I bet if I go lay down she’ll show up. Or maybe I’m wrong? OMG SHE’S HERE!

Getting preached at by another inmate at the asylum is such an OTHER feeling. Like she keeps asking “Do you have a relationship with Jehovah?” I tell her the truth “sorta” I won’t tell her I’m also a witch. She’s just as lost as I. Whoa I wrote a lot today, pages of it. (but side not I write sorta big and this is a wide rule notebook) I need to figure out my medication, I don’t even know what I’m on.

Tarot Asylum

Fuck I wish I could have my cards with me and do some readings. But I can’t. But I will spend my time in lock up to think more my last reading so when I finally post it it’ll be a meaty post. Most of what it tells me is that Anakin has been screaming at me and I’m the one not listening to him.  Again, I can also need this as he was warning me. He knew I’d end up in here. Anakin, I miss you. The nights are lonely without your hand on mine, your heart beating against my back as you keep me calm. My ghost. Where are you? But I guess you were asking me to live weren’t you, Anakin? You won. I get it now. Now stop punishing me and come back. You should be back soon. I love you.

Tiger stripes, striped stockings
tangled hair, red cheeks
the shuffle of papers and distant music


Atmosphere of numbness among us
Single serving friends, most who’s empty words tangle my brain and I pull back making another knot of forgotten relationships.
Lonely in a world full of pain
It’s mental illness soup and we’re all waiting to be scooped up into the waiting bowls of our lives again.
But we’ll end up cold unless love heats us up.
WE let people eat and slurp until we are nothing but droplets of tears.
Try to kill ourselves and end up in the pot again.


Wonderland is Fey Land. When people go to Fey land they come back poets or crazy. Wonderland is just the same. I’m a faerie that’s been to Wonderland, what does that make me?
A crazy poet.


Laughing Lillie’s, singing roses
alphabetically sorted mushrooms
The gnomes dancing
the bark is talking
this land i go to
clouds fly low, smell sweet as bubbles
and those bubbles too, big enough to ride in
All dragons are kings, with their royal lover
Fire doesn’t sting and no shadows at night
But don’t eat the sweets or drink the tea
Unless you want to come back…
come back to bright pain and bleak hope.
Your brain with loose wires
Memory fading of the happiness
with ladies fair, hair long enough to share
Magic is fading from our world
so keep it safe from all of those who refuse to believe


I’m doubting my sleep when I don’t dream. Where am I during those missing nightmares. I think it’s fairy land. I think that’s why I’m wanting to die. I want to die to go back home. I am a fairy with their wings, and what good is Icarus without his wings when he loves the sun so? Even at my true home my wings are missing since I was raped. But…I know they heal. I just need to spend more time there and not stuck in terror of flash backs. Fucking kill me. Then I’ll be where I belong. Wouldn’t I?
I am not human. I use a human shell but my heart, soul, mind, is not human. It’s really not. I’ve been saying this for years but now I get it. I’m cutting to escape this shell, I am trying to return to fairy land. There is nothing more I can do as a human. Except… my family. My son, half fey, he is. He sees dragons already. It’ll be easy for him. But I can’t kill my child. Could I wait until I die naturally? But if I die now in the right spots of fey land my son would follow naturally, at what ever time is right for him. I could wait. But now how to bring Aunna with me? She has the sight so she belongs. Must teach her my fairy secrets. Or will she want me locked up for real? Oh I love being off that abilify, my thoughts haven’t been so clear before.

I know what I am going to do, and it’s going to be perfect. I need a white…no…better idea. I need my Alice dress. Black and white stockings. Flowers in my hair and hands. Lay down in that brook by the trail in Morrison, and drown. Dramatic. Ophelia. Alice. I have until summer. I’ll do this on my birthday too. Pull it off as a “photo shoot” but just…drown. No more Cassandra for the prophetess is dead. The fairy lives on.
Good night sweet ladies.


MONSTER. I hope it fucking scars.

Not Suicidal?  2-13-17

After what I wrote last night, it still makes sense. My head feels so clear as well. I no longer feel compelled to commit suicide right now. I still have it in my heart. But now I have a plan. Oh fuck I’m moving backwards-

GOING HOME TODAY. It’s so easy to lie to doctors.


Back to today. Yesterday, my first full day out of the crisis center, I was manic as fuck. And I got tattooed. It was Valentine’s Day and it was great. I spent the day with my son and the night with my wife and I was so happy. I mean, I was a manic happy but it felt good. Today I feel… baseline. I feel natural anger and natural happiness like a non mentally ill person.

I still don’t know what to say about what I wrote on the 12th. What can I tell you… I always have to be the sickest person there is and I am honestly trying to control it but… I don’t know how hard I am trying because…look at me. I’m aware. I see it. But I don’t touch it. I’m not compelled to move forward. It’s too comfortable here. But all I can do now is…well…it’s up to me, isn’t it? Up to me to fix it. I have the medications. I have the therapy, I have the skills to use… I go to therapy, I’m going to start going to a Sexual Assault  Survivors group, hope to repeat the DBT group that I have graduated. I am CLEARLY making efforts. But I make these efforts as they pass me and I wave at them as they pass me by. Doing them to be good. But am I soaking anything up? Am I capable of that? I think I am legit trying. But like others, I can say pretty words and not follow through just like so many people throw away I love yous now a days.

“I am clearly broken and no one knows what to do.”

Wait I’ve used that Korn lyric in my wordpress already. Hahahahaha. I’m a mix of stolen lyrics and stolen stories, but isn’t that how we write? Isn’t that how everyone lives? Isn’t that how we are raised? It is what it is and whatever.

And for the first time my right arm becomes useful…as I sin with it. I want to cut it off. But instead I thank God for all the wrong I do. 

God Help Me. 

Tw. Blood and cutting bellow. 

I like to think Jesus rather I cut than smoke. I mean, according to the Bible I’m already devaluing my body with tattoos and piercings.

I cut to have control. 

I think God knows it’s either this or I kill myself. 

But God, wouldn’t it be better if I was with you and not suffering on Earth? People say suffering is optional but I would choose not to suffer which means I would choose not to be here anylonger. I choose death. Oh God, do I even believe in you? I feel like a fraud when I wear a cross. The childhood of brain washing and the teenagehood of pushing away from The Church. The Adulthood of choosing Jesus again. Without the Bible that calls me a heathen. Without the other Christians. Without the Rules. Evwn without you God. But God, if you even do listen to me, please let me die. I reject that killing myself is a sin. I reject that self harm is a sin. I reject your rules because I know better. I was so close almost that one time but I got scared. 

I am ready now. Please accept me. Please. God Help Me. I’m begging. 

Update, dreaming in an awake world

Good news! I know, I’m so bleak all of the time but I have good news. My Effexor which I am sure is the villain behind my bout of depression this time, is being stepped down on request of the other psych in my psych’s office. So Hopefully my psych agrees that I should stop the medication since there’s already an opinion that yeah, let’s stop the medication that makes me more depressed. I still have to take the damn medication but at half dose. Excellent.

But now back to the bleak and possibly just confusion.

I’m dreaming about Damien again. Still. They haven’t stopped. In my dreams he’s this caricature of the Perfect Boyfriend. He’s in my life as I’m still married to Aunna. He’s at my house all the time and I’m constantly hiding this smiling innocent looking demon. But he’s not scary at all. No one else, even my wife, sees what he truly is. They see the Perfect Boyfriend. Just more and more of people calling me a liar. How could he rape me? He wouldn’t rape anyone. But he did, why can’t I make that clear to my head. He did. He fucking raped me.

The worst part of these dreams is that they feel so real, in the dreams it’s my home. I go to check the pita bread because I’m hungry and it’s moldy. I throw it away. Oh I need to clean the kitchen so I do that. These new dreams don’t jump from point to point, they move on like life. In my dream I cut my arm up to read “I am not real” but the blood was an off color, not even red. A color I have never seen in my life that I cannot describe. In my dream my parents raised rent to $900 so I had that to deal with, but Damien was there. Constantly there, being Perfect Boyfriend.

And now Teddy Bear by Melanie Martinez is playing. Such a fitting song for my relationship with Damien.

“Teddy bear, you were my teddy bear
You were comforting and quiet
How did love become so violent?
Oh, teddy bear, you were my teddy bear
Everything was so sweet until you tried to kill me”

He didn’t try to kill me but I used to have nightmares of him raping me to death. During the relationship, after, and now even almost ten years later.

He still lives in the same house that’s only walking distance from where I live. I NEED TO MOVE. But I am unable to.

I know we are moving once Aunna gets her associates of applied science/Vet Tech certification. We’re moving more than an hour away so she can continue her schooling.

Away from family, away from friends. It’s scary. But AWAY FROM HIM.

Is that the only time I will finally be free from these nightmares?

Take a deep breath…

Aunna and Blake are shouting at each other. All I asked was for Blake to take a bath. He said no. Aunna yelled at him for not listening to me. I’m hiding in bed through all the yelling. It all reminds me of my dad yelling at me. At my brothers. My self is reminding me of my step mom getting upset and hiding.

I am a product of my upbringing.

I want to hide. I want to go to the ER. I feel like I’m a danger to myself. To others. I’m going to explode. I’m holding myself tight, knees to my chest, arms close together, head bowed to my phone to keep the explosion in.

I’m going to implode.

I need a grand gesture to convince them that I need help.

Words are not enough.

Should I cut deep enough for stitches?

Should I steal Aunna’s keys while she’s in the bathroom and take all my pills until my mouth foams? Would my pills do that?

Death seems so sweet. I want to die. Kill me. Kill me. Kill me.


I’m needed.
Not in the whole life saving needing that people need me because they love me. (I’m sure people do but not enough for my suicidal brain, nothing is ever enough) But they need me because I do stuff for them. Needed to clean, needed to drive people, needed to be there for my son. (my choice, but it’s feeling less like motherhood because my heart isn’t in it. I’m a terrible mother. Even one of my therapists was like “You’re acting like his sister, not his mother.” like jeeze, thanks for pointing out my faults, I sure feel SO MUCH BETTER.)
My parents need me to be baby sitter to my brothers who are SIXTEEN and THIRTEEN. I am needed to drive them everywhere. If I was in the hospital I make everything hard on them. Like how dare I get help because I’m not there to DO things for them.
I do have the Step-Mother like Cinderella, but she isn’t evil. I actually really do love my Step-mom a lot.

Like I guess this is good enough to keep me from committing suicide and cutting so deep I need stitches but it keeps me screaming inside that I am in pain and nothing is helping. Help me help me help me I’m dying.

The Cost of Self-Destructive Coping Strategies: You engage in unsafe sexual activity, like unprotected sex or sex with strangers

This is about Nick. Nick will probably never read this and I hope he never well because I’m going to be saying not so nice things about him.

He’s a friend that Aunna made while working at King Soopers and he stays a constant friend. Sorta. He was a constant friend before we had sex. Why did he and I have sex? I was questioning my sexuality. Nah, still not bisexual. Totally a lesbian. But the first time we had sex awakened a new self-destructive coping-mechanism.

Nick now only ever contacts me first if he wants to get his dick wet. I am now his sex toy. I allow it. I love the attention. I really love the attention. He doesn’t stay the cuddle, he doesn’t stay to talk. He doesn’t stay to be friends, he leaves right after.

I never tell him no.

Aunna is aware of this. At first she was fine with it but now she’s not. She tells him no for me.

But when I say yes she doesn’t get mad at me.

It’s better than cutting myself or taking a handful of pills. (two handfuls actually. I am prescribed a handful of pills to take morning and night) Okay maybe it would take me three handfuls now to do anything.

But regardless… I am a sex toy. I use sex to destroy myself. I am a slut. I am nothing. Fucking kill me.



Do you know what a Sin-Eater is? I first heard, well, read the term in Amanda Palmer’s book the Art of Asking and started seeing my therapists as Sin-Eaters. They take my sorrows and my sins and they release them out, if I let them. Many sessions I still carry those woes on my shoulders as I leave their offices with fake smiles and joyful thanks. But I end up just feeling crappy all over. They ask “are you depressed.” “Yes.” “Are you suicidal.” “…no.” A lie. Of course. As much as I crave the attention I get when I’m sent to the hospital, I also don’t want the unwanted “ugh again” attention. But anyways… what is a Sin-Eater?

A sineater is a person who consumes a ritual meal in order to magically take on the sins of a person or household. Traditionally, the food was believed to absorb the sins of a recently deceased person, thus absolving that person’s soul.

But did I sin? I guess I did. Premarital sex, homosexuality, attempting suicide, self-harm…

Things that I don’t see as sins.

Therapists are Sorrow-Eaters. They don’t do a ritualistic meal but they take on people’s sorrows so those who have them can feel lighter.

Why don’t I ever feel any lighter?
Why do I lie every time to my therapist asks if I’m okay?
I am not okay.
I am suicidal.
I am not safe.

God this is hard to write, but I don’t think anyone gets the severity of what happened to me. I want people to know to understand. But no one ever lets me go into detail and when they do all I can say is “it fucked me up”
I need to write it out.
I need to speak.
But I can’t.

I’m staring at this screen trying to find the words. I’ve switched from laptop to phone while writting this in need to hide away. I want to die. Will anyone take me seriously. Does anyone hear me? Or do I have to make a dramatic gesture?

I was raped. More than once. By three different people. One of them raped me many times. Countless. 

Damien raped me on April 22nd 2006


I forgave it because I owed him, didn’t I? He took me to see my favorite band. The next day he took my “virginity” I guess. I was sexually active with women at 14 but he was proud of being my first guy. 

Turned out he and his best friend made a bet who would give it up first, me or my friend who was dating his best friend. 

Guess I lost. This all sounds like I’m just regretting losing it and I’m calling it rape but when you have sex it shouldn’t hurt. You shouldn’t feel terror. You shouldn’t have been saying no and be ignored as he continues to undress you and touch you as you hold back tears.

He told everyone so I faked smiled and told people too. I’d cut myself even harder where people couldn’t see unless I stood nude before them. 

It was only a week before Damien stripped me again, saw the cuts. Punished me. I would cut again once I got home. Week later he would see again and the cycle continued. 

Why didn’t I leave him? 

We started dating February 12 2006, he had more than two months to whisper sweet things to me like “no one will love you like I do” and repeat what my voices said every day. I’m not good enough unless I’m with him. I’m not smart but I don’t need to be because I’m with him. I’m not pretty, I should be lucky to be with him. I had some form of Stockholm Syndrome before he even fucked me. 

He liked to hit me. Not in front of our friends, except for that one time when I was about to walk into the middle of traffic, but he wasn’t doing it to snap me out of it. He was doing it to punish me. 

He always punished me. With words. With his hands. With blades. Yelling at me until I begged him for forgiveness. He was all I wanted because I didn’t know any better. I never wanted to have sex with him. Never once. I would play that I would to make him happy. But never once… On the every other Saturday for two and a half years that I spent in his bedroom did I ever say yes to sex. No. I was raped at least 100 times by him. Scared into it. Threatened into it. Feeling like I owed him because he was the only one able to love me. 

Now I know he’s wrong. I am happily married to a woman I love. Who truly loves me. 

But the damage is there. It’s done. 

I’m fucking suffering. 

Why Did I Turn To You?: An exploration of my recent dreams and past relationship

My dreams have been weird lately. Not the usual violent re-imaginings of what he did or strange dreams that I forget once I opened my eyes. But these dreams these past few days I remember well into the day and hold onto because I want to know what they mean.

They start in my old High School but now it’s an Psych Ward. I’m in my usual Psych Ward outfit of PJ’s and sweaters and those socks with the no slick on the bottom. The fellow patients is my friend group from High School. Even the people I hate now. Even those who I’m still friends with. With my wife. Even Damien.

But Damien is nice to me. Very nice. I’m even dating him in the dream. A Harley drawn to her abusive Joker. But there was no abuse. The smiling demon was kind, gentle, all that I wanted him to be. All that he was in front of people (except when he obviously was not, my good friends telling me to leave him) But he was brighter. He even dressed brighter, not in the style I was usually attracted to. It’s a joke, my mind is trying to tell me that dark and broody is not good. Go for the guys who wear polo shirts and khakis. Which is bullshit. I’m not attracted to males any more, and even if I was, I like my dark and broody and Gothic. (just how I like my women and in betweens.)

But dating within the hospital is very very very against the rules. (has been at every hospital I’ve been sent to) ((though I know two couples who meet at one and continue the relationship on the outside. Successfully too)) But I guess in dream world no one cares. The couples from High School are still coupled. We sit in the same spots in the now “Day room” that we did back then. The huge windows now blinded so we can’t see outside, denied our sunshine and any idea of the weather. In one dream I looked out them and saw absolutely nothing, like we were in a vacuum. Which I guess we were. We never had visitors. We never had doctors. We never had nurses. We were in perpetual group therapy with no leaders.

I had my current diagnoses and everyone called me a liar. “Look at your boyfriend, he’s so sweet to you, he’s never raped you.” “He’s never hit you, we’ve all been watching.” “He would never lie to you.” “Liar.” Liar” “LIAR!” And then it echoes and repeats and maybe that’s why I can’t listen to Liar by Emilie Autumn, although it used to be me calling Damien a Liar. It was my song for him. Thank you EA.

But now I hear it in my head, doubting my memories. I was on Ativan, which makes you forget things. I guess? Not quite sure how it works. All I know for sure is that when I took half a bottle I lost an entire day. (and was hospitalized. This was November 2016)

All I know is that I’m starting to doubt myself. Was I raped? Was I raped as a child? Was I raped at 15? Was it repeatedly? Can I trust myself?

Cutting Diary 1/31/17

I finished carving Monster into my thigh. The T I made into a huge inverted cross because I’m edgy. I wish I knew how to carve into my flesh with smooth roundness. Make my O and S and R less slashery. But I suppose it fits my status as a monster. 

My mom, step mom, is mad at me today. She’s actually not mad but is generally upset and snapped at me. So I reacted by laying in bed and doing nothing. 

All I want to do is sleep. I put on makeup just for it to get smeared on my pillow. For my eyes to cry black down my cheeks. I’m a fucking nutcase. A fucking stereotype. A fucking teenage girl even though I’m grown and don’t fall on the gender binary. (though all anyone ever sees is girl) 

It’s dark outside. 

I want to play in traffic but I can’t even move from my bed until absolutely necessary. 

How long until nessessary things don’t even get me moving? 

Cutting Diary 1/28/17 & 1/29/17 + more

So I went quite a bit of time without cutting. But I spent a lot of that time picking scabs because I’m clutzy and scrapped up my knees pretty badly (in my favorite striped stockings.) But last night and this morning I went back to carving “Monster” on my left leg again. Everything had faded and didn’t scar except for the first line in the M. I have this true obsession picking at my skin. Picking at hang-nails and watching the blood line my nail. I love blood. I love watching myself bleed.
I am a monster. My personality is a monster. That’s how it feels having a personality disorder. My bipolar and I are on good terms. It’s medicated and I ride that wave with grace. It’s not gone but it’s there because I am it. No matter how many times people will tell me I am not it, I am it. Fuck the lies. But my BPD and I… we are not friends. It’s why I feel like my friends keep their distance. Why I feel like no one likes talking to me. It’s all so forced. My PTSD is ignored. People talk about being medicated for it and I’m not being medicated for it. Is my PTSD a lie then? Then why tell me I have it?
I stopped going to my trauma therapist. Just as she predicted if I was truly Borderline. Showed her didn’t I?
I stopped going to ACA… I only went to the one meeting but the cost of the books I was required to have??? We don’t have the money for that.
I feel empty of words of things I wanted to talk about the past…month. But I didn’t. I was either too lazy or uninspired. But I’ve been reading a lot. At least I’m doing something, even though it’s curled up in bed or on the couch or in the car with all the driving I’ve been having to do this past month.

My asshole of a Psychiatrist has upped my medication and added an anti-depressant.  Effexor. Fuck me, I was under the impression that you don’t put bipolar people on anti-depressants. That it makes them either manic or depressed. I’m depressed. So depressed that I feel like I need to be hospitalized. But I’ve been hospitalized sooo many times now I feel like no one takes it seriously. Let’s see how far I fall before I attempt again. Maybe this time I’ll die. Then maybe they’ll believe me then.

I am in a crisis and no I am too stubborn to self sooth or use any of the DBT skills that I’ve relearned and relearned again and again. No. They feel like band-aids. I know exactly what to do but I don’t do it. I am self destructive. I have no love of life. It’ll be better on everyone if I was dead. You can tell me that these are lies my head is telling me but they scream as truths and drown you all out. No amount of telling me that you love me and want me to live will keep me living. No amount of self help books will keep me breathing.

I guess I’m just lucky I have no plan right now. I just am willing myself to waste away as I sit here at my computer staring off, keeping my fingers busy. Or as I lay in bed, surrounded by cats as I try to sleep so I don’t have to face the nightmare of being awake.

Truth of the matter is that I’m being triggered by Damien constantly through my waking hours. Every thing reminds me of him and the pain that people aren’t grasping. It wasn’t a one time rape while I enjoyed every other sexual encounter with him. It was a rape. Another rape. A continuous rape until I was stuck with him believing that only he could love me. So I loved him. Because I was scared into loving him. Hating every time he touched me but running to him to be touched because he utterly convinced me that no one else would ever love me. Punished by him every time I hurt myself because I was scared.

I felt so alone.
And some how I still feel so alone even though I do have true love. The mental disorders makes me feel alone and I need to fight it but I just can’t any more. I just can’t. I’m sick of swallowing a handful of prescribed pills twice a day and one in the afternoon. It’s ripping up my insides. Upsetting my stomach. My eyes hurt. I’m taking medication to help with the side effects of the other medication.

I’m told that I’m psychotic. Then I’m told I’m not.
I’m told that I’m severally mentally ill. Then I’m told I’m not.
What am I? Why am I?
Take me seriously!
Stop telling me lies!
Let me have my fucking choice to end my life god damn it. Why is having control over my own life such a crime?
Why is hurting myself, which I use to release the tension of my suicidal idealization such a crime.
My choice. My body.
Oh but I know how much that’s a lie. My body belongs to the government which may no longer protect my health and I’ll lose my medications, lose my therapist, and then truly be out of my fucking mind and not held back. Not able to go to the psych ward.
Maybe it’ll be a blessing and I can finally die.