When I was young I knew everything…


I had a day. I had my day fucking planned. I knew what I was doing and I borrowed the convertible and I had A DAY. PLANNED. FOR MYSELF. TO ENJOY.

And you ruined it.

I wasn’t in pain. You know what causes pain? Stress.

I used to think that people meant well. That it was only here, here in this place that I would be mistreated. If I got out there, if I took the time to get out of this backwards-thinking, incredibly restrictive area I would see that the world was open and loving and free. I would see that my belief in the good of humanity would be rewarded. People aren’t like the ones I knew in elementary school, kicking dirt in my face or yelling at me for having a lesbian mother. I can still hear a little girl’s mother yelling that her children weren’t allowed to be around me, like I was dirty. All because of whom my mother loved? Surely the world wasn’t this way. Nothing could be THIS unfair forever.

I should stop. I shouldn’t write when I’m angry. I say things I’ll regret. And I shouldn’t let the ignorance of stupid people get to me. I should just enjoy myself, surround myself with bright and intelligent people and ignore the rest. Just like ignorant people surround themselves with ignorant people to reinforce their views. But I stepped off that track a long time ago. Because if you just explain, I used to think, if you just explain then they’ll understand. They’ll see. They’ll get it. People aren’t like that because they’re hateful and mean. No one is hateful and mean on purpose.

Some people are hateful and mean on purpose. A lot of people are hateful and mean on purpose. For fun. And now I’m about to walk into a country full of mean and hateful people, it seems. I live in a country full of hateful and mean people. I’m leaving one country of hateful, mean, ignorant people to go to another country of mean, hateful, and ignorant people and this IS NOT THE WAY THINGS WERE SUPPOSED TO TURN OUT. NO. NO NO NO NO NO.

ALL I EVER WANTED WAS TO BE UNDERSTOOD. TO BE LOVED. TO NOT BE FUCKING TREATED LIKE SHIT. I know you lose your voice when you start to curse, I know you lose your intelligence and your battle and your worth as a writer is compromised when you start swearing at people but FUCK FUCK SHIT GODDAMNIT!!! NO. This isn’t what I want.

This is hard. Why is it so fucking hard??????? Why can’t I just… I just wanted to find a place with nice people. I just wanted to know that the world wasn’t one giant racist, homophobic, snotty, superior, arrogant pile of crap.

I wanted to find a nice place to raise my kids, with supportive people who weren’t intolerant and who actually cared about other people. And now I’m fighting my ass off to move to a country where NO ONE WANTS ME. Even my own “family” posts anti-immigrant things on social media. “Oh, that’s not directed at you.” They say. Bullshit. EVERY ANTI-IMMIGRANT POST IS DIRECTED AT EVERY IMMIGRANT. I will stand for all immigrants, those who seek asylum because they are running from a country and government that treats them like cattle, or those who spend years and thousands of dollars to be granted the privilege of being allowed to touch our dirty immigrant feet onto your precious soil. Only to spend thousands more dollars and years and years of our time before we can feel “safe” in our own homes.

Australia, I want you. America, I love you. But why, why do you have to be SO DISAPPOINTING???

You are the girls of my childhood, the elementary school clique I could never join, the children who teased me, the harassment of my high school peers and teachers. You are the sophomore year English teacher who physically pinned me to a wall and yanked off my jacket in high school, to see the cuts on my arms, and then reported ME to the administration for abuse because I screamed and screamed for him to stop, to “Get the fuck away from me.” You are the boys who got me drunk and raped me. You are the family of the man who forced me to have an abortion, showing up at my workplace and telling me to “not ruin their lives”. You are all of my worst nightmares now, you are everything I have always hated, you are all that is left that can hurt me now that my parents are gone.

You have all the power, and I have none. America, Australia. I am at your mercy and you are merciless.

I’ve given you all, and now I am nothing


It’s been two days of absolute terror and hell and fear and anxiety. It’s been two days of being hung up on and ignored and laughed at. But now I have confidence. Now I have a plan.

But to be honest I feel like the big, giant signs on the front of the Australian Immigration website homepage that say “You will not make Australia your home” are really, really offensive. I am doing my very best to go through the proper channels, and the people visiting your Immigration website probably aren’t the ones going there illegally. Because those people can’t even afford a proper boat, let alone internet service. Listen, Australia, I love you. I want to become a citizen of your beautiful country and add to its amazing culture. But when you tell me, to my face, that Australia will never be my home… I can’t help but feel like I’ve spent more than $5000 to be humiliated. You can say that sign isn’t meant for me all you want, but the truth is, it’s on your website. The website I, as a legal applicant to become a temporary citizen of your great nation, must use on a daily basis. It IS meant for me. All the anti-immigration slurs and demeaning comments made by Australians ARE meant for me. I want to call Australia home because that is where my family is now, where my friends are, where I want to raise my children. I am doing all I can to go about this in a legal and respectable way, and it’s next to impossible. 

My fiancé’s friends go around making comments about “brown people” and “towel heads” and other racist remarks. They think it’s completely ok to demean immigrants or just people in general if they don’t look exactly like them- white, Northern European descendants of explorers or prisoners. I’m not knocking Australia, or its citizens. There’s a reason I want to live in that country. But that reason is not because I want to be humiliated every day for the rest of my life. The reason is far more complex than that.

My parents are dead. My family here is small. But every moment of every day, I have a living, breathing family in that country. I have friends and sisters and brothers and yes, they are all in-laws, but they are family. My fiancé is all that keeps me going some days. He’s my light at the end of this long, dark tunnel. He is my safety, my happy place, my reward for pushing through another day. So to see such open and obvious hatred towards immigrants of all kinds- those seeking asylum in a country that hates them for no real reason, or those trying to go about making a new lives for themselves through the proper legal channels- it’s so frustrating. I feel like I’m fighting a losing battle. I feel like I’m the only one on my side and it’s next to impossible for me to win. 

I’m not seeking asylum. I’m not seeking welfare or money or someone to fix my problems. I have been fixing my own problems for nearly four years now and I will happily continue to do so for as long as I am able.

I’m seeking my home. I’m seeking my family. I’m seeking the one person in this world I can count on to love me, unconditionally, for the rest of eternity. I’m seeking a place to raise our children, should we be lucky enough to have any. And I’m seeking a safe place that will welcome me with open arms.

I am sorry, Australia. But you cannot tell people they are welcome in your country as long as they go about things the legal way and then put up a big sign on your immigration website that says “You will not make Australia your home”. It doest not matter that you aren’t directing that message at me. Because like it or not, that message has gone out to everyone, all over the world, whether they want to make Australia their home or they just want to visit.

There is no kindness, helpfulness, or generosity found on your immigration website, Australia. I understand the message you’re sending, I’m hearing it loud and clear. And I desperately look forward to the day when I am a legal citizen and I can vote to change that message. Because no one should feel like they are superior to anyone else just because of where they happen to be living. I know what you’ll say- you’ll say “America’s no better”. And you’re right. There are some Americans that aren’t any better. But it’s not our official government policy. And I will vote to make America better every single time I get the chance.

For now, I will do what I can to obtain my legal visa to go to Australia, marry my fiancé on the date we’ve chosen in the place we’ve chosen to commit our lives to each other and then I will work my butt off to become a legal citizen. Of both countries.

All it takes is one person willing to make the world a better place. It only takes one. Australia, you are better than this. Please be better than this.

So hurry up and run to the one that you love…


How long has it been since I’ve posted? How long has it been since I’ve written? How long has it been since I felt the catharsis of letting the words flow from my brain to my fingers to the keys on this keyboard to see them on this page. How long?

Too long. It’s been too long. I was going to blame it on the drugs, the abuse, the depression, but those things have never stopped me before. I think I gave up on myself. I think, for the first time in my entire life, I actually gave up the one thing I love most in this world- placing words on paper in a way that makes other people feel something. Maybe writing won’t ever make me famous or make me money, but it makes me complete and for some reason, I cannot imagine my stupid, small life without it.

Would you like to catch up on my Quest? Because this blog was so aptly titled all those years ago, and even then I thought it would be a temporary name. But no, this blog is perfectly named. Because I am still looking for perfection. I am still looking for all of the pieces of my life to fall into place become the picture of loveliness that I know it can be.

Suddenly I’m 27. Suddenly I’m engaged. Suddenly I’m actively planning to start a family and being proactive about it. Suddenly I’m taking extra effort to be an adult. Suddenly I’m moving back to Australia- forever this time. Because I’m marrying an Australian. Suddenly it looks my life is turning out perfect.

And I am terrified. I am so absolutely fucking scared I don’t know what to do. This fear just popped up in the last few days, when I realized that these genetic tests and blood tests and ultrasounds and exams and prescriptions and plans- they meant that this was all real. And now I find myself buying wedding magazines but never actually looking at them. They just pile up on my bed, in completely perfect condition. I find myself unable to make any more bookings or decisions about the wedding that I insisted on, because I cannot believe it. This is it. I was so intent on running forward, I got to a point where there was absolutely no turning back. This is it. I am an adult.

Don’t get me wrong, I’m marrying my dream man, in my dream chapel, with a reception at a venue that is beyond gorgeous. I am thrilled and excited and beyond overwhelmed. My life- it’s going to be amazing. I’m marrying a man who was terrified of committing to someone who was so ready to settle down that he pushed against it but decided I was worth it. ME. I am worth it. To this one person, I am worth the world.

But there is still a part of me that is fighting it. I know there always will be. I’ve come to learn that there is a part of me that will always believe that the other road would’ve been better. I will always have a bit of me that thinks the grass is greener on the other side of the fence, that going right instead of left would’ve been more exciting. I just can’t make myself lose that. But there’s so much of me that wants this- so very much of me that wants this that I cannot bear to consider the alternative.

But when I look into my future, I see the the random holidays with family and I see children and I see backpacking around Europe with a baby firmly strapped to my front. I see all the things I’ve ever wanted. Because there is not a chance on this earth I would raise my child without all the benefits I’ve had in my life. There are things I’ll do differently, and there are things I won’t do at all, but there are some things I’d never give up. Concerts at age 2? Of course. Running naked through National Parks while bears and deer look on? Without a doubt. Making an active commitment to the women in my life who helped raise me, even though they had absolutely no responsibility to? No question. I will make my mother and my father proud, even if I never know it.

Last night I wrote a letter to my daughter. I wrote to her all the things I wanted for her, all the things I hoped she’ll have. It hurt. Because it occurred to me that all I’ve wanted my entire life is a little girl, and I’m so incredibly close to that now. And it’s terrifying, absolutely terrifying. Because once she’s here- if I am ever so lucky- everything else will stop. There will be no more running away.

But for once in my life I’ve realized I think I know where home is. 27 years and I think I’ve found my home. And I’ll do anything I can to get back there. There’s a boy out there who loves me for some strange and incomprehensible reason, and he just happens to be related to my best friend. And I’ve found an amazing and lovely friend in my other sister in law. I have lost both my parents, they are gone from me now. But I still have two more. And I have people waiting for me.

I have a wedding to plan and a family to build and a life to begin and a Quest to finish. But I just wanted to say this one last thing, before I go.

There haven’t been many days in my life where I haven’t wanted to kill myself, one way or another. I haven’t known a lot of time without serious depression. But I can tell you that the moments I’ve felt safest, happiest, and healthiest- they’ve been with my fiancé. I guess that’s how you know it’s true love. When you know that there’s one person you know will be there forever, no matter how difficult you are.

There’s not a moment I don’t miss my parents. They’re gone and there’s nothing I can do to get them back. But I can make sure that my children know everything about them that is humanly possible to know. I will make sure they know that my father had a passion for economics but was drafted for the Vietnam War and had to go into teaching, and that’s why he lived through that war. I will make sure my mother had a passion for music and dance and that she had the same anxiety issues I have. I will make sure that they know that my parents wanted me as much, if not more, than I want them. They’ll know how to make my mother’s Christmas cookies and my Nonna’s pasta sauce. They’ll know how to cook like my father and that friends are family- that everyone is welcome. 

I have so much to learn still, before I become a mother myself. I have so much to learn about life. There are so many things I’d like to see before I just settle into a relaxing home life. But if there’s one thing I’ve learned from my parents, it’s that you can take kids anywhere. Backpacking, camping, concerts, flying, travelling- you can do those things with children. I mean, it’s harder. But I’ve never once made anything easy for myself. Ever.

So I’m hoping my visa comes soon. I’m hoping to hear from immigration, I’m hoping to hear that I can be with my future family and future husband and we can start our life together. But don’t mistake my eagerness for a lack of fear- I’m terrified. But what do they say about bravery? Being terrified and doing it anyway?

I’ll never let them down. I will always be brave.

And I will be writing more. Because as crappy and as jumbled and as random as this post was, it felt so good just to feel my fingers on the keys that I hope I can convince myself to do this more.

Sometimes I worry that I’ve lost the plot…


Y’all know how I feel about the healthcare services afforded to women in this country. I’m sure you’re tired of hearing me rant about the way women are treated, the way our problems and complaints are written off and ignored. The advice we get- find another doctor, keep talking and eventually someone will listen to you- those things are really only reasonable if a woman has extra time and money. And coming from that place, I can tell you that it gets exhausting to keep telling different people over and over about a problem you’re having- a very personal problem- and have them tell you it’s all in your head. You begin to believe you’re crazy. It doesn’t take much anymore. We’re bombarded with images of how women should be, and act, and feel and you can claim that things are better for women now than they’ve ever been and I’ll just come right back and say they’re nowhere near good enough.
I have major reproductive issues. I haven’t been coy about that on this blog- I have had major problems and absolutely horrible medical care. I don’t believe in the system because the system doesn’t work for me. If I could go somewhere that I knew could help me, I would go there. It was one of the biggest reasons I wanted to move to Australia- it seems, to an outsider, that they have a much better healthcare system than America does. And they do, to an extent.
Both my parents were diagnosed with cancer shortly after I turned 18. My mother, ovarian; my father, prostate. Brushing aside all you know about those two different kinds of cancer, the survival rate for ovarian cancer is pretty low compared to the survival rate for prostate cancer. Usually patients with prostate cancer are told to “wait and see” how things progress, because it is usually a slow-moving cancer that causes no real problems during the patient’s lifetime.
The difference between my mother and my father was that my father’s cancer was caught early and treated early. My mother, even though she was complaining for over a year of various problems, didn’t receive a correct diagnosis until her cancer had progressed to stage III. After complaining for over a year.
The difference between my mother and my father is that my father received competent medical care. My mother was ignored. My mother’s cancer, had it been caught when she first reported it, could’ve been treated more successfully. My mother, in all likelihood, would still be alive today.
My father’s cancer just happens to be a rare mutation that would’ve progressed in the same manner, despite his excellent healthcare. My father has had amazing doctors and experimental treatments that have without a doubt prolonged his life and enhanced the quality.
My mother had an incompetent gynecologist who didn’t give a shit and is still practicing medicine.
It is my experience that most OBGYNs are completely horrible at their jobs. (Here’s looking at you, Dr. Tow.) I don’t know why. I don’t know what about the field attracts people who seem to dislike their patients so much. If I went to work with the same attitude most of the OBGYNs I’ve seen, I’d be fired. When I wanted a second surgery to help with my endo pain before my insurance ran out and I asked Dr. Tow to, among other things, flush out my fallopian tubes and check for scarring, I assumed that she would, indeed, be doing that. When I asked her to see just how bad my uterus was malformed, I assumed that she would do that, as well. Instead I ended up with a massive allergic reaction, MRSA, bleeding for three months and absolutely no results at all. When I asked why she didn’t do any of the things I’d asked, she said that I wasn’t ready to have children so it wasn’t a priority.
Not a priority. Maybe not to her. Maybe not to any of the other OBGYNs I’ve seen over the years. But the fact remains that I am almost 27, and if I want to have children tomorrow that is my choice. I am not too young. And I want to know if it’s even a possibility, something that Dr. Tow, in her infinite wisdom, has denied me, because now I don’t have health insurance and to be honest, I don’t want to have another major surgery.
Which brings me to Planned Parenthood. The haven for women. An island of hope in a sea of incompetence. A beacon of light.
I hate to generalize because I know there are exceptions to every rule, but let me tell you this- in my years of going to PP, I’ve had only care, consideration, kindness, and competence. (And alliteration, apparently.) Empathy, reassurance, helpfulness- they’ve got it. For an organization that comes under fire every single day, you’d think they’d be doing something more controversial than providing women with essential services they need to lead healthy lives. I’ll spare you the statistics- that less than 5% of all services provided by Planned Parenthood are abortions. That means 95% of what they do is help women like me. Like you. They help women without health insurance get annual exams. Birth control. STD testing. Help.
Most of all, they provide a safe place where women can go and feel like they’re not being judged. They can be honest, and no one is going to make them feel like less of a human being.
I once had a gynecologist throw a package of birth control pills at me after grilling me about my sexual history. I was 15. I didn’t have a sexual history, I had debilitating periods that made me so sick and caused me so much pain that I literally curled up on the floor of whatever room I was in and rocked myself from side to side, wishing I was dead.
I’ve had doctors tell me I can’t get pregnant. I had medical professional after medical professional tell me to suck it up, that the pain was all in my head. I felt for years like I was broken, defective, like there was something wrong with me.
Planned Parenthood didn’t judge me. Instead, they welcomed me. My last visit showed just how incredible the women who work there are. Instead of judging me, they provided me with all the information I could want or need. They expressed their indignation when they heard my stories, and the nurse who performed my exam told me her own stories about the vile woman practicing medicine over at HERA Medical Group. (*cough* Dr. Tow *cough*) The nurse who took my vitals and confirmed my medical history gave me stacks of information on different kinds of aid I might qualify for since I don’t have any health insurance and can’t get any through my job. When I burst into tears after a seemingly innocuous question about my mental health history, she waited quietly and asked “Do you have a support network? Who is there for you?”
I guess what I want to say is this- it’s already hard enough, being a woman. It’s already hard enough to find good doctors and competent medical care. It’s hard enough to get someone to take us seriously, to listen to our complaints, to hear what we’re saying.
The men and women who go into the field of gynecology do so for a multitude of reasons. I know that it pays exceptionally well. But we need to start expecting more from our doctors. So I’m going to say this again, for what I think is the millionth time on this blog- please, pass the word around. If you know a good OBGYN (Dr. Low, NP Susan Ways), tell everyone you know. Tell your mother and sister and best friend and worst enemy. Tell the newspaper. Put it on Facebook. If you know a great doctor, shout his or her name from the mountain tops! Sing it out! Tell the world!
And if you know a bad one- if you’ve been shamed or treated poorly or made to feel bad about anything, if you feel uncomfortable or weird or ignored or brushed aside- scream it from the mountain tops. Make signs. Write reviews. Write letters. But, most importantly, tell your mother and your sister and your best friend and your worst enemy. The worst feeling I’ve ever had is hearing that my cousin ended up at the same doctor (Dr. Tow) who treated me so poorly. To hear that other women I knew were going to this doctor because they didn’t feel they had a choice. That what she was doing to her patients was normal and the status quo and nothing they did would change it.
We can change the quality of the healthcare we receive in this country. We can change it if we share our information. We can control what happens to us.
And if you don’t have health insurance, please don’t let that stop you from seeking good medical care. Planned Parenthood is an amazing resource with amazing women to help you.
My mother’s death might’ve been inevitable. Maybe she would’ve died in 2011 even if her cancer had been caught when she first reported her symptoms. Maybe the gross negligence of her OBGYN didn’t change anything. But I can’t help but think that there is a chance my mother might still be alive if that doctor had done her job properly. I wouldn’t wish this pain on anyone.

Everything that keeps me together is falling apart…


What a lovely fucking welcome home.
I was thinking I need some new coping mechanisms, but really what I need are some new friends.
Alright, and new coping mechanisms. The old ones require a lot of things I don’t really have access to anymore, like meaningless sexual relationships and drugs that may or may not be legal. For the record, the drugs aren’t the problem. But maybe they should be?
The friends are the problem. I realize that people have started families, had babies, gotten jobs, and changed. I realize that time has passed since I was last home and that is great. But I didn’t expect to come home to… this. I feel like shit.
Did no one care that I was gone? Did no one miss me? The only people I talk to are people who live in Australia. I was talking to them the same amount when I was actually IN AUSTRALIA. I could literally be dead, and no one in California would know the difference.
I have not seen a single person I’m not related to since I’ve been home. Not even on accident. Not only that, but I’ve barely spoken to a single person I’m not related to since I’ve been home. Look, I know people are busy but seriously? Am I that bad to be around?
Things were really bad, and they’re only going to get worse from here. It would be a really great time to have some friends. Is all I’m saying.

For once, in eight years, could I please catch a break? I am so exhausted.

I’m so tired of being here, suppressed by all my childish fears…


I hate being home. Being home gives me a bad attitude. I turn into a teenager before anyone gets a chance to prove that home can change and it’s just a sick cycle that feeds on itself and my inappropriate angst. I should be cutting myself and writing bad poetry, but instead I sulk and shower infrequently and eat crappy food.
Honestly, though, being back here makes me feel so… inadequate. Sad. Pathetic. So many expectations, Jennifer, and you’ve lived up to exactly *none* of them. It all comes from such a well-meaning place, these little chats about how much potential I have, the promise I hold, the talent that is barely contained by my petite frame and thick glasses. I am a brilliant writer, a gifted mind, a sight to behold. I am full of passion for so many different things, anyone would be glad to have me around. Why don’t I go back and finish school? Why don’t I travel- really travel this time, maybe do some journalism on the side? Why don’t I do this, or that, or anything- ANYTHING but squander the brilliance and potential built up inside me?
The implication being, of course, that I am squandering my life away. Every return home is another opportunity to be reminded of the option of school, a mere thirty minutes away. Every failed attempt at escape is another reason to talk about all the classes available and how it really is the only option that will work. Every time the subject comes up, I hate my life and my family just a little bit more.
Every trip home I turn into more and more of a shitty person, and every moment I’m here I hate myself even more than I hate hearing about all that unbridled talent and potential floating around inside me.
I am a shitty person. I know that, and after a twenty minute talk with a stuffed cat tonight I realize it even more. I am an asshole. I am a dick. I am the worst kind of daughter, the inner-circle-of-hell kind of person. I should be beaten and strung up by my toes and spat on, I should be tarred and feathered and yelled at and made to feel like shit every moment of every day.
Wait, someone else has that last part covered for you, so you’re all good there. Carry on with the whipping, though, no one’s done that yet.
But hear me out. Please.
My father is antagonistic. My mother was antagonistic. Granted, they towed the party line and did what they were told professionally, at least until they had secure sources of income and could rebel a bit, but holy shit, were they antagonistic. So listen, I don’t think I should be held entirely responsible for all this nonsense.
Sometimes the idea of going back to school sounds brilliant, and I fall in love with it all over again. The idea of learning, of doing, of talking about ideas and thoughts and books and science is so appealing. And then I remember- I hate- absolutely HATE- being told what to do. I hate menial, boring, everyday tasks. I hate jumping through hoops. I hate school. I am not good at “school”. I am not good at doing something for the sake of doing it. I’m not good at long-term goals and I’m not good at delayed gratification. I’m really, I swear to Christ, not good at any of those things that make successful people successful.
I am so unhappy here. It drives me insane- I should be grateful to be so lucky. I have a place to go and a family that loves me. I have friends here, at least, I used to. Whether I still do remains to be seen, I guess. But my family is here and they take me in when no one else wants me, and that’s something to be grateful for. A lot of people don’t have that.
All I’ve heard about every time I’ve been home is my goddamn potential. All that goddamn promise I have, all that fucking talent. You know what? It has gotten me almost nowhere, and I’m starting to be a little bit resentful. Not of my talent, because I love writing and it feels good to do it. But hey, listen, hearing about it all the damn time is a little exhausting.
I am not a drug addict. I didn’t get pregnant as a teenager. I am, for all intents and purposes, a good daughter. I took care of my mother and I try to take care of my father. I haven’t killed anyone, and I try to do the right thing. I feel like an immense failure enough of the time, but there are a few basic things I’ve done right.
I’m not going back to school. There was a time, a really brief time, when I wanted to change the world. I was fired up and I wanted to make a difference. And then I thought about it for more than the five seconds it took me to get fired up and it all became so exhausting. Because there is so much else to care about, you know? It’s never just the one thing. Changing the world isn’t easy. Being talented is just a stroke of genetic luck, one I hope I can pass on to my children, so I have something to torture them about when they’re still screwing up at 26.
Life, for me, has rarely been anything more than exhausting. It has been enjoyable, sure, but not very often and almost never when I’m doing something with my “talents”. Please don’t think I’m ungrateful, like I said before, I’m glad I can write. I love it. If I couldn’t do it I would explode and then kill myself because there is way too much going on in here for me to not have this as an outlet. But caring with as much passion as is required for change… I just can’t. I’m too… empty, still.
There is one thing in the world I’ve wanted pretty much my entire life, one thing I still want, one thing I’m willing to be passionate about because it’s the one thing I have consistently thought would be a part of my life.
Yeah, look at me, all evolved and shit.
I want kids. I always have.
And with my luck, as soon as they’re old enough to talk, they’ll ask me about all my wasted potential and I’ll have to start drinking before noon.
Cheers to my wasted potential. Let us have a drink in its honor, but let’s not feel too bad. It never really had a chance.

‘Cause there’s this switch that gets hit and it all stops making sense…


I have been feeling sad lately. And a little bit depressed. Would I call it depressed? I don’t know. Maybe. I don’t care what I call it, except I have definitely not been feeling anywhere near 100% lately and it’s starting to wear me out.
It’s definitely a combination of so many different things- I’m homesick, for sure, and frustrated, and a little bit disillusioned, and stressed, and lonely, and tired. I can’t write. I haven’t been writing. I am sure I still can write, but I haven’t been, and that is frustrating as hell to me.
I am frustrated.
My life is not what I expected.
And all of that would be fine but I feel like literally everyone I know is disappointed in me. I feel, every day, like I am letting someone else down and all that makes me do is stop trying completely.
I miss being home for so many reasons but most of all- right now, if I was home, I would take a vic and start over tomorrow. Or take a vic and get up off my ass and do something. Or not. It wouldn’t matter because I would be HIGH, and that would be good.
What I’m saying is, yes, definitely, I took more painkillers than I should’ve the last couple of years. I don’t think that’s news to anyone who knows me. Just like I smoked more than I should’ve and I occasionally (but not so much because hangover) drank more than I should’ve. I don’t know what I would’ve done without it, because yes, guys, believe it or not it really sucks to have a parent die. And yes, becoming numb to the world completely actually helped. A lot.
So yes, right now, I’m saying I would like to be high. I would like to be free of whatever is happening to me right now and NOT GIVE A SHIT. I would feel better, and I know this because of personal experience. I have no idea if it would help in the long run but I’m not looking for a long-term cure, just a temporary fix.
I would like to pick up the bottle from my nightstand, the bottle that is less than a foot away from me right now, and dump one of the tiny handful of pills in there out into my hand, and swallow it. I would like to sit here and feel it kick in, and then…
But instead I’m going to get up. And do my makeup. Maybe do something with my hair, and find some clothes for the weekend. Because I have no more excuses, I have no more reasons why I think it is legitimately OK for a person who is in no physical pain whatsoever to take painkillers. I can keep telling myself how unfair it is to allow other people’s opinions to rule my life and say what do they know? They can’t judge me. But it does matter. It matters to me. And the truth is, no one wants to date someone as completely and utterly broken as I feel right now, and if I do this, I feel like I’ll be crossing some sort of invisible line.
So no. No, I won’t be taking anything tonight. I would feel better, I know that I would. There wouldn’t be this ridiculously huge ache in my chest that tells me just how disappointed my mother would be by my life.
But then I would wake up, and I’d have to do it all again, and honestly, I just can’t imagine living that way anymore.