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I’m turning 24 tomorrow and I want nothing more than to be cradled like a baby. I woke up and felt an overwhelming sense of panic and fear and I didn’t know why.

Now, I suddenly feel this huge amount of sadness towards myself and ashamed for being this person. For being who I am. And god, I want nothing more than for someone to rip the chords out of my voice so that I can stop blubbering and blabbering and crying. I want to be silenced but want nothing more than to be heard and understood too.


I haven’t posted anything in a long time but I have been writing a little more lately. I’ve decided I want to write daily and continue what I had been working on previously.

So, hi! I’m alive and doing better in many ways. This is a good thing.

And by the way, everything in life is writable about if you have the outgoing guts to do it, and the imagination to improvise. The worst enemy to creativity is self-doubt.

Sylvia Plath


Inebriated and pissed off.

Recently, I had my apartment broken into and two laptops of mine stolen. As I was browsing through some writing on this blog and in a journal, I realized how much work I had lost on those laptops. It just hit me. All the writing that I won’t get back. Maybe 3 to 4 finished things. Maybe some short, maybe some long. Maybe some jotted notes. Some short snippets. Maybe Something longer I had been working on. All gone.

Writing comes naturally. Words come to me all the time. I think of things to write often (lately). But the loss of that work still pains me. It makes me so mad that someone took something that they had no right to take. It shakes me that someone just took and took. Took not just materials but took my words; they are gone. Though the words are still my own, and still probably wiped from those materials, they still were written. And now they are effaced. I can remember certain phrases. I can remember the feelings and the memories, of course. But the act just hurt a piece of me that may take a while to repair.

Every loss to me, no matter the size, is hard. Every loss feels like the first loss. And every loss never feels like the last loss.

Excerpt From A Journal Entry: July 29th, 2012

I wrote the last entry of my 4th journal the other day.

…I flipped through pages of this journal a few times in the past couple days. There have been some very unhappy passages that I can remember so well just by reading. Lately, I’ve been wondering, why do I keep a journal? I have since I was 15. Is it just tradition? Because sometimes I won’t write in this journal for months, so it isn’t a routine. So, why do I do it? Why did I purchase a new journal after seeing only four pages left in this one?
I know that I am a writer. I keep a writing blog, a Tumblr… many outlets for expression and creativity. But these are outlets others can read– a huge difference in comparison to this writing/journaling outlet. So why do I do it? For myself? To organize my thoughts? So that my future self can look at the past? I always have my memories, but by writing them down I am logging them as well as the feelings associated. I guess I do it for several reasons:

1: To look back at my feelings and thoughts in a particular situation.
2: A private, creative outlet.
3: Out of habit/ I’ve never been without a journal.
4: Writing to/for myself.

I write to myself when I write here. Though it feels like I am writing to someone else– a reader– the reader is me. But sometimes, we do things that do not have reasons. We can do things that do not always need explanations for why we do them. Jonathan Safran Foer said, “I write because I want to end my loneliness.” Journal writing seems to be a huge comfort for me as well. I associate it with hard times– times when I had to write to escape the feeling of being alone. And though I now love alone time, I still love to escape the world best by entering into my own thoughts by way of pen and paper. By writing here, I am able to now be alone.  And though sometimes I write during my weakest moments, that escape from the world is helpful on so many different levels. (Even though at the time, it is excruciatingly painful to be alone.)
And so, I guess I write to embrace aloneness and escape the constant association of being alone with being lonely. I write because, as Graham Greene says, “Writing is a form of therapy.” And every now and again, I need therapy of my own; the kind without a therapist.

Hi Everyone

I haven’t been posting much of my writing on here lately and I’m not sure why. However, I am hoping to share some fiction soon. Also, happy to report that I might be working on some writing that will be in a zine! Should be a good experience for me and I’m pretty excited to work on a new project with other like-minded people.

Whoever goes through this writing blog (very few I’m sure), thanks for reading. I promise to update soon.


Counselling Today

I still don’t say everything. Many things I leave at home, tucked away and never to be spoken about. I feel if I got into every detail, we would be getting nowhere. No progress at all. There is no time.

But am I not progressing at all if I am not telling her all of my thoughts?

I think I’ll release it all today.




My thoughts around this season are normally pretty positive but I find myself struggling during the night. Some nights I’m perfectly fine. Other nights I feel anxious about the future and the past.

For the most part, writing that appears on here will likely portray me as someone incredibly depressed. Please know that I’m not that sad. In fact, I’m doing a lot better. Like most people though, I have feelings that are sometimes incredibly sad, scary, and bitter. Sometimes I can only get that out through writing or therapy or talking to close friends. Sometimes I can’t get it out at all. What matters, is that I am able to write and express myself, which is a form of therapy in itself.

Whoever is reading, thank you.

First posts

are incredibly painful.

So I’ll just leave it at this.