Month: February 2018

When The Ghosts Try To Find You

Hmmmm….. Where do I start?

I’m a positive person… so let’s start there.

When I hear people’s stories I am amazed by the tapestry woven in this world by each of us. Our struggles, our triumphs, our pain, our joy, our grief, our growth, our journey. It is incredible. I’ve heard so many of them. Some quite tame. Some more harrowing than even I have ever ventured to fathom. Everyone has survived some hurdle of some sort. Everyone started at nothing and transformed into a unique creature. And no two stories are alike. There are similarities, sure. That’s how we relate. We all have regrets. We all have stories that pain us to recount. We all have something to be grateful for, no matter how small or insignificant it may seem, there’s something to be valued there nonetheless. It is beautiful.

When I take a step back from the canvas to take a better look, I’m in awe of God’s handiwork. The detail is incredible. And the colors… my GOD, the colors. When I take it all in, I can’t help but be filled with gratitude, because I am a part of this work of art. This makes me a work of art. This makes each of us a work of art. And valuable beyond words and beyond our wildest dreams.

Honestly, this blog post has been on my mind since I started writing again. This subject matter is what brought me back to my writing. And it is one that is very close to my heart. I’ve gone back and forth about whether or not to disclose what I’m about to disclose. I know people are going to read this and honestly believe I’ve lost my fucking mind for sharing it. That’s fair, but can you lose something you never really had? That being said, this, like everything else I share here, and plan to share in my memoirs, affects me quite deeply. It is no different than my depression, or my eating disorder, or my addiction. I have a past that isn’t pretty, and its a mess, but it is a valuable mess. It has brought me to where I am, and despite the painful moments, life is so much better here and thus, I am infinitely grateful to have arrived where I am.

I think I’m going to start with the story, and tell what it is about at the end. Not to make you suffer for it (mostly heh heh), but because I’m reconsidering how I always deliver this information. And I don’t want you to get lost on the subject and either stop there, or not hear anything I have to say after that. I think that’s where most people get hung up. Or maybe I won’t tell you at all, we’ll see. My writing just writes itself sometimes, I’m just here to transcribe.

Let’s refer back to the fact that everyone has a past. I have shared far more of my struggles on this blog than I care to go back and read about. My archives are just that. You’re welcome to read, just don’t forget to focus on how the story ends. Because its a happy ending(ish). That being said, I have a trauma history that I am careful to disclose in little pieces when getting to know someone new. We typically don’t know each other long enough for them to know it all. They usually get halfway(ish) through. *Insert funny meme about depressing subject matter here, to soften the blow of this part,*



So… that’s about how that goes. (I’m trying to figure out how to follow that… positive… right) My life is the tapestry. Everyday there are many things to grateful for. I see on a daily basis how God works in my life. He reminds me constantly of how much He values me, and how GOOD He is. (I think I wrote that part for me.) And… then the past is dark. There’s the trauma, the destructive tendencies that came from them, and now… the medical ramifications of it all. This is where things start to come back to haunt me. I have an uncanny ability to forget the past. I forget the people who hurt me. I’ve forgotten most of my traumas. I forget guys most easily. I’ve had guys come back to me 10-15 years later telling me they’ve loved me all this time (super convenient for me, right?) and I have barely or not at all remembered who they were. Yesterday, I found a blocked voicemail on my phone from a “Mike” who proceeded to tell me that I was wicked and evil and to lose his number. It was weird because I have no recollection of who it is, and I had blocked and deleted him from my phone, so apparently I used to know. The funny part is that he told ME to lose his number. Oh the irony! Anywho, I am able to wipe my past away, and I believe God has blessed me with that. It is hard for me to beat myself up for anything when I can’t remember it anyway. When my eating disorder recovery caught up to me, my heart stopped working. I had medical ramifications. They were serious, but I overcame them. I am starting to have pretty serious side effects from years of taking the same meds. It is requiring me to address new medical issues brought on by that. Everything comes at a cost, right? But one thing I have because of my past that never lets me forget is herpes. It barely affects my life at all besides taking a medication for it daily. But I take like 13 medications, so what’s one more? I don’t ever have to think about it until I find myself starting a romantic relationship. Then it plagues me. When is the right time to say it? How do I say it? Should I say it? Should I even try relationships at all? Most of the people I’ve told up until 2018 have taken it quite well. It has never ended a relationship until now. Most people are ignorant on the matter, and I’ve memorized all the data to relay. I’d share it here, but I’m feeling real “who gives a fuck” at the moment now, so I don’t really care. I guess that part was redundant. Others know enough about it, to realize it shouldn’t be a concern with someone informed on the matter. My vision is starting to blur.

Allow me to refocus.

A lot of people get to my age and have shit. They have regrets, failed marriages, failed careers, kids to raise, they have a lot of stuff. Luckily for me, I have an advantage here, because I’ve worked diligently on overcoming my shit. I’m now doing better than the majority of normal people I meet. That aside, since 2018 began, this issue has come up for me. And it has been a hangup every time. I’m wondering what I’m doing wrong here. Like, have I suddenly lost value? Something about me just isn’t THAT wonderful now? Maybe I’m less interesting. Maybe people see my face and don’t really listen to a word I have to say anyway, so when they bail, they think “just another pretty face, the world is full of those.” Or maybe people have developed a superiority complex, or I’ve developed an inferiority complex. Maybe it is my delivery? Maybe it is my timing?

But the gist is that I walk away having taken a significant blow to my self worth. And I’m not sure I’m equipped to put myself in that situation again. So… I have two options in that case. Stop telling people, or stop being open to romantic relationships entirely. Obviously, I don’t consider the former a legitimate option.

Every time it happens, I recount every mistake I’ve ever made. It all comes back. Every choice. Every regret. “If I just hadn’t gone here.” Or “If I had never talked to that person.” And by the end of it, I am so daunted that I’m buried in everything I’ve ever done wrong. And it all looks like too much to ever escape it, Which is a really horrible place to be, because the truth is, I already HAVE escaped it. I’m on the other side. I am a new person. In these moments, I forget this. I forget my value. I forget my worth. I forget God’s grace, and the way God sees me. I forget that I deserve someone that sees me through THOSE eyes, and loves me in THAT way, and I really don’t need to waste my time on anything less anyway.

You know… I have these moments and I wonder what good God’s redemption is when I have to live out the rest of my life in a world full of people who only see what’s wrong with me, and with each other, really. If my mistakes will always define me, even though I’ve let them go. Again and again, I’ve let them go. What’s the point? Is there no escaping this? Will I be punished for my past forever? Should I just walk away from relationships entirely?

Luckily for me, I have my writing. Seriously, I realize I just poured my guts out, including a lot of TMI, but here’s the thing about my writing… People have ALWAYS read it and come to me and said “me too.” “You put into words what I’ve never been able to express.” They’ve related. I know from the research that I’ve done that this is an EXTREMELY common issue. And I know there are A LOT of people out there who suffer through this in silence. I seriously doubt there are many other people out there willing to share that. Since the beginning, one of my biggest frustrations about this is the fear surrounding it. It is shrouded in silence, and no one wants to say it, and so no one knows anything about it. And if people knew, it wouldn’t be nearly as scary.

So, this is where I come in. And my words. Because they are all I have, and that is where my power lies. So do with it all of it what you will.


In Case You Noticed My Absence

This morning, just as I was considering writing this blog post, someone asked me to explain my absence on my blog over the past two years. Now that I am back, I figured I should fill in the gap.

In 2015, I was raped. I met a guy online, and we talked for months, while I was away for work. He told me he was dying from cancer, and in our interactions, I learned a lot about living life as though it could be over at any time. When I returned to the area, he had apparently taken a turn for the worst, and so I wanted to see him, in case the end might be near. I don’t typically meet people online in a private place for the first time, but I made an exception for him. When we met, he raped me.

I’ll leave that part of the story at that, because it is unnecessary to explain anything beyond that. What I said is all that matters.

The last post I wrote was a post about him. I wrote it before he raped me. It was positive and about everything I’d learned from our time interacting, up to that point. That was the last thing I wrote for two years.

I immediately went to residential treatment. I had trauma in my past that went unaddressed for many years. Meanwhile it festered in my soul and I became very sick in all of my self-destructive tendencies, and suicidal, and just generally unpleasant. I had worked hard to overcome all of that in 2011-2012, and was continuing that work when this happened. At first, I was in shock. For about a week, I kept telling myself “I’ve done this before, I can do it again.” At first, I was okay. But after everything that had happened finally set in, I started to crumble, and things got bad very quickly. I decided this time, I was going to handle EVERYTHING differently, and address it IMMEDIATELY.Β  I immediately went into residential treatment, and started the healing process. I was there for two months. When I came home, I continued with my therapist and a trauma therapist.

I was seeing a dietitian for my eating disorder. In the past, I had immediately gained substantial amounts of weight after something like this, so I asked her to keep an eye on my weight for me. When it started to creep up, I put my foot down. I started working very hard to eat better and I got a Fitbit. I started losing weight. I walked for a year before I began running, and now have been running almost a year. I was determined not to let him take my health and my recovery from me, but while I was busy focusing on that, I didn’t even notice that he had taken my writing.

Side Note: I wanted to include this tidbit in the story, because it will most certainly come up later, and is relevant. I know I’ve mentioned it in past posts, but it needs to be said here. I come from a long line of what I call “sensitives” or “intuitives,” on both sides of my family. This includes a wealth of unusual abilities. One of these abilities is sometimes knowing about things that will happen in the future. I often find out this information in dreams. I was warned in a dream about the man who raped me. In the dream, he said to me, “I AM ABUSIVE, YOU NEED TO RUN.” He said this repeatedly. Both in the dream, and in my waking life, I ignored the information, and talked myself out of it being one of “those” dreams. Which, I obviously later regretted. So while I was working on my physical health, I also worked diligently on my spiritual health, so that I could develop an ability to listen to that voice, honor what it tells me, and act accordingly. I have had great success with this. I have experienced new, exciting things because of this adventure. My mind has been expanded in pretty wild ways. I am sure it will come up in my writing.

Once I realized that so much time had gone by unwritten, I was devastated. My very purpose for being on this planet is my writing. My story has just been too wild not to share. And I also know that it can and has helped many.

I prayed for a year, at least, for God to restore my writing. I repeatedly included the words “BY ANY MEANS NECESSARY,” which I know are dangerous words to The Almighty. It occurred to me that it might take another trauma to elicit my writing, but I was desperate. It took a pretty minor break up, instead, so I was cool with that. πŸ˜€

So, now here I am. I am back. I found my words. And my words are where my power lies, so the world best watch out. I am capable of anything now.

Throat Chakra

For years

My trauma

Was held tightly

In my hips

No matter

My position

They stood

Or laid

Or sat



Always for a fight

They were soldiers

Frozen at attention

Paralyzed in fright


And I lived there

For many years

I lived there


When I finally became

Able to let them


The trauma swelled

Inside of me

Like a volcano


the purge

After centuries

Of seething

Beneath the surface

Of the earth

The ground began

To quake

And crack


And I lived there

For a year or two

I lived there


From there it moved

Into my heart


like the green lotus

it began to bloom

And After many years

Of extending it

To others

I was finally able

to meet myself with love


And I live there

For a few years now

I’ve lived there


As the colors climbed

And pain

Boiled up inside

My entire existence


Both the rainbow

And the pot of gold


And I live here.

And now this is my home.


And to those who

Have caused my scars

For I take no credit for my pain

What I will attest to

Is my ability

To breed beauty

From disdain


The light has finally

Reached my throat

It breathes brilliantly

In blue

And I will share my stories


And I will tell of you


It is your turn

To live in fear

Of all the truths

That I could tell

And this time I

Will not hold back

I’ll write of


Into my hell


For I am free now

You’ll no longer


And where I once

So easily broke

Is now unable

To ever bend


This is where I free you from all that I am,

And imprison you, instead,

within the walls my words.


And you will live there

From now on, you will live there.





When I was a child

my sister was jealous

of my ability to color

inside the lines.

It was the only arena

in which my capacity

outranked her own.

My compulsive attention to detail started there.

The irony of this is not lost on me.

My life has been lived



unconcerned with

staying inside of lines.

I have been bound behind them,

constrained by myself

or others,

but I can never manage to stay for very long.

My wanderlust has launched me

into galaxies,

or great escapes,

or entirely different realms.

Those that even I

had never dared dream.

I have been like an angry mass

of protesters

who cannot be contained.

Not by tear gas,

or fire hoses,

or any aggressive show of force.

Or a child

who still finds herself

scribbling in crayon

on the walls,

stick figures

and illustrations of stories

that only I can understand.

The wildfire

raging behind my eyes

has always been

entirely too ferocious,

and has always spread

entirely too quickly

to ever be extinguished.

And I have found that life,

real life,

can only be experienced

outside of these lines

that are drawn for us,

or those we sometimes manage

to draw for ourselves.

There dwells the buttery richness

hidden in flaky layers

of a fresh croissant,

drizzled in the decedance

of chocolate or honey.

There dwells the freedom

we seek within our slavery,

where the weight of our chains disappears,

and we can finally

run, unfettered.

No, I was not born

to be bridled,

or color inside the lines.

This earth needs me

writing rampantly,

so that I may share my tales

of life untamed.

The beauty of the risk

in living unrestrained.

In the image of God,

with an inability to be fathomed

or forgotten.

Endlessly celestial and

too colossal for a cubicle,

but simultaneously

exquisitely ethereal.

Both yearning for the touch of others

and yet,

too delicate and vast to be held.

This Valentine’s Day, I Literally Held a Heart in My Hand

This Valentine’s Day, I held the heart of a guinea hen in my hand. Organs are slippery, y’all. *insert gaggy-type emoji here*

Today, I had the opportunity to be a part of the slaughtering process on a friend’s farm. It was such a strange invitation for Valentine’s Day, I had to accept.

THIS is my life. Welcome. Pull up a chair.

Sometime last year, I was flooded with a scary bout of depression that very briefly threatened my life, and gave me a reminder of our mortality, especially mine, with the history that I have. I decided from that experience that this life is far too short to say “no” to ANY opportunities that come my way. I decided to say “yes” from now on, no matter what, no matter how scared I might be. Actually, I decided to say “yes” ESPECIALLY in spite of how scared I might be. (This is real life, y’all. Live it!) The time that has followed since has included, zip lining, paragliding, sky diving, fearlessly diving into dating, and many other endless adventures. When the new year started, I decided to take it a step further and try something new EVERY. SINGLE. DAY. Today, I assisted in the animal slaughtering process.

To be honest, I’ve been teetering on the edge of vegetarianism for some time now. With the spiritual growth I’ve experienced in the past 6 months, I struggled with the consumption of animals that were hurt and traumatized prior to death. I believe that energy affects their bodies, and what we consume affects our bodies and our spirits. I believe that trauma most certainly has some impact upon us. I’ve also struggled with the environmental costs that come with meat consumption. My goal in this life is to positively contribute to the world in everything I do. I want this place to be better because I was/am here. I’ve also been squeamish about meat for several years now, which has made me wonder if I should give it up entirely. I figured today would be a good opportunity to confront what exactly it means to consume meat.

Today’s opportunity gave me plenty of time to reflect quietly. The farm I was on gives these animals a full, free life. The animals are treated luxuriously, and the slaughtering process is probably a hundred times more gentle than it would be in a factory setting. The lives these animals lived and the methods of their deaths CANNOT be compared to that of commercial farms. Let me be very clear about that. Today was an excellent chance for me to give that some honest thought. So, aside from the ethical question of whether or not to eat meat, I was allowed a chance to also consider carefully from where I source my meat.

I had friends who asked about pictures from today, but the entire process was treated very reverently, which felt entirely appropriate. I had come from visiting a Hospice patient, and to be honest, when I saw the first guinea hen die, I got choked up. It felt very similarly to when my first patient died. Someone asked me a question, and it was hard to talk clearly without my voice cracking. It is hard not to see death in any instance as a spiritual experience. Death is intense and powerful, and at the same time, it has never been something that I shied away from. If I were uncomfortable with death, I wouldn’t work for Hospice.

I was welcomed to help in any part of the process that I felt comfortable with. I helped with a few parts of cleaning after the death. I do not think that I could, at any time, become comfortable with actually killing the animal. NO part of the process felt comfortable. I started with what seemed easiest. A lot of it is a very delicate and careful process, that I feel too crippled by self doubt to try and approach. I’m not generally terribly enthused about trying anything with too much room for error.

The entire process was quite draining and overwhelming. I am still reflecting upon the experience, but I am grateful to have had it. It actually seemed like a very meaningful way to spend Valentine’s Day. I am grateful to the family that allowed me to be there, and participate at my comfort level. How I will approach meat consumption moving forward is still up for debate, and I will require more time to ponder, meditate, and probably write about the experience, so that I can see further into it and its meaning, and process how exactly it made me feel.

Where your food is coming from, and what exactly it takes to get to your table is something we all need to spend some time considering carefully. Food is not only nourishing our bodies, but also impacting us and our world in ways which we remain comfortably unaware. I’ve learned in eating disorder recovery that food is so important. It is never “good” or “bad.” It is something our bodies and our minds need, and it is equally important to consider how food might be nourishing or harming our souls as well. This world needs us to be intentional about every choice we make right now. Just some food for thought moving forward. Take some time to chew on that. πŸ˜‰



Forget Me Not

You will not forget me

Not because of my kiss

Or the intensity of the ocean

In my eyes


Unbeknownst to us

My soul will mark your own

My words will immortalize me

In your mind

By planting seeds

Carving words into wood

“I was here.”

I have dissolved into your DNA

Like sugar into coffee

Marshmallows in hot chocolate

Honey into tea

I am a sweet taste

Left lingering upon your tongue

I can go

As swiftly as

I came

Years may pass

You may know love

Make families

Build empires

But the time will come

When you realize

I remained

I was so much more than

Singed hair

I am

Melted flesh

A mark that will not fade

But rather than scar,

I mend

The memory of me

Will heal your wounds

Of painful years gone by

It will be as the

Lingering warmth

Of a dear friend’s hand

upon your back

The whispering remnants of God

You will yearn again

To experience

The pleasure of

My presence

The healing freedom

That you felt

By baptizing

Your toe tips

In my springs


You will not forget me,

Though I’ve long forgotten you

How To Take A Compliment

Whenever I told

my grandma

She looked pretty,

She would gently

Pat her hair and question,

β€œI do?”

Because the only

Thing better

Than a single

Compliment, of

Course, grandma realized,

Is two.


Thank You to My Muse

I found old writing
Tucked away
In the cleverest of places

Then thanked my muse for
Me of my ever-changing faces


Daily Battles

It is hard to fight a battle

When it is

Just yourself


Going up against

Fields of soldiers

The only weapon?

Your fierce determination.

The only armor?

Your belief.

So, there must be

Something to be said

For the strength

Of fire

Within a soul

Having only


For disarming others

And bearing only words

To throw the flames

May I Walk You Home, My Friend?

In this life we are

Just keeping company for the dying.

In every connection that we make,

Each meal eaten

Around conversation,

Every shouldered cry,

Or secret whispered

Behind cupped hands

Into ears,

The warm embrace,

Or enthusiastic pat

Of “atta boy,”

And every giggle

Pulled out of

Every joke told.

We’re all just climbing

Towards a light,

Or falling into

Darkness, in the end.

And this is what they tell me

When I hold the hands

of those

Easing into their final breaths

They say,

“That must be so hard to do,

My friend”


“That takes something special”

But isn’t that exactly what

We all are

Doing every day?

Just joining others

In the journey

To safely walk them home?


I cannot say

How many nights

I’ve found myself

bargaining before bed


With God, that by

some stroke of luck

I might just wake

up in the morning, dead.