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So, this happened last night. I hit 100 followers! I wanted to thank all of my readers for sticking around, and those of you who are passing through. I know I only post occasionally so it’s a nice assurance when I do that people like and can relate to what I have to say. I have a dream of my blog being discovered or submitting it somewhere and writing as a columnist or romance/advice person somewhere. The movie How to Lose a Guy in 10 Days makes writing for a magazine look really glamorous (yes I know, that’s because it’s a movie). But writing as a career is up there in my dream jobs.

I met a guy at a get together on the 4th of July who writes for part of the New Yorker. He’s written fiction but if I remember correctly switched to writing about his life because he knows it best. Which is similar to what I do. When I was a kid I loved writing fiction and filled books with it. I was also dedicated to keeping diaries (there’s of boxes of them somewhere) so it makes sense that I blog. I think part of it is because people are so caught up in memorializing their lives, through photographs, ticket stubs, writing.. etc. Another reason is that writing makes me feel better. It gets the thoughts out, and gives me a place to speak my mind.

I want to know how other people blog. I’m impressed by the people who put out three posts a day, or a few a week, and wonder how they balance that and life. School, work, traveling, kids, pets, relationships.. and maintaining a blog. As I’ve mentioned before I don’t post as often when I’m going through change or am coping with depression and anxiety, though I know I feel better when I do. I’m trying to pick it up at least a little more often than I have in the past. Anyho, thanks again to all of you who are following me. Will be posting more soon!



I do it all the time. I write, I feel better, I fall silent. Repeat. When anxiety hits and my heart starts racing I tell myself that everything is okay. I’m in a better place. I no longer live where I’ll be greeted by an empty apartment I had gotten with my partner. I have roommates to greet me and pets to cuddle with. I like my new school, and I’m making friends. Nothing is really wrong.

Still, I wake in the night with increasing anxiety, and the thoughts won’t stop. Conversations I’ve had, things I should have said, what I have to do. Flashes of moments I’ve overcome surface in split seconds and leave me breathless. Me standing in a cornfield alone at night after getting groceries. Crying because I didn’t want to go back to school. Being sad to leave my family. The dorms I’ve lived in. My ex’s eyes, or face. The brief stab that comes with thinking of him over a year later.

“It’s okay, everything is okay.” I tell myself. Soothing like the way I’d talk to another person or animal. It’s my first semester of junior year in college and it’s said to be one of the hardest at my school. The training wheels have come off and we are left to make art, exploring what kind of artists we are. I’ve been experimenting with what sculpture means to me, and working with a combination of materials that are new and familiar. Sewing, painting, playing with wire, working with caulk..

I’ve been struggling with being torn between writing and art, and wondering if I should have gone to school for writing. What it would be like if I had. Questioning, “what’s the point? Why am I here?” Feeling worn down and not liking that my life revolves around school. That I eat and sleep less. Trying to work through having depression and anxiety. I’ve been meeting a group of girls who have similar experiences, which is comforting to know that I am not alone, but also troubling that so many people I’ve spoken to recently feel the same way. That they’ve thought about giving up and dropping out of school but we’re so close to finishing that we shouldn’t. I read an article recently that said how there is an increase of people in universities who are being seen for mental health, which is reflected in the people I have been talking to.

Since I’m torn between writing and making art I figure I should be posting more often.

I’ve been there


I’ve been there:

I’ve spent so much time alone I can’t handle myself. After being cooped up I take long walks in the crisp night air, trying to get away. My emotions want to claw their way out from inside of me. They bounce around my entire being and I don’t know how to feel. I want to run, far away from here as I howl at the moon and the stars. I need a release. I’ve felt like my soul does not belong in my body, it doesn’t quite fit right and it wants to get out. Like Peter Pan and his shadow, except that life is never that easy. I cry, sobbing interrupted by the ugly wails that I can’t keep inside. I’ve spent weekends crying, not knowing why I was unable to stop. I’ve wanted to quit, to give up.

People ask me how I feel and I tell them I’m “okay” or “good” so that they won’t ask for an explanation. If they even would. Where is the divide between the people that you can tell your true emotions to, and the ones that you should say you are okay, even if you’re not?

Anxiety. Despair. Loneliness. Aging. Fear. Depression. Anger. Hopelessness. Damaged. Alone. Suicidal.

People that don’t suffer from depression have no idea what it’s like. I’ve come across some that think it is an emotion you can control, and that you “mustn’t encourage negative thoughts.” What they don’t know is that depression works the other way round, and can control you. While some cultures do not talk about emotions like depression and suicide, this hides the important fact that these feelings can be hereditary. Families in these cultures do not tell their family members if another person has suffered from mental health issues. Many people live in denial, thinking that they cannot acknowledge how they feel. Well I’ll tell you how I feel, for those of you that don’t know what it’s like.

Not being able to move. Having a hard time falling asleep but an even harder time getting out of bed. Being exhausted even after sleeping. Not being able to eat. Finding it hard to believe I’m attractive, when I once knew I was beautiful. Not feeling pretty, or amazing. I’ve been alone so long I’ve become unable to respond to compliments, except to give a half-hysterical laugh, and reply, “No, you are”.