Tag Archives: broken


It’s been awhile since I’ve cried in the bathroom at work.

The short of it is I’m a gullible idiot.

The woman (and baby) I was going to help did come over Friday afternoon. And stayed until late last night. Then they moved back out.

Basically because I refused to help find her heroin-addicted husband that abandoned her after she had their baby. One of the main reasons she said she needed to stay with me was to get away from him and keep her baby safe.

And she let me adore that baby. And watch him all of Saturday while she had to go to the ER for surgery complications.

And she wants to put him back in danger.

I’m angry. I’m sad. I’m scared. I’m just upset.

I’m feeling used.

She had some drug-addicted friend come get her and obviously I couldn’t lock her in my house.

I’ve just learned that reaching out, giving a part of myself is never ever good. Every time I do it it backfires.

So I’m done.

I’ll just do that whole shadow walking the next couple weeks. Finish what’s needed at work before I get laid off on the 31st.

Then who knows?

I don’t know how long I’ll last alone in my house with no job or drive to do anything.

I just don’t see the point any longer.


(slight trigger warning for brief mention of sex and intimacy)

After having two almost entirely meaningless and vapid posts I am mad at myself.  I really need to stop dodging my issues and get them down. 

This is a safe space.  Safe space.

Yeah, I’m gonna compare myself to a fictional character instead.

I doubt most of you have heard of the show “The Girls”.  I stumbled across it on Netflix while I was sick with pneumonia and watched all of season 1 within 3 days.

It’s about four girlfriends in New York who are in their early to mid twenties and have no effing clue what to do with their lives.

I wish I could say I identify with the chic yet bohemian Jessa, who I like the most out of the four girls.  But I know it’s Hannah.


I’ve even made that exact expression.  At work.  It’s uncanny.

She has body image issues.  I have body image issues.  She’s a compulsive writer.  I’m a compulsive writer.  
Now she’s also way too attached to her (entirely normal) parents and can’t keep a job to save her life, but that’s not important.

The main thing is her weird relationship with this guy named Adam.  They have this fuck-buddy-type thing, not officially dating, and mostly based on sex.


That sounds familiar.

Now, Hannah attempts to break it off with Adam but then realizes she doesn’t really want a boyfriend anyway.  She sort of likes what she has with Adam anyway.


Wow.  I swear I’ve said those exact words to my best friend too.  It’s ridiculously creepy.

When she confronts Adam about how he’s been a shitbag lately, he is distant at first, then they have this weird fight in the middle of street and he screams: “Do you want me to be your fucking boyfriend??!!”

And then they’re good again.  And it goes well.  They hang out occasionally.  Adam prefers to be as close to naked as possible. 

Him wearing full pants is actually a rarity, but I didn’t want to scar your eyes.

They have slightly adorable couple-ish moments.

He pees on her in the shower because he thinks it’d be funny.  She is not amused. 
(thank god I’ve never had that happen- I would likely mutilate Army)  I’m not sure why I included this incident in my description of their relationship.  I guess I meant to show their level of comfort and humor with each other.

Then she balks when he confesses his love for her.  Now, granted, the character was distantly apathetic and a tad Aspie-eqse up until the last two episodes where he got weirdly clingy.  So Hannah’s understandably weirded out.

Now, Army never says the “L” word.  Ever. 

But last night was….the closest he’s gotten. 
And I’m trying to not balk.  Not run.  Tell myself it doesn’t change anything.  It doesn’t have to change anything.  It doesn’t have to mean anything.
It doesn’t.

I don’t know what I want. 

Why am I so broken that confessions of deep emotional and attachment make me want to turn tail and bolt?  Or self-sabotage like a crazy bitch.

I hate being broken.

Pretending I’m like this fictional character of a moderately-successful show makes me feel slightly better.


I ain’t good for anyone else…

I turn the TV off, to turn it on again
Staring at the blades of the fan as it spins around
Counting every crack, the clock is wide awake
Talking to myself, anything to make a sound

I told you I wouldn’t call, I told you I wouldn’t care
But baby climbing the walls gets me nowhere
I don’t think that I can take this bed getting any colder
Come over, come over, come over, come over, come over

You can say we’re done the way you always do
It’s easier to lie to me than to yourself
Forget about your friends, you know they’re gonna say
We’re bad for each other, but we ain’t good for anyone else

I told you I wouldn’t call, I told you I wouldn’t care
But baby climbing the walls gets me nowhere
I don’t think that I can take this bed getting any colder
Come over, come over, come over, come over, come over

We don’t have to miss each other, come over
We don’t have to fix each other, come over
We don’t have to say forever, come over
You don’t have to stay forever, come over

I told you I wouldn’t call, I told you I wouldn’t care
But baby climbing the walls gets me nowhere
I don’t think that I can take this bed getting any colder
Come over, come over, come over, come over, come over
-“Come Over”, Kenny Chesney


I am weak.  As always.  I’ve always been weak.

I fall easily back into my label of “fuck-up”.

But it feels better this way.  I don’t deserve good. I don’t deserve real.  I don’t deserve respect.  It doesn’t matter.

I’d rather have a brief evening of laughter with him that a whole lifetime of romance.


When I was younger, I loved the “Sisterhood of the Travelling Pants”.

It reminded me of my friends and I’s deep bond, even though we haven’t been friends nearly that long.

I used to identify with Carmen, the writer, the dreamer, the one who struggled with her weight and loved her mother so much.

But today, when watching the movies, I realized I now identify with Bridget. I just keep pushing and pushing and ignoring the bumps and potholes in the road. Thinking if I drive fast enough they can’t stop me.

And I just want to push push push further.

“Single-minded to the point of recklessness.”

Keep going. Keep driving.

They can’t see the flaws if you don’t let them close. Flaws can’t be seen from far away.

Don’t let any of them see.

Mini-vacation = stress

Months ago, one of my friends managed to secure a great deal on a hotel suite at a local waterpark resort.
It’s for the middle of December and back then I thought it would be a fun pre-Xmas break.  Especially since I knew I wouldn’t be making it to Chicago at all this year.

Well, the dates are this Sunday-Tuesday (Decemeber 16th-18th).  There are four or five of us going (it’s a big suite).  Due to other people’s work limitations, we’re only staying Sunday night and during the day on Monday.  We’ll drive back Monday evening.

I already took Monday and Tuesday off work.  So I get to have a lovely day off on Tuesday doing whatever the hell I want.

So far, this is the only thing that makes me smile about the vacation.  The part involving other people scares me.

First of all, I hate eating around other people.  Hate hate hate hate hate.  Especially for multiple meals.  It gives them an opportunity to notice how much I don’t eat, and then I get lectures (or jokes…) about eating disorders and blah blah blah.  Yeah.  I’ve heard it all before.  But do you see this flab???  It’s not like shoveling down junk food is going to melt it away.

Which leads me to the next point.

There’s the whole waterpark aspect.  I don’t want to wear a bathing suit.  There’s the fact that I’m the size of a whale, yes.  But also, the scars and marks on my thigh would be there for all the world.  There’s a reason I picked above my knee all those years ago.   Because unless I wear something super slutty (and then I wear stockings) I don’t show a thing.  But a bathing suit makes it impossible to hide those marks.

I don’t want anyone to see them.

To see how broken and messed up I am.

I really don’t want to go on this vacation.  I want to just stay home.

But I already paid and they’re counting on me and I hate to be that person who “flakes out”.  So I’ll wear that mask tightly and do the best I can at pretending to eat and have fun like a normal girl.

Aren’t vacations supposed to be de-stressing?

Damaged Road to Recovery

This road we’re on is full of potholes.  It is littered with broken glass, sharp turns, deep shadows, dips, and rough patches.

It’s usually night on this road, but if we’re lucky it may be a misty or foggy twilight.  Sometimes there is a carriage or cart supplied by a loved one to help us along this road.  But mostly we have to walk it with our own two feet.

Our feet are sometimes sprained or broken and we have to stop and take a long rest.

But we push forward.  Reaching the end of this road makes all the difference in the world.