Tag Archives: support

This empty life…

He called me “hon”.

He is not prone to terms of endearment. This isn’t a man who slips into language like a diner’s waitress.

After no communication for days. Maybe a week.

I’ve lost track of time.

These days time is like taffy. Stretching, clinging, sticking.

The point is it just slipped out so casually.

And I want to bash my head into a wall repeatedly.

There’s a reason I grew up loving paperback mysteries, Stephen King, and Wes Craven movies. This isn’t a girl who believes in fairy-tale-happy-ending bullshit.

I am my father’s daughter.

And I know better.

I know that there isn’t some white knight who is gonna swoop in at the last minute and make all the hurt disappear. There isn’t even a constant weight on the other side of my bed, much less in less explicit facets of my life.

I am on my own. Always. Regardless of where I’m stuck in time.

Only a single friend has told me “You deserve to have him stay. You give so much.”

All others are silent. And it shows me what I already know, in that deepest heart of mine. That truest heart. That constant companion that’s been there since when I was little.

There’s no point in giving. There is no deserving.

There is only the taffy stretch of time and the constant stickiness of pain.

“Cigarettes” by The Wreckers



Stiff rigidity and tempered steel.

To bend this habit is like breaking bone.

But in the days following my stark refusal to release my pride…

It’s sharp regret.

I find myself unable to say what I think is expected.

It’s like dirt in the throat. Sand in the mouth. Broken glass along the tongue.

Wishing I had learned differently.

Grown up in a house of strong affection and open emotions.

But such is not my world. I wish it were.

It’s entirely a weakness, pride is. I know this. I know this with every fiber of my being.

And yet I still cannot break the habit.

The masks, the boxes, the robotic responses.

Co-dependency crippled me all those years ago. I carry a scar so long, so deep that I can feel the rippling skin tightening with thought. So calloused yet so paper thin.

Don’t show weakness. Don’t show need. Don’t show want.

Don’t break character. For the love of god, do not cry.
Do not ask for help. Do not show desire. Do not be vulnerable.

Just let him go. Just like you let them all go.

Pride is a prickly bedmate. A cold companion.

But I know no other better.


That fear bubbles up and locks my tongue so neatly when I think to be otherwise. And the moments happen more and more. I think of every bright shinning piece of the past years.

When he’d go out of his way to check on me when I had been my quiet, reclusive self.

When he knew what joke to make to get me to smile.

The way the heat rushed through me so easily when he brushed his fingers over me.

The natural way my head tilted against him when I sit close.

The way he knows to stroke my hair when I’m feeling nervous.

The way he gets just the right level of teasing and sarcasm to make me smile.

The way he kisses the top of my head as an afterthought of affection.

The way he knows I carry all my tension in my neck and shoulders.

The way he recognizes the look of self-loathing in my eyes and knows the right words to make me actually feel solidly beautiful..

I miss that syrupy thick feeling while lying on the cool sheets and allowing his fingers to dance over me.

But that fear, that victim mindset leaps to attention.
It hisses-snarls-screams at me…

“Remember what happened last time.”

The one time I tried handing my heart over. I tried full, unconditional trust.

Unconditional trust is overrated.

Unconditional trust is what turned me into the victim.

Conditions are safe.

The Fitted Sheet

Putting a fitted sheet on a mattress fucking sucks. I swear it’s the workout of a marathon in one room.

You try that whole “diagonal sides first”; the whole “back sides first”; whatever other “trick” you got from family or Youtube. They make it look so simple. A breeze. Obviously a fucking simpleton should be able to get a damn fitted sheet onto their fucking mattress.

That’s the metaphor of my life right now.

I have this life “fitted sheet” that is well-worn, perhaps a bit faded. The pattern is super funky. Couple decades old.

But it’s mine. And I’ve heard it isn’t easy to get another.

I also have this brain “mattress” that I think may have somehow obtained the incorrect size. I’m not sure whether I meant for a full instead of a queen or maybe I need a king?

Honestly, it’s sort of hard to tell whether the mattress is too large or the fitted sheet is too small. Or perhaps the opposite. It’s all just wibbly-wobbly.

No matter how much I fucking groan and shove and twist into all sorts of fun shapes, the damn sheet never seems to fit properly onto the mattress.

I think I’m going to have to saw a corner off. Which is a bit sad, as I love this “mattress”. I don’t want another. I don’t want to really change it. To trade it out for something else. This one is just so familiar, despite the stains and weird lumps and sort of frayed bits on the corners. The whispers in the stuffing and the smudged sort of writing in spots that never seems to rub out.

If I can get the sheet on after cutting a corner off the mattress, then I can just face the weird malformed corner to the wall so no one visiting can tell.

Problem solved, right?

Finding Zoe

Today I dropped my fur-baby off to be spayed and she gave me a look of such fear and concern that I was not coming back.  Obviously I will be back in a mere 5 hours.  However, I feel it is time to share the story of how I got Zoe.

There once was a girl.

Technically this girl was a woman.  It’s important to this story that she was a woman, not a girl, since she had recently gone through a loss that only a woman can experience.

Pen, the woman, no longer thought she was worthy of this thing called life.

Her well-meaning partner, Army, did his best to distract her with movies and jokes and trips to places she used to enjoy.

To no avail.

On December 20th, mere days before Christmas, a distant friend mentioned her mom’s dog had an accidental litter.  And her mom was very displeased.  The dog was a pure bred Australian Shepherd; a show dog.  And now considered “ruined”.

A concept that hit Pen in the stomach like a sack of stones.

Most of the puppies had been given away and found homes, but there was one left and they’d run out of people who’d take puppies.  Her friend’s mom was going to dump it at a shelter.

Pen felt some vague sense of maternal instinct give a kick deep inside her.

“Just come look at her? Please?” said the friend.  Pen agreed.  She drove over within the day to see this lone puppy.

When she pulled into the driveway, the puppy had already been dumped into a box and was sitting in front of the garage.  Pen’s friend was apologetic, saying her mom said the puppy absolutely couldn’t stay another day.

As she squatted down, Pen’s eyes focused on the ball of red.  After a moment, greenish-gold eyes met hers.

The ice that had been encasing Pen’s heart for nearly two months felt a warm breeze.  It trembled, debating on sweating a thin line of water.  Debating on melting.

The puppy was so very tiny.  Not much bigger than a softball.  Pen turned to her friend and asked the age.

“8 weeks.  She’s the runt though.  Just a scrawny thing.”

Even though she hadn’t mentioned this excursion, she remembered Army had talked about getting a second dog.  Perhaps…

She put her hand into the box.  The puppy waddled up to it immediately and shoved the tiny triangular face into Pen’s palm.  This of course, meant the puppy absolutely had to be picked up.  The tiny warm body easily snuggled against Pen’s heart.

The ice cracked.  The lines thickened, then dribbled.  The heart swelled.

She went from the friend’s house straight to a pet store.  She had a decent stockpile of money in her account due to saving for a baby that would never come.

Now, as she stared down at the red ball that tried frantically to lick her face, Pen wondered if the baby just was meant to be a different form.

When she drove up to the apartment, she saw Army’s car.  She felt nervous for a moment.  She really should have texted or called him.  Warned him.  But they’d been distant lately.

The moment she walked in, Sofya’s nose lifted, twitched, and the sleek black dog froze for a moment, before leaping towards Pen in excitement.
“Wow she’s happy to see you.” Army commented offhand, focused on the TV.  Then he heard squeaks of joy.  He slowly glanced over.  “…what is that?”

Sofya tried to climb into Pen’s arms to get to the puppy.  She was careful to let them merely touch noses, concerned of the reaction.  She didn’t need to worry though, Sofya’s tail was a whirlwind of happy excitement and her long tongue attempted to bathe the red ball.

“It may be a puppy.” Pen said shyly.

Army’s face melted into sweet delight as he rushed from the couch around to the front door.  He held out his arms and Pen smiled, handing him the red ball.

“Boy or girl?”


“What kind?”

“Aussie mix.  Her mom was purebred and the litter accidental. The jerk owner was gonna dump her at a shelter.”

“Bitch. How old?”

“8 weeks.”



“She is super cute.” He crooned, in a way Pen had rarely seen.  Sofya nosed in as he knelt down to let his dog greet the new puppy properly.

The first night, she had a kennel prepare for the puppy to spend the night it.  But it was mere hours before she was curled up with the puppy in bed.  Army came in early in the morning and chuckled at the scene.

“She’s going to be so spoiled.”

Pen secretly thought that she, not the puppy, was the spoiled one.

About 12 weeks old

About 12 weeks old

4-5 months old

4-5 months old

My babygirl recently

My babygirl recently

Feeling Worthy

It’s a soft yet constant stroke of his fingers on the thin, delicate skin of her inner wrist.  The way he outlines the shape of her tattoo.

On the cinema movie screen, Simon Pegg’s wrist’s are exposed.  Covered in bandages practically to the elbow, a hospital tag firmly attached.  She winces, flashing back to those two awful weeks in late summer years ago.

Before she can curl into herself, his head is tilting against hers and his hand is moving up to play with her hair.  Carefully. He doesn’t say a word.  He knows better than to ask.

When they are out in the parking lot, he does finally speak.

“This work schedule is hard. I’m glad you came tonight. I miss seeing you.”

He’s parked his car right next to her’s and they stand between them, her leaning against him.  She’s quiet before she says softly.

“I almost didn’t. I love spending time with you, you know I do. But…after the other day, I’m worried about being able to include you in my general social life.”

“You mean Horrorama.” He murmurs.  She nods against his chest. “And Rogers.” He adds. She nods again, then looks up at him.

“I know you have very different viewpoints on…specific matters.  But you’re both important to me.”

“You’re important to me.” He replies carefully, his eyes hesitant. He doesn’t want to fight again. “I don’t want to ruin Horrorama for you.”  His eyes move around the dark and mostly empty parking lot carefully, “And I didn’t mean to cause issues with him with my comment the other day, but you know how I feel about proper protection.”

“I know.” She slips her hands into his pockets and tugs lightly, affectionately. He smiles and adjusts his legs so she can lean more comfortably between them.

His hands stroke up and down her arms as he sighs. “Anything for you though.”

She stares up at him in surprise.  He’s never said that combination of words towards her.  About her.

“I’ll be on my best behavior.” He agrees.  Then he pauses. “But if he brings up politics first…”

“Well.” She lets out a small chuckle, “I suppose he brings it upon himself then.  But be nice.”

“So like…at nerf level? So he won’t get butthurt?” He says, a twinkle in his eye.

“You can’t talk about anything without being slightly asshole…” She replies with an eyeroll.

“Twenty percent.” He offers, “If he brings up politics first, I’ll argue back at twenty percent.” His head moves closer and drops lingering kisses on the crown of her hair, one arm moving down to wrap around her hips.  She lets out another chuckle.

“You’re awful.”

“I’m awful.” He agrees easily. “You’re not. You’re wonderful.”

She moves her hands around his belt, marveling at how easily he lets her maneuver over his holster and clip holders without tensing.  She’s aware of his PTSD and the history with his ex wife (stealing his own weapons and threatening him with them).

She isn’t interested in removing or touching them, just moving around them to snag the hand he has placed against his car.  She interlaces her fingers with his and turns her head to lay flat against his chest.

There are days when she wonders if it would be better to just stay at home, locked in her room, never dealing with other people.

There are days when she wonders if she’s ever meant to have any sort of relationship that actually works.  If she’s just punishing herself by picking people who seem unavailable for the most part (whether physically or emotionally).

Then there are nights like this. When it all makes sense. And even though he has his faults, his hangups, sometimes he actually lets it drop for her.

When her hand fits perfectly into his and his words crawl into her soul and build a nest to rest and remind her that she isn’t unworthy.

Where I am

WordPress just informed me that today is the anniversary of my blog.  

This is bittersweet to hear.

I am in a bad place right now.  After my last post, I was very very ill for three days (there is no glory in taking excessive laxatives).  

I had hoped that I would be leaps and bounds better from where I was a year ago today.  It doesn’t feel that way at all.  

Honestly, I wish I could just fade away quietly.  I am too cowardly and tired of the pain from the laxatives to do anything violent towards myself.  But if I could just push a button and be gone…

However, taking a look at the positive:

I have so many wonderful new friends.  You all are such great supports and I know I would be in a worse place now (perhaps even gone) if it weren’t for you.  Yes, you.

I have learned so many things.  Coping, support, just the mere empathizing has been a great thing.

I have laughed, I have cried, I have gasped in horror, I have shivered with excitement.  Your lives have enriched mine- even over the seeming impersonal world of blogging and the internet.

Two days ago I almost shut down this blog.  I am still scared, depressed, disgusted (with myself), exhausted, sad, angry, heartbroken and so much more.  

But I have to remind myself all the good this blog has done.  All the help it has provided me.  And that it is okay to just take a step back sometimes.  

It’s also okay to ask for help.

When I wanted to shut it down two days ago- it was because I was so scare to ask for help.  I was so angry with myself for taking so many laxatives.  I thought I deserved punishment.  And you guys always make me feel better.

I wanted to shut down that support for good.

But I’m so glad I did not.

So happy anniversary to myself.  And I hope I am able to stumble back onto my feet sometime soon.

Warm thoughts to all of you ❤ ❤ ❤

Leap of Faith

I took that leap of faith again.  Telling someone in real life about my mental-health (yes, the actual detail) and crossing my fingers it doesn’t end up biting me in the ass.

It hasn’t so far, but I keep waiting for the ax to fall.  It always has before.

I am managing to remain mostly co-conscious, but there are a few inners who are pissed about my decision.  They still remember the last time with stinging clarity.

The fact that I told a male makes it all the more agitating for them.  It doesn’t matter that the situation is entirely different and he is a totally different sort of guy.  One of the few “safe” ones I’ve encountered in my life.  He’s a really great friend who has his own awesome life, residence, and social life (including a lovely girlfriend who has excellent taste in cars).  I always have a great time hanging out at his place or going to the drive-in with them.  One of the few places I can really relax, even before I ended up telling him that secret aspect of my psyche.

But the fact that he’s been a great support is unfortunately, a bit triggering to parts of me.

That idea of support, of true honest, no walls-up sort of support, is terrifying.  Every single time I’ve done that, it just ruins things.  Everything.  I go back to square one and it’s almost as if it’s worse than if I had never reached out in the first place.

But I can’t exactly go through life being a complete coward.  That would be a pretty poor existence.  And I know I can’t keep going forward at the rate I am without some sort of break system.  The wheels are close to falling off.  Not to say I want someone to hold the wheels on, but it’s nice to have a sort of “mechanic” to be honest about the make and model of my car so he can help me purchase and install the correct axle or joints or whatever is fucking me up.

Wow.  That car analogy was weird.

So despite the slight backlash of my system, I’m really hoping this leap of faith won’t turn out like all the others.  Really hoping.

Let’s see if I can turn some of this pessimism into optimism.

Cluster Casserole

Yeah.  I meant clusterfuck, but I thought that might be an inappropriate blog post title.

I know a lot of my blog friends are from the U.K. and I’m not sure if they have the expression “clusterfuck” over there, but that is the only apt descriptor for my current situation.

(I’m gonna borrow lovely WeeGee’s footnotes style for one entry because I cannot express myself in this entry without a lot of quick abbreviations and expression because my mind is a great big swirly mess of horribleness*)

Clusterfuck.  It means that basically, some big universe-controlling person** took the ingredients of my life and swirled them around in a bowl.  Then they were supposed to add the ingredients to create a semi-passable cake or brownie; but instead, this idiot PTB*** added the WRONG ingredients that turned my bowl of a life into some awful casserole of fuck-uppery instead of a good sweet dessert of yumminess like I desired.

Clusterfuck Casserole

1 part Pen who is trying to get her butt into more a healing gear lately

1 part messy “vacation” with her father to her hometown that was a mix of good, bad, and utterly horrible****
1 part her grandfather (the local/maternal one, not Chicago/paternal) going into a risky surgery this past Friday*****
1 part things going all roller coaster-y in the relationship with Army******
1 part having to spend time with a lot of family and be near/in a hospital
1 part making the mistake of going out drinking with people she barely knows Friday night

Season with:
a sprinkle of taking care of puppies for extended periods of time (as well as another one getting adopted)
a pinch of no communication or spending time with close friends in almost a week
a dollop of next to no sleep for going on 4 days now

Stick in the oven at about 400 degrees for 5 days.


The blog world is a bit much right now.  I’m trying to ease back into reading and commenting on some.  Sorry it isn’t everyone.  I’m doing my best.  Bear with me.  I’ll eventually be back to normal.  Hopefully.  For the moment I’m going to attempt pretending at being a normal person at work when all I really want to do is curl into a ball of self-loathing and debate on sobbing.

*i.e. Clusterfuck
**I don’t mean a god, necessarily.  Maybe I mean FSM.*******
***Powers That Be.  I took this from Cordelia’s expression of them in the show “Angel” (Joss Whedon!)
****Yes, that was over a week ago, but I am still recovering due to the extreme backlash of drama that happened from it
*****For which I was just told the night before.  The night before.  About surgery that he could easily DIE from.
****** Of course, when is it not?
*******Flying Spaghetti Monster


Still feeling very low/suicidal, so all I can manage this morning is an emotionless list.

1. Sorry for blowing up the Reader yesterday.  My phone glitched and posted like, 12 copies of my “Feeling Low” post.  The original is all that remains now, so if you commented on/liked one of the copies, it got deleted.  Oops.

2.  Three puppies have been adopted now.  Including my two favorites (Red and Japan).  One puppy has been “reserved” to be adopted by this weekend coming up.

3.  Families who adopted the puppies have said they are doing good.

4. I’m going to Chicago this weekend to see my grandfather.

5.  With my father.

6.  In the same car.

7.  For six hours. (That’s 12 hours round trip)

8.  He booked us both hotel rooms (not the same one).  He won’t let me stay with my grandparents.

9. With the exception of one very lovely friend that I had a distracting late dinner with Saturday, I’ve been feeling very socially-distant.  I haven’t spent time with anyone else in over a week.

10.  Army hasn’t spoken to me since Wednesday night.

11.  I have no idea why.

12.  I can’t find it in myself to really care.

13.  I’m not exactly sure why I’m feeling so low/suicidal, except I just don’t want to be in this life anymore.  I don’t want to deal with these obstacles.  These difficulties.  These events.  These goals.

14.  I can’t find the strength to change my own life into something worth living.

15. I own too many suicide related movies.


This was not intended to be a blog that talked a lot about “romance” constantly.  Or feelings about men. Especially Army.

I feel like I talk about him too much.  And my indecision too much.

But I have to get this down or it’ll continue buzzing about in my head.

Gods I sound like a 14 year-old.

He asked to come over last night because he needed support.  He’d just dealt with a suicidal coworker and patched her up from various things she refused to go to hospital for (I don’t want to divulge a bunch of info about a person I don’t even know, but basically she got attacked by her ex and her exes new partner).

My immediate reaction was panic.  I’m in a rough place myself, as you guys know.  And there’s the red F-A-T cuts staring up at me from the spot above my knee.

But Army’s never asked such a thing.  His texts got a bit ramble-y in going on about needing me.

I acquiescence, darted into the shower, then covered my thigh with the largest band-aid I could find- which thankfully just covered the marks.

I can’t really describe the night well in words.  I know I had this post earlier that got into him being more deeply romantic.  But that didn’t even touch on what happened last night.

It hit after our (first) round in bed.  I maneuvered so my back was facing him as I sorted through the shocked thoughts and voices in my head.

No no no no.  That is not the feeling I think it is.  No no no.

I think it is.

You do not love him.  No.  You are incapable of romantic love, remember?  That’s why he’s safe.  He doesn’t want that, he doesn’t try to bring that forth.

Well he did tonight.

I don’t know why he did that.  He shouldn’t have acted like that.  He’s supposed to be safe.  We need to run.  Run run run run.

I dunno if I want to.

Yes you do.  You always want to run.  You have to be in control.  We are the ones in control.  We can step back anytime, unscathed. 

I don’t think I can walk away unscathed now.

I don’t want you to walk.  I want you to run. Run run run.  Push him away.  Say those things you’re so good at saying.  Hurt, wound, kill.  Don’t fall.  Don’t fall.  Falling is for losers.  For the weak.  For suckers.  We are strong.  We’re too strong for this.


It’s at that very moment that he runs his fingers through my hair and kisses my temple in concern.
“Are you all right?” He asks and his tone is more deeply worried than I remember ever hearing.

I realize my cheeks are wet and that tears are slowly trailing down my face.

Great.  The crazy girl’s not only talking to herself, but making herself cry.  In front of an audience.

I glance up at him nervously, waiting for some accusation, ready to make an excuse.

His fingers smooth over my cheeks and he tilts his forehead against mine.

“That was intense, huh?  Feels more real now.  Serious.”  He pauses and his eyes reach down into my psyche and pull out the words to make everything crumble, “It isn’t just you.”

Run run run run run run run.  Far far far away.

I manage a slight smile and curl closer into his chest.

I feel like Cassandra; knowing the fall of Troy, but not being able to do anything to stop it.


“Diggin’ a hole and the walls are caving in
Behind me,
Airs gettin’ thin but I’m trying,
I’m breathing in,
Come find me

It hasn’t felt like this before
It hasn’t felt like home…before you

And I know it’s easy to say, but it’s harder to feel this way,
And I miss you more than I should, than I thought I could,
I can’t get my mind off of you

I know you’re scared that I’ll soon be over it,
That’s part of it all,
Part of the beauty of falling in love with you,
Is the fear you won’t fall

It hasn’t felt like this before
It hasn’t felt like home…before you

And I know it’s easy to say, but it’s harder to feel this way
And I miss you more than I should, than I thought I could,
I can’t get my mind off of you

And I hate the phone,
But I wish you’d call,
Thought being alone,
Was better than, was better than…

And I know it’s easy to say, but it’s harder to feel this way
And I miss you more than I should, than I thought I could,
I can’t get my mind off of you.

Can’t get my mind off of you”

-Joshua Radin, “The Fear You Won’t Fall”