I am the queen of ‘I really shouldn’t eat/drink this…but I’m gonna’. The list of examples would be far too long, so I’ll just give a couple- caffeine, and alcohol are my top two. Now, I don’t drink a lot, but I’m not supposed to drink at all. Says so on a couple of my medications.

Awhile back, I began cutting out gluten. Things went well for a bit, and then the store we had been buying my gluten free goods at didn’t sell my damn pancake mix anymore. I know, it’s just pancake mix, but it was a serious travesty to me. It was so good. We looked other places, and nothing. And, I threw in the towel, so to speak.

We’ve been discussing getting healthier, and cutting back on gluten was something we agreed on. I mentioned cutting back to my doctor ages ago, and she agreed that it would be a good idea. So it’s not like I am just doing it on a whim. I’ve done my research, etc.

He’s priced some gluten free flour for us, I bought us a gluten free baking cook book, and we found me some gluten free options at Publix while we were killing time before my doctor’s appointment. I was so happy to find pancake mix again! Not the one I had been using, but like 3-4 different options.

We’ll still buy regular bread, as that’s not something we eat a ton of. We mainly buy it for the kids more than anything. We saw gluten free pizza, too! Publix isn’t on our usual shopping route, but we’re adding it in. It’ll be something we transition with slowly over time, while we use our old food first. I don’t want to waste anything, so as we run out of things…we can replace them with gluten free options if we so choose.

I plan to blog about it, too. I’ll post recipes we try, and rate them on ease, and taste. With pictures! Duh lol. I’ll write about changes I notice over time, as well.

We plan to make more veggie pasta, as well. I love me some veggie pasta!

Here are some links for y’all:



Fighting Anxiety

We were driving back from dropping the kids off at my mom’s when my husband says “this was the first anxiety you faced” or something like that. We were on a short, low bridge. I hate bridges, and used to grip his thigh tight when going over them. That was the first bridge I walked across, and we did it randomly when taking walks together. I still have issues going over the bridge into Jacksonville, however. I play games on my phone or close my eyes so I don’t see it. You do what you gotta do, right?

I have a lot of anxieties, which feed into other issues I have. Vicious cycle right there.

I told my psych that my goal is to go to Jacksonville pride in 2018, and that I’m trying to work towards it. I’ve been doing little things here and there to push myself. She told me that she was proud, and that meant a lot.

Now, I’m ready to tackle my next anxiety.

Body hair.

Yup. Body hair gives me wicked anxiety. Correction: MY body hair gives me wicked anxiety.

Story time!

The first summer after I moved to CT from FL, I was signed up for summer camp. The day kind. Well, there were high schools who worked there. Swimming was one of the activities. Now, up until then I had no issues with my body. It never occurred to me that I was fat, or hairy. To me…I was just me. One of the high school girls there changed my life forever with one word: gorilla. She was about 17, and here I was at maybe 10. Sure, I looked older, but that was besides the point. She mocked me while I was in my bathing suit- about my size, and my body hair.

I told my Grandmother that I never wanted to go back there. She told my Uncle, who knew the people that ran the camp. She was fired, but then her words were still backed up. My Uncle told my Grandmother it was time I start shaving. I was told that it would stop the bullying. Never was I told it was natural, never was I told that she was wrong. Just that I should shave. So, I did.

For awhile, I shaved only in warmer months, not bothering when I was in pants. And then one Christmas, my then step-father saw my calf, and asked me why I hadn’t shaved. When I told him it was cold, so I didn’t bother, he laughed. He told me that guys don’t like hairy legs. I can’t recall how old I was, but it shouldn’t matter.

I’ve shaved since. Even my arms. If I go more than 2 days, I get anxious. I panic. I feel disgusting, and dirty. I completely support women not wanting to shave- legs or anything else. I envy them, to be honest.

So, that’s where this comes in.

I shaved day before yesterday. That means I’m on day 2. Goal? 7 days. I plan to go 7 days without touching my razor. We have the Dollar Shave Club subscription, which is amazing. It’s affordable, convenient, and the razors are the best quality. Even so, shaving is time consuming, and I want to be over this aversion to body hair.

Feel free to join me ladies. We got this.




What is EMDR?

EMDR (Eye Movement Desensitization and Reprocessing) is a psychotherapy that enables people to heal from the symptoms and emotional distress that are the result of disturbing life experiences.

Before my diagnosis of PTSD, I had never heard of EMDR. My then therapist felt it would work well for me, and I was eager to try it. I was hoping it was the answer I’d been searching for. She explained that it would get worse before things got better, and I understood that. It would get worse either way, right?

We moved before we could begin, and I am in the process of getting a referral for a therapist. Because that’s how things are done with TriCare. I need a referral from my doctor, then the therapist needs to contact me to get an appointment. Kinda blows when I’m terrified of answering the damn phone.


Knowing that this time of year, on top of the need for such things, that it may be a bit before things get into play (and that I have to go through the anxiety of a new therapist, etc, etc…), I googled it. I googled ‘at home EMDR’. Out of curiosity.

I was honestly surprised with how much came up. I skimmed it mainly for now, before I delve into what people have written. I save a video, in case I find it’s something I’d like to try.

Have any of you ever done EMDR? Either with a therapist, or at home? If you have, what were your experiences like? Positive, or negative? I’d like to hear from y’all!



An Open Letter to my Abuser’s New Family

Dear new family of his,

I’ve been thinking of writing this for months. Words tumbled in my mind over what I could possibly say. What words could even begin to encompass the feelings and thoughts that I wish to convey. And, honestly, I’m still not entirely sure.

I had given up on the hope of writing this. At first, this was meant to be private, sent to only his new girlfriend. At first, this was meant to be a private plea for her to save her girls from his vicious warpath.

And then, I watched a two part autobiography on Elizabeth Smart. I’m sure that you’ve heard of her. But, if you haven’t, google her. Read about her strength, and about the hell she went through. She gave me the words needed, and the courage to not hide away.

I know that you have an inkling of what he’s truly like. Don’t pretend that you don’t. Don’t pretend that you haven’t felt the fear that he’d lash out at you. Don’t pretend that you havne’t felt that shiver of dread when you hear his voice. I’m sure that you’ve also seen the side that he shows most people. The side that makes it so you don’t think people would believe you. The side that makes him seem like a great guy, and so easy going.

He’s not.

And, I believe you.

I wish I could say I simply suffered underneath the fear, the depression, and more for just 17 years years. I wish that finally getting away from him ended it. That I moved on, and let it stay in my past. The truth is, that’s not how my life went.

My 29th birthday is 2 days from now, and I’m still suffering, all these years later. His actions, his lack of compassion, and his words will haunt me for the rest of my life. I will never escape the consequences of a lifetime of knowing him.

In 2013, I was diagnosed with PTSD, something that I’d been suffering with for years, it seems. I was also diagnosed with borderline personality disorder, OCD tendencies, and severe anxiety. Fast forward, and I had a near break down. I was almost to the point of checking myself into a hospital. I went to group therapy, and had binge eating disorder added on to my ever growing list.

Every single one of them can be tied back to him. His voice echoes in my head to this day.

I had my potential stolen from me. I had my life taken. I had my dreams dashed before I even knew what I’d be missing. I wanted to go to Duke University. Instead, I dropped out of high school. I wanted to live a full, fun, outgoing life. Instead, I’m terrified of going out, I’ve never been to a club, I’ve never done things that most people my age have. I missed out on so much happiness because of him.

“You haven’t seen him in almost 12 years, move on.” Oh, I wish I could. I wish I could move on. You have no idea what that would mean to me. When you are raised around someone who devalues everything about you, who is controlling, vile, cruel, and is there all the time? That’s your inner voice.

There’s the nightmares.

There’s the medication to be able to function.

There’s the fear of crying in front of people.

There’s the anger that comes with the memories.

There’s the mourning for a life you never had the chance to live.

There’s the mourning for your dreams.

There’s the lost hope.

There’s the lost faith.

There’s the lack of trust.

You still have a chance, I hope. You still have the chance to get far, far away from him. There’s hope for the innocent lives that he touches. I barely survived to this point, and it’s only a matter of time until he’s responsible for someone’s death. Either by murder, or driving them to suicide.

He has shaped every aspect of my life, and some days I don’t know why I bother trying to reshape it. It’s so hard. It’s incredibly difficult, and painful to try to fight the memories, to try to make it through the day. When the main thing you feel is pain, you wonder what the point is.

My kids push me through.

Save yours from a fate that I wouldn’t wish on anyone. Save them from years of pain. Save them from years of self-loathing, from possibly bad coping skills, from searching for the acceptance they’d crave.

Stand up to him, and show him he isn’t the all mighty lord he sees himself as.

Show him that people are willing to put a stop to his abuse.

I used to pray to a God I no longer believe in that a heart attack would kill him. Clearly, I never got my wish. So, give me this. Don’t let anyone else suffer because of him.

Don’t let Robert win.




I haven’t been writing here. I really haven’t felt the drive to. I get lucky now and then and write my fics, but I feel sapped of even that energy right now.

It’s one of them days. I felt my anger hit, and my annoyance skyrocket. The need to cry, and scream, and punch something…for no reason. I have no reason to be having one of my bad days. Yet, here I am. Longing for bed time so I can crawl into bed.

It’s another day of hopelessness and wondering why. Another day of feeling like I’ve done nothing in my 28 years of life besides cause pain, and fail at everything.

Any drive I’ve felt for anything is gone.

Oh, I know it’ll be back. Whether that’s tonight, tomorrow, or fucking next week- I don’t know, and I honestly don’t care.

I have so much anger bottled up, wanting to fucking explode, but no outlet.

I just want shit to stop. I want the memories to fade. I want the short ass temper to chill.

I’m just not that lucky.


I Make Them Uncomfortable

Untitled collage

The rule of them when speaking about mental illness is simple. You don’t. You keep your mouth shut, slap on a smile, and deal with it behind closed doors.

It makes them uncomfortable. It’s hush hush. They like to pretend that it doesn’t exist.

I make them uncomfortable. Because I’m not quiet. I speak up, and I make it loud. I let the ugly monster show it’s face. I don’t play nice. I don’t put on a fake smile as much any more. I talk about what people want to pretend doesn’t exist. I show them we aren’t what they show on television. I show them that we could be anyone you care about.

Sure, they want us to get help. They want us better. That’s what they like to hear about. They like to hear about how Susan down the street with a rich husband was able to take a nice little getaway for her mental health. They like to hear about the hot guy two cubicles down talk about how jogging helped his depression.

Guess what- we aren’t all Susan. We aren’t all some hot guy at work. It gets ugly. It gets painful. You can’t pretend to want us to get help if you won’t support is.

It’s a lonely road because of our forced silence.

I quit that silence, and people don’t like that. People don’t like to hear that I had a breakdown. People don’t like to hear about how I had a panic attack. People don’t like to hear about how I had a binge last night, and nearly threw up. People don’t want to see the truth.

They want easy. They want the other side of the rainbow without dealing with getting there.

You can’t have it both ways.

I’m an addict. I’ll stand up and say it whether you think that’s a “very personal topic” and “needs to be discussed discreetly”. Well, you can fuck right off there, you neurotypical bitch. Addicts are less likely to get help for this reason. We’re less likely to say we’ve relapsed, or that it’s a rough day and we need, oh, I don’t know? Fucking support??

I suffer (yes, fucking suffer) from more than one mental illness. I won’t fake it like your wife there, pretty boy, because “that’s unladylike” or something. I won’t hide behind closed doors while breaking down alone because society is so damn selfish and lacking in empathy they’re uncomfortable with the concept that sometimes a pill and talking doesn’t cut it.

There’s something I noticed lately. The more I posted about recovery in any way- the less people interacted with me. The more I posted information about things that effect my life in a massive way- the less involved they were in my life.

Smile, don’t be depressed. Do yoga. Exercise. Go jogging. Paint.

But god fucking forbid you talk. God fucking forbid you work on erasing the very dangerous stigma around mental illnesses. Because that would make people come out of their little bubble of ignorance. And they like that bliss.

Pop, mother fucker.


About Me, Life

Having BPD and (not so) last friendships

I know, I know.

I’ve been MIA. I suck. It happens.

Basic updates: Been at damn near rock bottom, had a relapse, was in a crazy good mood, crashed, burned, and now I’m somewhere in limbo.

When I was a kid, I had 3 solid friends I’d see all the time outside of school. My best friends. Who were always there. Brandy, Danny, and Josh. Then I had a ton at school that I’d see all the time. I thought that would always be the case. I was so very wrong.

5th grade was when life pretty much went to hell. I had some friends, but they were conditional. Something I didn’t realize at the time. Now, I’m not claiming that you should stay friends with volatile people. I, however dark, was not. I try to be a good friend, even when I know I’m being a shitty person.

People talk about turnovers at fast food places. Mine’s worse. I get attached quickly, which I know is a BPD thing. Which, I hate saying. People say don’t make excuses. I’m not. I’m making a statement.

If I were to say something is because of my mental illness, I’m making excuses.

If anyone else were, they’re making a claim. It’s okay for them to do, but not okay for me.

I know I’m a bit fucked. There’s no getting around that. I know that I have my issues. I know that I’m not everyone’s cup of tea. I know that not everyone will stick around. But, what happens when no one sticks around?

There’s so many things that go through my head when it comes to friendship. And it always lands on the same one.

“One day this person will walk away, and I’ll see the second it starts.” It’s a pattern that I loathe. And I’m helpless to stop it. I try so hard to cling to someone, to hold them close.

Then? Then the switch is hit. Fuck them. Fuck them for walking away. And it’s in that moment I go from being heartbroken over the loss of someone I loved so deeply…to wishing I had never met them.

People wonder why when they start talking to me, I’m reserved. And I keep a wall up. I know they’re only passing through. I know that within 2 years time if I’m lucky, they’ll be gone. I’ll just be another bad memory.

And when those times happen when I tell them I understand when they walk away, that I can’t even stand myself, and they tell me they aren’t going anywhere, that I break. I fight that urge to believe them, and fail. Everyone leaves. I get that. And I try to remind myself to not get so attached.

And then I do. My therapist is in awe that I’ve been with my husband 9 years. He’s impressed.

While that may be impressive, not knowing how to be a friend isn’t. Not knowing boundaries, not knowing how to not get attached, how to not make them push you away…that’s just sad.

Seeing names of people that were once so caring, that barely even bother with you hurts.

I don’t think people can ever understand the impact that friendship has on me. Both the hope that maybe the one has walked into my life that won’t walk out. And the fear for the day they do.