Travel Lodges and Growing Pains

Sometimes, just sometimes, I still get that inexplicable urge to runaway to a far-off hotel room and OD on some heavy duty meds and just leave. Start over. Let myself go so that I’m not making anyone else’s life harder or my own.

Just sometimes, though.

I’m stressed out. On one hand, things are going well because I have a new job. I start in one week as a behavioral therapist in training. I’m leaving my current full-time job of 6 years and I am taking a great leap of faith. Holy shit. I’ll be working with cute little kiddos.

Things are changing. I’m turning 25 in a couple weeks and that’s also kind of stressing me out.

I want to travel. I want an intense experience and meet people, and find myself in a little bar in Mexico shooting tequila with tourists, I want to wake up before the sun somewhere in India and pray with other devotees. I know this is all very “dreamy” but still. I need to experience things.

AHHHHH I just feel so much 😥 There are so many feelings!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

This Day Last Year

It’s raining today like it was January 19th of last year when I got out of the hospital for my 5150. I couldn’t help but cry in the shower this morning, feeling overwhelmed at the changes in my life- for the better, but still. How different things are now.

This day last year, I couldn’t feel anything. I had no emotion left inside of me. I could harness no gratitude for life. I remember getting home and showering… nothing felt real to me anymore. I was only in the hospital for a few days. Maybe it was purely trauma from attempting suicide that made my brain kind of shut off.

This day last year, I was completely apathetic and empty. I was laying on my bed staring at the carpet wondering if I had actually died. The only thing I could think of doing was going to a bar and drinking; maybe then I would be able to feel. They had taken away my benzo stash. I dug around my drawers and closet looking for leftover Ativan, Hydrocodone… anything. Nothing.

This day last year, I was released back into the real world and I was scared of leaving the confinements of the hospital because I didn’t feel ready to live. (However, it was better to be out and have free will than it was to be trapped like animal, drugged and shuffled in and out of group meetings.)

This day last year, I desperately called my ex-dealer for heroin.

Everything is different now. I have a great life. My relationship(s) are going so well, they make me incredibly happy. I feel that I’m moving forward- despite my normal career anxiety, financial worry, etc. But overall, I’m safe and happy. I’m in SUCH a different place.

So, why do I feel guilty for it?

I got what I wanted, but I still sometimes feel like I don’t deserve it. I feel selfish for surviving.

Whiny Fucking Baby

I feel guilty.

I feel guilty about having a dissociative disorder because the more I think about it, the more I think that nothing THAT terrible has happened to me. So I can only conclude that I am a whiny fucking baby and I have just been unable to confront minor every day life struggles.

Is incest a normal every day life struggle?

Maybe I’ve just blown everything out of proportion. My father’s suicide, my mother running out on me, the molestation, the child pornography,  the rape in college, the suicide attempts, the drug binging.

I really don’t have anything to complain about, or be “broken by”- I made it out alive and there are others with actual, real issues. Yet, here I am, continuing to self-harm because I blame myself for my parents leaving, for my cousin sticking himself in me, for allowing myself to be raped and abused.

Whiny, selfish, dramatic, stupid, and worthless waste of space.

Polyamory for the Win

I am in love with two people, and life is pretty god damn, fucking wonderful.

I don’t have the attention span to even write a long, detailed post about this, but I wanted to share because I’m happy. I NEED to share this happiness with someone.

My girlfriend, who I’ve been with for 2 ½ beautiful years has COMPLETELY shocked me and was willing to open our relationship up.

My boyfriend is just stupid amazing. Amazing.

They’re close, too. And it’s great.

God dammit. I’m so grateful for everything right now. I’m grateful that I love these two incredible human beings and that they love me just the same. I LOVE feeling loved.

(The sex is pretty fucking intense, too. Just saying. Don’t you worry, I’ll be writing some nifty poems about that.)

I truly feel that this experience with our relationship has confirmed my belief that I am polyamorous. It is a wonderful feeling being out.

Oh- and I LOVE introducing them in public. People flip their lids. “What?! You’re dating both?! You can do that?!”

Yeah, I’m happy. What the fuck is this?


PPS- THEY ARE SO FUCKING CUTE TOO!!! All 3 of us are cute as hell together!!!! AH! I love being in love. AHHHH

New Blog, Follow Me There

I’m moving my poetry over to a new blog: Rhymes with Duck

You can find my writings here,

I’ll still update here every now and then with personal shit.

Thank you to all my readers. You’re all amazing.

Rose Cotton



hapless fledgling
unable to move
unable to make a sound,
save the minute gasps and gurgles
(which I’m sure would
make my heart swell)

I am trying to get back to you

wrapped in rose cotton
I’ve a thousand names
yet none of them deserve you

I am trying to get back to you

there in a dark room
I dream of the weight
of your frame cradled in my arms
I dream selfishly of your
gaze weaving into my eyes
knowing you are mine

I am trying to get back to you

all the while
I am waking up to you
remembering a song made
just for us
my body is tired and stretched
with new scars, new lines
but they are all for you
I am all for you

I am trying to get back to you

even so,
I am not solely fixed on
the smaller you,
but all of you
to watch over you
helplessly in love
growing into happiness
growing into a place
I never knew (I love you)

I am trying to get back to you

and never on my chest had you laid,
floating in red water
suspended in a spiraling
I have watched your
grapeblue seedy pieces
over and over
and over
washing away from
my insides

I am terrified that I may never come back to you

I am harvesting smiles of the mothers
with ten pounds
of ten fingers
and ten toes


I am no woman
I am an empty shell

The Weather is Clean

The weather is clean
as well as the linens.
The dishes are washed
and are neatly put away into
their appropriate cabinets.
Bath towels fluffed,
cuffs pressed,
silverware polished,
even the pencils are sharpened.

Silence dances through the tiles,
bouncing off of vases,
old pottery from a classroom.
The children are away
in the mountains
on a camping trip.
And fish are well fed.

The shell of a quondam woman
paces forwards
paces backwards.
Even the mirrors strain
to recognize the near-familiar
lines on her face.
The eyes have long gone.
She is dissolved into an
asomatous oblivion.

In the basin of her stomach
the pills are floating
along with scotch.
As she soliloquizes to the red bricks
of the apartment
she teeters softly.
Speaking out in choppy
French words she learned
over the course of a mental breakdown.
Pacing forwards,
pacing backwards.

The children are in the mountains.
The fish are in the aquarium.
The pencils are in the cup holder.
The spoons are in the drawer.
The bath towels are in the cupboard.
The dishes are in the cabinets.

The letter is on the nightstand.
The bottle is in the trash.
The woman is on the railing.
The woman is in the air.
The woman is on the ground.
The weather is clean
as well as the linens.

I’m Sick in the Head

I’m sick in the head, I’m sure.

I talked to my abuser this morning for about 30 minutes or so. He wanted to let me know that he’s still busy, that he can’t meet this week but maybe the next. I couldn’t help but want to pour everything out to him. I wanted to catch him up on things I’ve been up to, talking about the family, just catching up….

He told me again that he loves me. If I ever need him, he’s there for me.

It was a good conversation. I didn’t feel much- except for a weird nostalgic feeling. When we hung up, I was fine. I was thinking that it would be a bad idea to meet with him alone. But why?

I’m sick in the head for thinking that I don’t trust myself alone with him. I almost want him to touch me again. I almost want him to fuck me again so I can say, “See? See how much better I am?? See what you created??” I know as soon as I sit myself in front of his reach, I’ll be flirty. I won’t be able to help it. I am enamored with my rapist, with my childhood predator.

and I am sick for admitting this.

and admitting this is exactly what made me finally feel something. I’ve been so detached from the whole trauma. However, as soon as I realized how twisted I am for even thinking that I’d LET him fuck me, it tore at my insides. I almost started crying, but I stopped myself.

Right now I want nothing more than to ageplay… I want to fall into my little space, throw knee high socks on, have my hair brushed. I want a sippy cup, stuffies, a blanket, and Adventure Time. I want coloring books, and pillows. I want to be taken care of and NOT be fucked, or throat fucked, or abused. I want to be loved and taken care of innocently. That’s it.


The Phone Call

I spoke with my childhood abuser last night.

Out of mania, or compulsion, impulse, or maybe just the simple need for closure, I sent him a Facebook message yesterday asking him to please talk to me.

My childhood abuser is my cousin. When I was 12, I was raped and repeatedly sexually abused by this man, then 38. For years my family swept my trauma under the rug (they still do, for the most part).

Yesterday something pulled me to message him. I’ve done this before. I’ve texted him, called him, have pleaded for him to acknowledge me in my adulthood for the pain he’s caused me. He has never responded to me; until last night.

I received a phone call and I knew it was his number. My heart kind of froze. I thought for a split second about not answering it, but I did.

His voice was eerily comforting. I almost… missed him. I felt relieved to hear his familiar lowness, the scratch in his voice.

He thanked me for the message, that he’s happy I reached out. He was happy to see me at our cousin’s wedding a few weeks ago. He cares about me, he loves me. He wants to talk to me and give me that acknowledgement.

My logic told me to be cold and angry, yet I found myself asking him (as I’ve always done before), “How are you? Are you okay? How are the girls? You’re still working for the same company? Thank you for calling me… ” It seems the effects of Stockholm Syndrome were still present.

My body was shaking from the adrenaline, yet I felt nothing. There were no emotions on the surface, nor deep down. There was nothing to pull out. No anger, no fear, no sadness.

He wants to set up a time to meet with me and talk. I want that, too. I want so badly to hear from him, face to face, what he did.