Question for My Readers: SAMe to Treat Depression?

Good morning fellow bloggers!

Has anyone here tried SAMe to treat severe depression? Also, are there any women here that have used it to treat PMDD? If you have, how did it help you? How long did it take for you to feel the effects?

A few friends of mine have been promoting SAMe for depression. I have found a lot of success stories on forums since beginning to research it a couple of nights ago. I’m looking for personal stories on here. I’m willing to test drive it…. I need to alleviate this sludge of depression before it gets worse.

Thanks in advance!


DID- a Personal Interview

I’ve been wanting to write an update, but every time I sit at my keyboard, I lose focus and have no idea where to start.

I’m okay. Things are better. I’m more stable. I have a new psychiatrist. I have a new scrip for Buspirone. My mom is talking to me. I haven’t been feeling the need to swallow a bunch of pills to kill myself. Work is going well. My social life is going well. The system is okay- though we are working through something at the moment.

Everything is okay.

I didn’t want to just leave a paragraph update, so I decided to post an interview regarding DID  that I recently did (which the article itself will hopefully be published within the next couple months!).



California, USA

What’s your current profession?
I currently work in HR. When I’m not bustling around the office floors, I’m writing. I recently published my first book ever! It’s called, Solipsist, and it is a collection of confessional poetry that I’ve been writing during my journey in therapy. (Self promoting! It’s available on Amazon and on Kindle!)

When were you diagnosed with DID? What was your journey up to your diagnosis like?
I was diagnosed in the early summer of 2015. Before that, I had been diagnosed with both Bipolar I when I was 16 and Schizoaffective Disorder when I was 22. I struggled a lot with the latter. I had checked myself in to outpatient services once I was hearing malicious voices. It was really intense, frightening, and confusing. I didn’t know what was wrong with me and the misdiagnoses of SAD really set me back a little bit. It was difficult.

When did your different alters start to develop?
This is a tricky question. I suppose they really began developing around 4-5 years of age. My first alter, I suppose you could call her, was Allie. She’s been my best friend ever since. I’ve been told by friends that even in high school sometimes I would act oddly, or would even introduce myself by a different name.

How many alters do you have in your system? Can you tell me about about each different alter and their character traits?
So far, I’ve come to know 6 main alters. However, I know there are at least 3 more and a possible co-host.

Victoria is 24 and loves to write. She’s the host, typically.

Allie is a southern belle. She manages the system and works time out for everyone. If someone has an issue within the system, she is the go-to.

Goldie, or Marigold, is my protector. She’s from New Jersey, she’s tough, and she absolutely has no problem telling someone how we really feel.

Senka is 5. She’s sweet, loves dinosaurs, and likes to color.

Dee is 16, although I think she may age-slide. She’s a typical teenager and enjoys a good party.

Rogue has no identified age. She was angry abusive, and hypersexual. Now through therapy she seems to just bob around in the background.

Those are the 6. The others are:

Citizen, who is quiet and observant.

Lucy Lovelace, who is a more recently realized alter and I don’t have much information on her as of yet. I know that she was “born” in a mental institution.She has been taking on co-host responsibilities and traits.

Celia. She’s what I call the “emotional accountant” of the system.

How does Marigold protect all of you?
Goldie possesses the quality that I wish I always had: She doesn’t take abuse from anyone or anything. If something hurts the system, she’s usually the first to come out. To anyone who has met her, she’s been described as a little “rough around the edges” due to her brutal honesty. However, she is loving. She offers advice to me when I need it, even if I don’t want it.

How often can you switch between alters? Are you aware of what’s happening during a switch or when you’re a different alter?
To be honest, I don’t know how often it happens. 99% of the time, I don’t think I’m aware. I don’t feel that I even switch. Sometimes, I just feel fuzzy and my eyesight starts to shift. My girlfriend is usually the one to let me know, “so-and-so just came out.” Besides her telling me, I don’t know. However, there are times when they are louder, and there are times that I feel that I may be co-fronting, but I still don’t have any way to confirm that that means I’m switching.

Can you tell me a bit more about your day-to-day life is like?
I wake up, sometimes I’ll have a morning “meeting” with everyone depending on how we’re feeling. I’ll drive to work and Goldie typically drives with me. Every now and then Senka will be in the backseat. I work a full-job. I’d be lying to you if I said it’s not stressful because there have been moments where I’ve switched at work. Senka came out once that I know of- imagine working at your desk and then all of a sudden there’s a 5-year-old and no one knows what to do with you!

When I get home, I like to write. I blog. It’s therapy for me. I’ll spend time with my cat, Rita. I’ll play guitar sometimes. Then, bedtime!

Everyday is so different, but this is basically what it looks like.

When and why did you start vlogging and blogging about living with DID?
I started blogging a little over a year ago. I didn’t begin my blog focusing on DID. I had been battling depression for years, as well as drug addiction and rehabilitating from suicide attempts. My blog was created with the sole intention of helping other people by sharing my story. Then of course, as time went on and therapy opened up my trauma, I decided to spread awareness about DID.

The vlog came about 6 months after.

What are your ambitions for the future?
I have two goals:

1) I want to spread awareness, not just about DID, but about mental health and specifically the stigma against suicide. I’m astonished at the lack of information on the topic of DID and I would LOVE to educate people!

2) I want to continue writing and publish my autobiography.

What are the positive aspects to having DID, is it comforting to have the company of your alters?
Even though it’s scary and painful, my alters have shown me so much about myself, my past, and what I am truly capable of as a survivor. There’s not one boring day with all of us. When I’m really depressed and feeling lost, Allie is there by my side, ready to comfort me. When I feel threatened, Goldie protects me. There are a lot of positive aspects.

How did it feel to be finally diagnosed with DID in 2015? Did you feel a sense of relief or elucidation about yourself after your diagnosis?
I had mixed emotions about it. I think I had just been getting used to accepting Schizoaffective as my diagnoses and I didn’t know what to do with myself. I didn’t do any research at first. Then, slowly after working with my therapist, I realized that DID was not a fluke in brain chemistry; rather it is an adaptive and coping disorder. This is when the relief set in, because I knew there could be an “end result.” Integration. I began delving into books and forums. I picked up the DSM-V for the first time. I was so incredibly surprised to see how textbook my case was! There was definitely a sense of relief. I finally feel confident in the accuracy of my diagnoses.

I think you made a really moving point about how your alters have helped you survive trauma in your life and you hate to call DID a disorder. Can you tell me a bit more about this and describe how your alters have helped you?
I had coined this term in my blog when I first began writing- Glitter Rainbow Imagination, in lieu of the word disorder. I feel that “disorder” implies something that you want to get rid of, something negative and that is harmful to your psyche. My experience is quite the contrary! I had suffered through a lot of abuse, both verbally and physically. If I hadn’t have split, I promise you I would not be here today. Some of my alters, specifically Rogue, carry a lot of intense trauma.

I suppose if you look at it for a more psychological viewpoint, each of my alters are kind of like a filing drawer, and I’m the cabinet itself. Each drawer contains information and memories that are unique to that drawer. My brain has compartmentalized my childhood up until now. Through therapy, I am learning how to unlock the drawers safely, how to read through the files and accept the information.


What happened when Senka came out at work and did your work colleagues realise what was happening?
I don’t think anyone really noticed except for one co-worker. At the time, my girlfriend was working at the same office and Senka asked for her. So, the receptionist called her and my girlfriend took Senka for a drive. I don’t think she’s been out since then; she knows she’s not allowed to be out at work.

What sort of things do you discuss with your alters at your morning meetings?
We do a quick “scan” of how everyone is feeling usually. More recently, we discuss if anyone needs to take over for a while. For example, Goldie likes to drive in the morning and smoke a cigarette. Sometimes Senka wants to color after work. It all depends.

Do you have to buy or do certain things to accommodate all your different alters? e.g do you buy toys for Senka or different clothes for your some alters?
Senka definitely has a lot of stuffed animals. She loves dragons and dinosaurs so we have plenty of those! I wouldn’t say that the alters have different clothes- however, when we go shopping, they will come forward and give their opinions on what we should buy, or not buy. So, you can imagine how indecisive I could be!

What’s the most common misconception about DID?
Well, first of all, I find that the majority of the population doesn’t even know the term DID. They know Multiple Personality Disorder. Unfortunately, the extent of their exposure to MPD/DID is what they’ve seen on screen- i.e Sybil, United States of Tara, etc.

The common misconception is there are wild switches and that’s it. One day you’re Jane, the next you’re Rachel. At least in my own experience, it’s not like this. Sure, I switch sometimes. But there is SO MUCH MORE to it than that. It’s complex, it’s painful, there are so many layers. DID is not a little thing to work through. Honestly, I believe I’ll be working on it for the rest of my life.


Published and Promoting! Plus, a Prize Contest!!!!

Solipsism: (noun) The belief that all reality is just one’s own imagining of reality, and that one’s self is the only thing that exists. 1871, coined from Latin solus, “alone”

I have been published! Solipsist, my collection of confessional poetry, is now available on Amazon and Kindle!


I will be sending out thank you gifts to randomly selected WordPressers who share my book on their blog! Please be sure to link so I can include you in the prize selection! I will be sending the gifts on Friday, January 8th, so please make sure you share and link my blog before then!***

For those of you that don’t follow this blog, in 2010, I hit rock bottom. After struggling with crippling depression throughout my adolescence and heavy drug addiction, I attempted suicide. Thankfully, it wasn’t my time to leave. It has been an uphill battle towards recovery ever since. Every day I needed to make a conscious decision to hang on and get better. Slowly, with the love and support from my family and friends, I began to rehabilitate spiritually, emotionally, and physically. I am very grateful to say that I have been sober (and plan to be!) from the drug that had nearly destroyed me.

Through my arduous recovery process, I had turned to writing for healing. These poems that I have published in Solipsist were deliberately handpicked, as each one was written during a crucial point in my therapy. They are raw, unfiltered. I understand that some of them can be hard to read. They are difficult to share.

So, why open up to the world? Unfortunately, suicide is such a stigmatized topic in our society, along with mental health. I painfully remember not wanting to reach out for help for this very specific reason. All too often, people who are struggling with the above mentioned are labeled as “weak” and “attention seeking.” Then, when someone we love takes their own life, we wonder why we never saw the signs.

I lived through my experiences and I know that my purpose is to spread awareness. If I am able to save one life, my purpose is fulfilled.
That being said, I am VERY excited about my first published book. I am inviting you all to share this moment with me!


In dedication to:

American Foundation of Suicide Prevention

The Trevor Project- providing crisis intervention and suicide prevention services to lesbian, gay, bisexual, transgender and questioning (LGBTQ) young people ages 13-24.

RAINN- Rape, Abuse, & Incest National Network
Thank you all in advance!!

Ceramics: How to Piece it Back Together

It was a rather dangerous few days the past week, mentally speaking. I felt MUCH better yesterday, and feel entirely more put back together today.

Everything is quite jumbled in my head regarding what the hell was happening in my brain. At some point, I had taken a razor to my skin again. I remember crying a LOT. I slept beneath blankets, clutching my dinosaur, Chompers (my girlfriend endearingly nicknamed him Charles Buchompskis, and I think it’s fitting), and staring vacantly into the bedroom wall in front of me. I found myself lurched into a research project of how I could possibly end it all. There were moments where I would “wake up” in my car, shaking and crying from hearing voices. Something was dying inside of me and it was imploding.

Depression, a break down, what have you. The point is, it was a fight for my life, in a way. It seems dramatic, yes.

On Saturday, I went to therapy with my girlfriend. She expressed (again) that she wants to know how I’m feeling, or if something is going on. I seem to have forgotten this. It made me feel instantly better being reminded of how supportive she is. And protective. I also made a reminder for myself to make an appointment to get on birth control… I also tend to forget that I was diagnosed with PMDD about 3 years ago, so a quick fix for my intense mood swings can be as simple as a little pill. Sorry, babe. Here’s to better months..

Sunday morning, we went out to breakfast. It was BEAUTIFUL outside.  The entire day was cold, rainy here and there, and the clouds were large and white. I felt as if I had just come out of the rehab center. It’s hard for me to articulate what I’m going through as I’m going through it. All I know, usually, is I don’t know who I am, where the feelings are coming from, but I want to die. It’s awful. I don’t wish it upon anyone.

Anyways, after breakfast, we stopped by her parents’ house to pick up a few things. She led me upstairs to her grandmother’s room. Aligned across the walls where pictures of her as a child: wide-eyed, dimpled and adorable. We sat on the floor as she carefully opened a box full of ceramic pieces she had made. I think she assumes she has no talent, but I was greatly impressed as she pulled each piece, one by one. Her eyes beamed with a hidden pride and enjoyment while she explained the process of making them. Each bowl, cup, pitcher, all seemed to sum her up in some way. As some of my poetry paints me as I am, so did her pottery. I loved each second of it. I began to cry. I love to see her like this: happy and nostalgic of a time in her life that she valued so much.

As I ran my eyes over her childhood, my heart swelled at the thought of her letting me deeper into her past- allowing me to experience her. In moments like these, I fall more in love with her than I thought possible.  My girlfriend is beautiful. I’m already in love with her eyes, her nose, her lips- all the things in which lovers find divine in the other. Then, slowly, she unwraps herself with new, incredible truths and stories and I fall even more in love with that. It happens all the time. I am very fortunate, especially as a writer, to have such a mysterious and wild creature sleeping next to me at night. Even the way she sleeps makes me happy.

So, I reveled in this dopaminetic state for quite a while. A few hours later, I met up with cast members from the play to run some of our lines. My girlfriend helped us stay on book. We ended up at Denny’s, drinking iced teas and hot chocolates, burning the midnight oil at 7 pm, putting in our efforts at memorizing. We did well. Rehearsal tonight.

Finally, the day came to an end. On the drive to her house, I noticed orbs of shadows and people in my peripherals. I drove a little bit faster than usual to make sure I could make it home. It felt as if a flashback was coming on.

I found myself on the edge of her bed. I think she was brushing her teeth. She walked into the room, asked me what was wrong. At first I said nothing. Then, I told her it was loud. She held my head in her hands and told me it was okay. And it was. I fell asleep next to her, despite the weaving of the voices, and I was happy at this. When I had begun to suffer from daily hallucinations and break downs just a year ago, she was always there, walking me through it.

I fell asleep, content with her comfort and the knowledge that everything would be okay by morning. And it was.

Suicide Bridge

On Friday, I found myself driving to the Colorado Street bridge- otherwise known as “Suicide Bridge.” I don’t know what exactly prompted my flight, but I had a panic attack at work and got into my car. I didn’t plan on going to the bridge; I just somehow ended up there. Once I parked the car, I was somehow comforted by the view, despite my fear of bridges.

It was cool out. The wind was crisp against my skin, but the sun felt warm. As I walked to the pedestrian entranced, I was greeted by this sign:

I was overwhelmed by some communal feeling. I kept walking, tears in my eyes, lump in my throat. As I walked, I peered over the edge, quietly talking to those that had taken the plunge years, months, weeks, days before me.

Lined along the fencing were yellow ribbons for suicide awareness.

I was feeling better, somehow. I had cried it out. I walked beside the fencing and began to tie the loose ribbons into bows. A man walked by me and asked me what I was tying. I told him.

Then, I went back to work, as if nothing had happened. I came back to my desk, clocked in. Moments before I was towering over concrete, purging my heart in the car. No one would ever know.

I Keep Listening to Trent Reznor

I wish I could give a straight answer.. when she asks me, “What’s wrong?”… I wish I could be certain and say I’m just feeling depressed, or angry, or moody- any definitive answer would be great. It’s frustrating for her. It’s frustrating for me.

I feel like a broken record.

The closest feeling I can think of is empty. My handy thesaurus spits these synonyms out: cold, devoid, hollow, uninhabited, vacant, deflated, depleted, exhausted.

I keep drumming it up to the simple med change I’ve had. Maybe that’s it. It’s not ALL day, either. I feel okay most of the time. Sure, I have moments of wanting to take a pair of scissors to wrist, wanting to jump off of a building, that sort of thing. Fleeting feelings of which I will take no action upon.

Although, the paramedics that came to my aid last night seemed slightly convinced otherwise; they offered several times to drive me over to the hospital for an evaluation. I told them I was fine. I just had a panic attack. No big deal. I passed out and dissociated for a second. No big deal.

I have them quasi-frequently now. No big deal. I had a flashback the other morning of being pulled into a van, forced to go down on some guy. I kept hearing him say, “What did you do? What did you do?” over and over, because I bit down on him. Hard. No big deal.

And remember when I found my best friend in his back house when he tried to hang himself? We were in 8th grade. We’d walk to school together. He lives on the other side of the tracks, literally…. flashbacks.

No big deal.

As long as I keep myself cool, calm, and collected, I can handle anything that pops my way.

Goldie told me that it’s time for me to accept help again from everyone else. I did a fantastic job steering us away from immediate danger after his suicide, but now, I need to take a breath. Let the medication do it’s thing. Go to therapy. Accept help.

I’m having trouble asking for help. Since the very beginning of this month, I handled everything and made it through with minimal assistance. Now I’m experiencing a slight turbulence in regards to anxiety. But, I can do it.

I’m okay. I’m sorry I don’t have any straight answers… I have just felt floopered every now and then. I’m OKAY though. Everything is okay.

Usually, when I feel like this, I want to curl up and be held. Human contact, affection, warmth, love, familiarity. Right now, I want to crawl beneath the earth and bury myself. Do you see my predicament? I feel FINE. I’m not depressed. Yet, I want to simply disappear.

Maybe I just feel angry? Slightly hostile? Angry at what, I’m not entirely sure. Well, fuck, maybe that’s the emotion. I would love to punch something really hard.

It is kind of “that time of the month” as well. My hormones are just all jumbled up. No big deal.

Fuck it, scratch everything I just said. I’m totally okay.

I Got Married, Again

And thank God for medication.

I was spinning through that same thick, depressed depersonalization. I clutched a small little tablet of Ativan (we have a love/hate relationship, this pill), and about an hour later, I felt so much better. I felt a helluva lot better actually. Not to mention that I FINALLY slept like a normal human being after taking my Seroquel. I had kissed those 50 mgs and smiled with relief, ready to knock the fuck out.

Lorazepam. I left the pharmacy, got in my car, opened the paper bag and held the orange bottle. I stared at the words. Take 2 tablets twice a day as needed. October 2010, I got married to Ativan. We went to parties together, ate together, took drugs together, slept together. We even overdosed together. It was an abusive relationship, to say the least. But people change, right?

Now, as I promised my psychiatrist, things would be different.

As I held the orange bottle in my hand, I couldn’t help but laugh to myself. You fucked me over, I thought. If I promise to be good, you gotta promise to treat me right, too. It was like facing my mortal enemy after years of thinking they were dead, and there’s this weird sexual tension between us.

I feel more present, though I can’t say I totally feel like “myself.” I feel like there’s someone else resting against the back of my eyes, swinging their feet against the back of my throat.

October. I am enjoying and loathing the plethora of nostalgia seeping out of the ground.

It’s almost over.

Last night, we had a little going away gathering for my girlfriend, as she is moving on to greener pastures- a new job. We all had a great time as coworkers. I’m excited for her. Good things are coming into her life.

Tomorrow I have a therapy appointment. My insurance has changed due to open enrollment bullshit at work. We switched providers. Meaning, neither my therapist nor my new psychiatrist cover that insurance. I’m losing her. I’m just not. I literally have the BEST therapist. I’m sure I’ll figure something out.

Overall, as of right this second, I feel stable. Just not, totally me… whatever that means.

The Ghost in the Shell

Alright. I hit a bit of a manic wall over the weekend. Saturday morning, I went to the college campus to pick up my script and do a meet-and-greet of the cast. Then, I flew on over to a therapy appointment. I know that I’ve been feeling a little bit different over the past couple of weeks, but I think it became very evident in my therapy session; I felt so wildly manic that entire day. I couldn’t help but keep giggling throughout the session, especially when I would think about his suicide…

Yesterday, I took a nap with my girlfriend. We must have slept for3 or 4 hours. When I awoke, a really powerful surge of intense loneliness began to climb all over my body. I felt detached from life, as if everything was a dream. Derealization at its finest. I didn’t even feel like myself. I was watching the world through the ghost shell of me.

I wanted to be clutched and held down, afraid to float away. And as my girlfriend hugged me tightly, a small voice echoed inside, “Please, don’t let me leave again. Keep me here, keep me here.”

It’s always the same scene. It’s the movie that captures the hours before my death, or before my own suicide. These pockets of non-suspecting human interaction, the essence of life itself, slowly being stolen from me. It’s always the same scene… where I’m walking down the street, someone looks at me, doesn’t say hello… just a few hours after that pitiful lack of connection, I’d be swinging from a noose or I’d have an aneurysm and someone would be finding my body in the living room.

I know, this all sounds awful and morbid. Why would I think of such a plot? The problem is, I’m not trying to think of it at all. It just happens. And I hate it. It’s TERRIFYING. It’s almost as if I suddenly have flashbacks of deaths from my past lives and they come flooding in. The experience is very intense.

Last night was no exception. I felt paralyzed by sadness. I was scared that I would wake up from a long com, that none of this would be real.

The feeling of not being able to escape my own mind is maddening.

What’s wrong? I am unable to finish my own sentences. I begin to speak and about two other voices echo and mock my voice. My head is an acoustics gallery. It is all very loud. Are they hallucinations or just a manifestation of the DID? I’m not sure, you see, I don’t have fucking credentials in psychology. Yes, I’m hallucinating.

What’s wrong? My cynicism is growing fat and it is breathing, it is alive with a sick, gluttonous grin. A black snake is laying on my shoulders, hissing and rattling.

What IS wrong with me? I’m seeing a new psychiatrist tomorrow at noon. Perhaps it’s as simple as a med adjustment. I keep hearing someone breathing and it drives me insane, until I realize that maybe it’s my own breath…

I have moments of sheer psychotic thoughts of wanting to dig into my thighs with a cleaver. Then, I laugh. So I’m not sure what is more psychotic- the thought of origin or the humour that pours from the imagined scene?

I don’t feel like myself at ALL. Even when someone calls my name, it takes me a second to realize they are calling me. And then frustration ensues. I feel angry. I’m angry about being diagnosed with anything. I’m angry that I have alternate personalities. I think it’s fucking ridiculous. I don’t even feel that they exist anymore, or that they EVER existed. I think I’ve just been through the fucking wringer all of my fucking life so I’m just a little bit fucked up. But multiple personalities? No.

I don’t feel like my past exists. I’ve been dropped here. I’m picking up after someone’s messy attempt at thriving- or surviving for that matter.

I’m angry that I can’t seem to snap myself out of this. I’m angry that I can’t connect with people. I’m angry that I feel like I’m dreaming.

If I think hard enough about it, what I think I need is A) med adjustment B) The beach. I think that would be wonderful. I want to bundle up in sweater and go to the beach at night time to smell the sea, look at stars, and feel the cold water against my legs. Maybe then I could feel grounded.

The Church – Trigger Warning- Poetry on Incest

The plush resurrection of my veins
Comforts me. The push of a steel crucifix
has fixed my clear, white eyes.
Still, I keep ties on my wrist,
The never-minded furrows in the field of flesh.
I have gone incognito. I am a priestess of pills.
A will has been erected.
They will jot over uncrossed
T’s and double-spaced grievances.
I have been raped by daddy dearest.
My legs, thrown apart, like a tormented ragdoll’s.
My arms, tethered in fine linen, with bruises to match.
Buckles, silver buckles.
My mind has slipped and has curled itself around
Hot coals. The stench of a burning childhood lingers
And sits in our lungs. It breathes. It breathes.
It lives, as you live.
Tall man.
Tall men.
I am the pearl left to suffocate inside a rotting oyster.
A letter from Saint Paul to the Corinthians:
The virgin bleeds.
And bled I did, blood of red,
Half-decade-young mare and I bucked over
To feel you rape me again.
Ten years of loveless love.
I bite down on the matchbox, lips dry
From starvation.
The least you could have done was finish me off.
By the time you fled into the white room,
Stroked yourself into a frenzy,
I was already buried in miles and miles of sheets,
Bleeding, writhing in confusion.
I am the sinning slut.
I’ve had enough practice.
Thirteen years of growing my breasts for your
Enjoyment. Thirteen years of a wasted childhood,
All for your 15 seconds of shame.
What will it be this time?
Remember how you threw the twenty dollar bill
At the church between my legs?
You said, “Good job. Not as great as last time.”
I took the twenty dollar bill and bought myself a
Journal from the children’s section of my favorite
In my journal entries, I wrote how I wish you would
Raping me.
Then, you promised that you would start
Weaning yourself off of my scent, my taste.
I wrote one night in my diary that I was proud of you
For not using your tongue when you came to kiss me goodbye.
For this, I eat the pain-killers, the taste of bitter apathy.
For my fix, my clear, white eyes.
Strange, how I still needed to cling to your chest
Even while you destroyed my body.
I would rather imagine you loved me as you raped me,
Then realize I was just a piece of meat
For you to empty yourself into.

Autumn’s Obituary – Trigger Warning


I can only apologize for disappearing yet again from my cyber home. I’ve been jaunting and kicking around in the ever-terrifying real world. My travels this month have rendered me 5 pounds lighter, yet 5 times stronger. .

Where to begin… Since I last wrote, it was the end of September. The transition back to work was surprisingly stress-free. I was grateful to have my job back in my hands.

My girlfriend and I went through a little bit of hurricane. The hurricane (I see now) was needed. During that time, I re-visited the knowledge I already harboured that I don’t need to rely on another human being for any fulfillment and/or stability; I am my foundation. No person or situation will ever change that fact for me. That time also helped me to realize how much I do trust her and how much I enjoy having her in my life. Every relationship, every friendship, has its own suffering and celebration. So, it’s okay. All I can do is project my sincerity from a place of unconditional love. Needless to say, any shakiness and uncertainty I felt about our relationship prior to this brief moment in time has dissolved and I have stepped forward with a renewed outlook of, “I love you and I am going to treat you with the respect you deserve.” I’m much happier with her now and I feel very loved and secure.

During this time, however, real tragedy struck. One of which I am still trying to comprehend. My ex-boyfriend’s brother has taken his own life.
I’ve written several letters to him, the brother, in hopes that somewhere, somehow, he was listening to me. I have so many words, feelings, thoughts about this.
My heart imploded when I read the words, “…he has passed away….” I didn’t believe it at first. My eyes ran over the jumbled letters and shapes over and over again. I felt numb. Then the sudden rush of, “Why?! Why?! Why him?!” filtered through my bloodstream, jetting bursts of sickness throughout my body. I hadn’t known it was a suicide at the time, but below the surface, I already assumed.
What a wonderful human being. He had been my brother, my friend, even my mentor. I knew he struggled with severe depression for several years. We spent many nights on the edge of his bed talking about his past suicide attempt, his feelings of despondency, life in general. We felt comfort and familiarity within each other, as I understood him completely, vice versa. Still, I never really thought he would try again- or succeed for that matter. The sickness still pervades my thoughts when I have a moment to myself. It hurts my heart to imagine what he was feeling in the moments before. I pray often for him that he has found peace, wherever that may be.
I was in shock for the first 3 days. A friend of the family’s had given me the details of how it happened. I wish he hadn’t.
Perhaps what breaks my heart even more than him leaving us is the thought of the unimaginable grief his family is in.

This is a lot to feel.

When this happened, something within me snapped into a painful awareness. Even to this point, I don’t feel fragmented. I just feel, present.

I have been grappling for many months to feel whole, and now I do. For now, I suppose. I feel very aware, and I know that some part of me is grieving. Grief is sacred. I almost feel as if I am a wolf protecting her den. My walls have gone up, though in a healthier way. This month has been a test of strength and self-reliance. I am only allowing that which nurtures me into my space, and any other bullshit can see its way out the front door.

Although I feel “better,” now the embers of the previous two weeks are beginning to fall and settle on my shoulders. Some piceous sadness has swept over me, yet again. I’m a little bit concerned of psychosis slithering its way back into my head; I think I’ve been hallucinating. I’m continuing to be alert- or as alert as I possibly can be. I haven’t been sleeping very much, either.

I’m focusing on the good things:
I am finally back in theater at a community college. I was cast as the lead in a play! Rehearsals start in two weeks. I am VERY excited about it.
My relationship with my family has greatly improved, particularly with my cousin. He has helped me through a lot of turmoil the past few weeks.
My friends are coming back into my life, and I am making new friendships.
My girlfriend, as I am always grateful for her love, support, and ability to make me smile when I need it the most.

I need to write more.