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.


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.

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.

The Pretty Blue Bows

Every now and then
I miss the lull
and low buzzing of a good high.
What a thrill after you
plug it into your arm.
Liquid lightening climbing
through the empty spaces of

All those spaces that mommy
dearest left deserted
void, cut up
like coupons in the garbage.
And father wasn’t much
help at all
taking it away himself
with a heavy load.

That incipient surge
that belts out,
all the while
making the eyes tumble
staring off into
the tiny cranial stars
making up
tiny cranial constellations.

Of course I couldn’t
slip the steel into my
own arm at first.
He would tie such beautiful
that would make girl scouts
wet themselves.

Pretty rubber blue bows.

I was kneeling on the
bathroom floor,
bending over like a virgin.
Spreading my legs out
and panting out loud.
I couldn’t tie a pretty blue bow
but a decent one I did.
Minutes carried on and
I heard the child within myself
before I got the guts
to inject it.

I guess it does make me
feel a little bit sad now.

my hands were wet and
I didn’t know what the fuck
I was doing
but knew what would happen
if I wasn’t doing it.
In it went and off I went
into this land where I
drool on the outside
but blissfully float internally.

Anyone that tells you that
drugs aren’t worth it
has never ridden the heroin dragon
over snowy peaks of china white.
And how lovely you become,
about thirty pounds lighter
than August,
eyes about five shades darker,
lips beautifully cracked, bleeding,

I am the Reverend
of my own ritual.
Delivering the wine into
my thirsty throat,
but the bread never comes.
I just kneel at the pew
and worship.
Prayer makes to forget .
Prayer is better than sleep.
The more saturated I become
the cleaner I become.

It takes away the sin.

I forget how I’ve been
torn apart limb by limb.
I forget the men that came by
the apartment to see me hazy-eyed,
propped up in a cheerleader’s
I forget how he said to smile
and they exchanged money.
above the bed.

Here I go… nodding off.
Prayer is better than…

I forget how old he was
when he sat me on his lap and
pulled my hair back,
pushing into my prepubescence.
I forget how they all denied it
when I came crawling
out for help,
still raw.

Sometimes when I’m praying
I begin to feel that
I am more beautiful
when I am soggy with poison
and bruised from a grip
and broken into.

But then I begin to remember
when all of the fairy dust wears off.

Sunshine- Todd Snider- on a Suicide Attempt


Standing on out on the

Edge of the building

Watching the traffic below

Drinking a beer and thinking of jumping

Not far from ready to go

Below me the crowd

Slowing gathers around

Cops cars with news cameras too

I just can’t get out of this pain I’m in

And I don’t know what else to do

Sometimes i feel like

I’m so uninvited

Like something so out of touch

They tell me depression

Runs in the family

Well, that doesn’t help me much

The crowds yelling “jump”

Over a cop on a bullhorn

Making them harder to hear

He’s saying something about

Having so much to live for

I’m almost threw with my beer


Squinting my eyes to

See through the sunlight

The crows even bigger now

There’s no point in wondering

What afterlife’s like

It don’t matter anyhow

We’re already in hell

As far as I can tell

Just listen to these people scream

This feels like a rally

In a high school field house

I feel like the captain of the team

Well, here goes the captain of the team…


Follow the light to the Garden of Eden

You stand at the pearly gates

Saint Peter comes over

His hand on my shoulder

He’s telling me I got away

He says, “You know you can’t kill yourself

And still get in here kid. But you look like

A victim of circumstance

So I’m just gonna break every bone in your

Body and give you another chance”

Waking up slowly

Looking around me, alone in a recovery room

But closing my eyes

I can see the new sunrise

Over acres of flowers in bloom

I don’t know when it will be

But the next time you see me

I’ll be tapping to a whole new beat

Walking souls in to the holes of my shoes

Down the sunny side of the street



Suicidality Isn’t Normal

Last thought for the day…

While I was browsing articles last night such as “How to Convince Yourself Not to Commit Suicide,” I came across a very interesting point. It kind of blew my mind.

“Wanting to kill yourself is not normal. It may feel normal because you have lived with the ideality for so long. But it is not normal.”

What? You mean everyone else around me isn’t constantly thinking about how’d they off themselves? This isn’t NORMAL?!

Is it just me? This seriously shocked me.

Broken Jewelry 

Two skulls flew off from my wrist, bouncing on the tile next to my feet.
The urine drained from my body as I sat and wondered about how
I could go about polishing the little snake vertebrae.
When I was good and empty, I stood up to the mirror.
There in front of me was a collection of thoughts, a museum of nerves.
My arms were finely marked with two-day-old sister cuts.
Outside the door there were people doing things with their hands; laughing over their glasses, smiling about false memories.
In front of me was flesh propped up on two legs- too thick, too sad and too ugly for the people outside to see.
I stuck my fingers down to meet the place between my legs and I painted a smile on my face with my red ink.
I became a smiling woman of 24 with bright cherry lipstick, which I called “Raging Bitch.”
I placed the skulls into my pocket, I wiped the blood from my face, I left the place thinking of resin and teeth.


I feel helpless. I am overwhelmed. I am exhausted and I don’t want to deal with anything right now.


Last night I visited my former college- apparently. I woke up and thought I had dreamed the entire night. No… I- or someone- actually went. I climbed the building that I almost jumped off of 6 years ago and I went to the place where I was raped. The campus felt like home in a strange way… familiar. I hadn’t stepped on the grounds since 2010. I think to myself that I should be over it. Why the fuck aren’t I over it? Haven’t I ruminated about the incidents enough to where it should be kicked out of my system?

I’m frustrated. I don’t know how to talk to anyone, which sounds silly. I can feel myself closing up. I don’t know how to talk about what’s going on in my head.

Ramble, ramble, ramble.

I’m angry. I’m upset with my family, with men, I’m upset that my childhood is a collage of trauma. I feel like I’m losing my grip on everything. A very big part of me wants so badly to take another leave and go back to the hospital, or intensive therapy to get through this. The waves of suicidality are intense. When the pain comes around, it is nearly unbearable. I’m losing time, losing memory. Don’t get me wrong, I have good days and moments. But when the bad ones come, fuck.

I know it’s entirely my fault, but I’m slacking on work again. My life, it’s just a whirlwind of unorganized particles drowning me.

It gets so fucking loud. Voices, constantly.

I am surrounded with functioning people and it only makes me feel lonelier, more inadequate, and isolated. I don’t care anymore to hear about trivial things or problems at work. I want someone to notice and validate that I feel really fucking sick. Oh, you had a shitty night because someone didn’t snapchat you? I’m sorry…. that’s really rough. FUCK.

I want to curl up tightly beneath the sheets and just be HELD. I want to be enveloped without worrying about eating, or being awake. I need to break down and reset.

I really, really want to get on a leave again. I don’t think I can. But I feel the ground shaking again. My stability is being threatened. I have been feeling really young and it’s not Senka, it’s not Dee.

So there, there I said it. I unloaded a bit of what’s going on through my head.

I am exhausted. I HATE not remembering things. I HATE knowing that I’m dissociating with little to no recollection of what I’m up to. I hate it. It’s either I deal with my shit now, or I continue to push it under the rug and self-medicate with opiates and alcohol and starvation. Both are hell.



I had a dream last night about my father’s funeral.
It is a luminous day, much like the Easter Sundays
from my childhood memories.
Dozens of white chairs cover the grave-lawn.
Black veils cascade themselves down the women’s faces-
swaying dolefully back and forth with
the delicate push of broken breaths.

Outside of the mausoleum, my uncle is ready
to read the letter to his brother.
He is wearing a familiar black suit and smells like after-shave.
It’s windy outside, so I offer to hold the booklet of dedications.
He tells me, “I’ll need your help to get through this.”
I touch his shoulder and inch closer to him.
My uncle begins to read.
His voice is loud and strong.
The family is standing around him.
As I flip the page, I look outward to the crowd of people
and stare in amazement at all of them that came.

My uncle’s voice weakens.
I notice that he cannot continue.
I bring the booklet to my eyes and read the
remaining dedications to my father.
(I am wearing a black dress that would have made him proud
of his beautiful, grown-up daughter.)
I realize that I am just reading words on a sheet.
They are dry, mechanical, forced.
I look towards the casket and feel alone.
Was he even listening now?
Who were all of these people?

When I was a child,
my grandparents and I would visit his grave
every Sunday. I would sit by the olive tree with my
children’s book of poetry and read out loud
to my father all of my favorite excerpts.
I felt him sitting next to me, separated
only by a thin film of dimension.
I’d tell him all about school, my dogs, my
first lost tooth, how I was scared to ride my bike,
how I wanted to play catch with him.
I’d ask him for advice and hold my breath to
see if I could hear him faintly whispering back to me.
And even though I had never heard his voice,
I knew he was there, screaming, trying.

Now, in this dream, I stood by his casket.
The shell was empty. He was gone.

Slowly, one by one, the family disappeared.
I was left with an empty casket.


6 Small Lines Worth of an Update

Rough couple of weeks.

Break up
Self harm
Bridge visits
Lost time


Now I am finding some solid ground to set my feet on to.

In other news, I shall turn this pain into art.

I drink alone
at this malfunctioning

as the shadows assume
I fight the slow

my once-promise

lighting more cigarettes
pouring new

it has been a beautiful