By The Grace of God.





Was twenty-seven, surviving my return to Saturn.

A long vacation didn’t sound so bad.

Was full of secrets, locked up tight like Iron Mountain.

Running on empty, so out of gas…

[ ~ … ~ ]

Thought I wasn’t enough.

Found I wasn’t so tough.

Laying on the bathroom floor.

We were living on a fault line,

And I felt the fault was all mine.

Couldn’t take it anymore…

[ ~ … ~ ]

By the grace of God, there was no other way.

I picked myself back up, I knew I had to stay.

I put one foot in front of the other.

And I looked in the mirror and decided to stay.

Wasn’t gonna let love take me out that way…

[ ~ … ~ ]

I thank my sister for keeping my head above the water

when the truth was like swallowing sand.

Now every morning, there is no more mourning.

Oh I, can finally see myself again.

I know I am enough.

Possible to be loved.

It was not about me.

Now I have to rise above.

Let the Universe call the bluff.

Yeah, the truth will set you free…

[ ~ … ~ ]

That way, no.

Not in the name of love.

That way, no.

I am not giving up…

[ ~ … ~ ]

By the grace of God, I picked myself back up.

I put one foot in front of the other.

And I looked in the mirror,

and decided to stay

Wasn’t gonna let love take me out that way.

That way, no.

Music is, and always has been—a least for me–a powerful thing. There are just some songs that you hear and can only think, WHOA. Songs that stop you in your tracks, and lay you out flat. Cold. This song is one of them. I know it’s been out for years, but I only just heard it tonight, on a Spotify Playlist that I’ve been adding songs to for a while. I don’t actually remember adding this one, but once in a while I’ll add whole albums—which—without fail—I never seem to listen all the way through for some reason. It’s weird how the universe works some times. Had I heard the song 5 or 6 years ago, I probably taken it in a completely different way. It’s scary seeing how closely art imitates life sometimes. I didn’t write the lyrics, but if you changed “27” to “22” — the stark similarities alone— I probably could and might just as well have. The never-ending roller coaster of “love” and other emotions. The lying on the bathroom floor. The giving up; then choosing to live part. The struggle to accept the pain and move on and to fight to hold onto what’s yours. Figuring out and realizing your self-worth. Even the heroine sister part. It’s essentially the perfect mirror to my life. Which is kind of eerie, if you ask me. Cool and interesting…but still eerie.

[ ~ … ~ ]

I’m actually glad that I’m only just now hearing the song. It would have been completely different had I heard it before. That was a different place, a different time. I wouldn’t have been in the right frame of mind if I’d come across it before – back then. Those moments were some of the BEST and WORST of my life. They can’t be discarded. But still, I can’t forget, even though I want so badly to not remember. At 22, I didn’t have a clue. Now, at 29, I can see there’s been some changes. Now I see a lot of things that I didn’t necessarily see before. Humbling things.

[ ~ … ~ ]

When you’re standing at the banks of a major river, contemplating, it’s easier to reflect back on your life. There’s a much different perspective when you’re standing/have stood in those trenches. A better, unbiased perspective and outlook. And sometimes, that’s just what you need—a thorough look and the possibility of more. And that’s enough for me. For now. It’s a start. It’s somewhere.

[ ~ … ~ ]



There. Then Back Again.

So it’s been a busy past couple of days, what with having to pack all of my things up again and load the truck in preparation for that horrible 14-hour drive to New York. I was planning on leaving Saturday, but completely forgot about Memorial Day weekend, so to play it safe and skip the rush, I’m just going to head out early tomorrow. I’m excited to see my family and my little loveys…but that drive–ugh. And then I’m going to be making it again in a couple of weeks from now…yeah, it’s going to really suck.


Anyhow, I’ve been busy with editing audition pics for my friend’s film that I think I mentioned in one of my recent posts. Today I met up with Kelle at Centennial Park over by West End–she’s the producer–for a head-shot shoot to use for hers and my friend Allan’s production company’s website, as well as the film’s. It went pretty well, actually–in spite of the fact that Kelle wasn’t sure how she wanted them to done or what poses to do…AND that I’d never done head-shots before. It went great, though. And it was good practice for me. I mean, I worked at a photography studio so I’m used to taking portraits and close-ups and what not, but I’d never technically done any actual head-shots involving the film industry. As it turns out, I was all worried and nervous for nothing. There weren’t any problems and Kelle’s just plain awesome, so it was good. It was a fun. I admit, when I first met her at the Auditions Day 1, I was a wee bit intimidated. She does this serious look that’s kinda scary. But she’s actually really nice, not scary at all. She’d be fun to hang out with, especially considering how during the auditions she told me and this other guy in the room that she will not drink or go out clubbing with white people. She didn’t mean it in a racist context or anything. She just thinks us “white folks” do crazy @$$ crap when we’re drinking. To her credit, she’s not too far off-base. We do some pretty crazy crap…or I have, I should say. When I get back in June, I’m gonna make it a mission to get her and the rest of the crew to all go out…just for the hell of it. CMA fest will be starting around that time and seeing how this is my first CMA fest in Nashville…I want to make it memorable. With the exception of the time a bunch of us from class went out a few months ago, it’d been well over 3 years since I’d had even a drop of alcohol. Or gone out bar-hopping. Nothing like that. I’ve been really good on those fronts. I don’t even miss it, to tell you the truth…the going out, the getting drunk, the passing out in random places (like the time I passed out wasted in a snowbank–um, yeah…), the drama, the hangovers…yeah, I don’t miss any of that. But this is the CMA Fest! And everyone down here says it’s absolutely insane during the festival–and I can’t wait. So, so excited. Can you tell? 🙂


Any who…I have some good news. Alan told me today that his boss wants to hire me to do photography and some of the promotion for the International Black Film Festival that Nashville hosts downtown every year. This year’s will be held in October. I know it’s months away, but I’m excited and anxious already. In terms of my photography and work, this is a HUGE deal. It’s kind of funny actually–the direction my life has gone and how it’s going right now–seeing that I never in a million years would have expected that I’d get involved in the film industry…let alone end up liking it. Unlike Alan and a good majority of the student population here at Watkins, I have no desire for fame or recognition…or anything else. I just want to take my pictures and have as much fun as I possibly can. That’s all I want. I now have so much respect for my actor/actress friends–and actors just in general. I mean, it take a hell of a lot of confidence and talent to do what they do–to get up in front of everybody and pretend to be someone else. I wouldn’t and couldn’t do it. I’ve never been fond of public speaking–in fact I loathe it–and I definitely wouldn’t want the world knowing and watching my every move. That celebrity lifestyle–yeah, no thanks. I think I’ll just keep my insignificant, mundane little life if that’s all right.


Surprisingly–and I think its safe to say–I’m really starting to like this whole film thing. The auditions, the casting, the production–it’s all so fascinating. I’ve literally learned something new each day. And the best part is that my role in it all is actually my own craft. I get to learn, observe, and discover new nuances of the industry while doing something that I love. Photography. Even better, I get to work and do it with a pretty great group of individuals that I’m also so incredibly fortunate and grateful to be able to call them my friends.


There’s no longer any doubt in my mind that I made the right decision in moving here to Nashville. None whatsoever. It was one of the best decisions I could have made. I’m happy here. I have friends here. Connections that I’ve already made. I’ve built a life here in these past 6 months. This is home. At least for now…



** And so I thought I’d share some pics I took in Centennial Park after the shoot with Kelle today…SPOILER ALERT–there are trees…lots and lots of trees! 🙂 🙂 **


IMG_5582                   IMG_5603


IMG_5626                    IMG_5631


IMG_5646                                        IMG_5664

IMG_5659           IMG_5676

IMG_5704                    IMG_5714


IMG_5731                       IMG_5739




Hey y’all! I thought I’d share this funny, little tale that happened to me at a DWI Checkpoint earlier tonight on my way home from the store. So there I am, I pull up to the stop, and I roll down my window…you know. Anyhow, this is how the conversation went.

Officer: “Evening, Miss. Have you had anything to drink tonight?”

Me: “No.”

Officer: “Are you sure?” (as he shines his flashlight on the pile of glow sticks sitting on the passenger seat that I’d just bought for my final photo project on light painting)

Me: “If I consumed any alcoholic beverage? Yeah, pretty sure. No.”

Officer: “What do you plan to do with all those, then?” (meaning the glow sticks) “Are you going to a rave?”

Me: “Do they have those in Tennessee? Uh, no. They’re for a photo project.”

Officer: “And how old are you, miss?” (As I hand him my NY license)

Me: “27.”

Officer: “Is this real? You don’t look 27.”

Me: (Totally amused at this point) “Um, thank you?”

Officer: (Stares at me for a sec, looks back at the license, smirks, then hands it back): “Alright, well good luck with your photo project. Have a good night, miss. Drive safe.”

Oh yes, that happened. Only to me. I swear, one of these days this mouth of mine is gonna land me in a jail cell. 🙂

**Disclaimer: Don’t get me wrong, driving under the influence is not a laughing matter, at all. My sharing my amusement with this particular conversation with a police officer isn’t intended to insinuate otherwise. Driving while Intoxicated or Under The Influence is a big problem in this country, I get that. Believe me, I do. I can still remember the night my best friend got stopped and arrested for DWI…and it definitely wasn’t a laughing matter. We were young and stupid and reckless….and underage. It was one of those stupid choices you make when you’re a teenager and you think that you’re completely invincible. We’d had a fun weekend night out with a few other friends, consumed way too much alcohol, and were on our way home at the time. Honestly, it was such a long time ago, but I don’t think the Bestie was even all that drunk really. I think the cops pulling her over had more to do with the fact that she had “Happy 20th Birthday” painted on the back window (she’d celebrated her birthday earlier in the week), and was paying more attention to texting the guy she was hanging out with at the time than she was on the actual road. Not that that’s an excuse or anything. It definitely wasn’t how we expected the night would end though, that’s for sure. It sucked. I mean, I was pretty trashed–not gonna lie–but I can still remember looking out the back window and having to watch my best friend get arrested, handcuffed, and put in the back of a police cruiser. What’s even worse is that the officer that arrested her was with a friend of both of ours, who happened to be riding along as an officer-in-training that night. That sucked. And the “suck” didn’t end there. After the bestie was taken away in the back of one of the police cars, another officer in a 2nd cruiser came and knocked on my window, ordering me to get out of the car. Like I said, I was trashed…so I wasn’t really in any kind of cooperating mood…more like a combative one. Let’s just say, I did not want to get out of that car…which the officer did not appreciate at all. Eventually I did get out and he put me in the back of the 2nd car. I wasn’t under arrest or anything, he was just driving me back to the station. Although “driving” was a loosely relative term for that ride. Speed-racing is more like it. No joke. He literally drove 80 mph the majority of the way back–on a 55 mph highway, I might add. Even after we got into the village–which is 30 mph–he was still doing like 50 mph…so not cool. Yeah. And what’s EVEN WORSE–he was on a cellphone ordering a freakin’ calzone WHILE he was driving. Again–drunk me–felt the need to repeatedly point out that he was breaking the law by speeding and for being on the cellphone…and I might have said something along the lines of him being a police officer didn’t make him above the law…yeah. He DEFINITELY didn’t like that. He was literally like “Miss, I want you to be quiet until we get to the station. Not a word.” Again…yeah. The guy was a douche. Big time. When we got to the station–which was nothing short of a miracle with his driving, if you ask me–the Bestie was getting out of the cruiser and being led into the station. I asked to go with her, and they were real jerks about it, telling me I had to stay outside until she was released. They wouldn’t even let me wait inside…and did I mention it was pretty damn chilly that night? Yeah. Real @$$holes they were. I ended up calling my sister, and she came and waited with me for well over an hour or so until they finally released the Bestie. You can bet our night was definitely ruined. More so obviously for my friend, considering she got her license suspended and ticketed and “arbitrarily” fined and well, a whole lot of unnecessary crap she had to deal with because of it.

While I’m not trying to excuse or justify her decision to drive that night–it was a bad idea and obviously illegal–I do think the cops could’ve given her a little bit of a break that night. For starters, her BAC wasn’t even over the legal limit, but because she was only 20 and New York had a zero tolerance policy for underage driving while alcohol-impaired, they arrested her. If she’d been a year older, she’d have walked away scott-free. Not only that, but we were literally like 3 or so miles from home. Would it really have been such a feat for them to just follow her those 3 short miles and make sure we got home without incident–as many of the cops in town were wont to do on various other occasions. What’s even more messed up is that while my sister and waiting outside the station that night, another kid was brought in for DWI. We overheard the cops talking about it and apparently he’d blown well over the 0.08 BAC mark. But did he get booked for the d-dub? Heck no. They let him go with a warning–no arrest, no charges, no fines…NOTHING–all because he was the son of some local hotshot lawyer. Is that fair? Hell no it isn’t. But that’s our justice system…wonderful, isn’t it? (Cue the heavy sarcasm!)

Anywho, the moral of this story…driving drunk is against the law. You shouldn’t do it. It’s wrong. It’s dangerous–for you, for whomever else happens to be a passenger in your vehicle, and for all the other people that happen to be on the road with you at the time. It’s a proven fact that drunk driving kills. And if I thought the DWI laws were strict all those years ago with the Bestie…they’re a hell of a lot worse now. Still…we’re human. We’re not perfect. We all make mistakes…and unfortunately, sometimes those mistakes end up hurting someone or others and not just us. And sometimes it’s just luck, more than anything. And youth. When you’re young, you think you’re invincible. Untouchable. You think you won’t get caught…until you do. I’m not going to lie, I’ve gotten behind the wheel after I’ve been drinking more times than I can count. I’m not saying it was right, or that I’m proud of it…but I’ve done it. Just as if I’ve gotten in the car with people who are driving that have been drinking. I remember an argument I had with my mother when I was like 19 or something that comes to mind now. She’d seen some local news segment on a drunk driving accident that killed a teenage passenger and the drunk teenage driver  of the car whom the community felt should be charged with vehicular manslaughter. My mother I think made some comment on how the dead teen’s family should have forced the police to press charges…how if it were her child that was killed, that’s what she would do. I told her she was wrong and we argued about it, as usual. It’s always been my opinion–popular or not with society–that in cases such as that one, the blame shouldn’t always rest on that of the driver. Yes, that individual chose to get behind the wheel and put people’s lives in jeopardy, but it’s not that simple to just blame the driver and call him/her a murderer. It’s more complicated than that. I know that death and loss makes people see things in a shroud of vindication and retribution. No one wants to blame the victim…that’s just unconscionable. But is it really? I mean, yes, the driver’s to blame, but so is the “victim” who willingly and knowingly got in the vehicle with that individual, probably having been with the individual and participated in the consumption of alcohol beforehand. I mean, I’ve been there. And if I were, godforbid, ever in a situation like that where a friend was driving drunk and I was killed in an accident of sorts, I wouldn’t want my family to blame or seek retribution against my friend. I just wouldn’t. It’s bad enough that the individual will have to live with the guilt of something like that for the rest of their lives. That should be punishment enough, or so one would like to think. Unfortunately, a lot of people don’t think that way. Clouded by their grief over having lost someone they love, people think retribution is the answer. That it’ll bring them solace and comfort. That the justice of punishing someone they believe to be responsible will somehow bring them closure. But it won’t. It can’t. Putting someone in jail for however amount of time a judge deems fit isn’t going to change anything. It’s not going to bring back their loved one. It’s not going to lessen the hurt and sorrow. And I can’t speak for anyone else, obviously, but I can say that if it were me, I wouldn’t want to see my friend thrown in jail when I was the one that made the decision to get in the var with them–all the while knowing full well the risks and the possible consequences associated with that decision. And maybe it’s easy for me to say that when I’m not the one who’s lost someone because of a drunk driver…but it’s how I feel. Just saying.

Sorry, didn’t mean to get so off-point…but you know me. I should probably get back to the insanity that is my course-work. Time to break out the glow sticks! 🙂


A Little Pick-Me-Up


Ehhh, it’s just been one of those weeks. Things are just…how do I put it…absolutely-freaking-crazy. Classes have started and the work seems impossible. My family is at war with one another. I’m taking care of two sweet, but extremely needy small humans. My mother isn’t doing well with her chemo treatment at all…and she’s got surgery coming up in a month. I feel so out of touch with everything…life, my friends…literally everything. I haven’t seen the bestie in over a year…and I talked to her the other day, the first time in weeks. We say all the time that we should get together–and that we will–but like I said, it’s been over a year since we’ve actually hung out in person, so who knows with that. I feel like a horrible friend because I haven’t really put forth the effort to get together. It’s not that I don’t want to–it’s just that everything else keeps getting in the way and schedules keep conflicting and I don’t know, it’s all so complicated. I hate complicated. Like HATE it! With a passion. I just wish everything was simpler. That life was simpler. I wish I could go back to being 18. When the Bestie and I would drive around the back roads listening to our silly punk rock songs and singing off-key and bitching about guys and love and just life in general. God, it was so much easier back then. Way more than now.

I feel like I don’t have enough time…and at the same time, I feel like there’s too much of it. I know, it makes no sense. Welcome to my world!

I know it’s all going to go by so quickly. Before I know it, December will be here and I’ll be leaving for Nashville. I’m trying to stay positive about it all. To tell myself that this is a good thing–that it’ll be a good thing for me. I’m trying not to feel guilty for leaving…for wanting to…for feeling like I need to. But it’s hard. It’s really hard.

I’m afraid. I’m afraid my mom’s going to get sicker and I won’t be here to help. I’m afraid something is going to go wrong with one of the kids or my grams. I’m afraid everything’s going to go to hell in a hand basket, so to speak. I’m just…I’m terrified.

Yeah…not having the best of days. So…I thought I’d turn to music for a little pick-me-up. Here’s one of my fave bands–country of course!–the amazing Lady Antebellum, with “One Day You Will.” If only it were this easy…to believe that everything will be okay. But I guess it can’t hurt to try.



Well, all the stockings are stuffed and hung up, all the presents are wrapped and piled under the tree, and the kiddies are all fast asleep (though unlikely about sugar plums, I’m sure). So now for some ME time…a rarity for me on Christmas Eve. This is one of the first times in as long as I can remember that I haven’t spent Christmas Eve running around trying to get everything bought and wrapping into the wee hours. Yes, I’m one of those last-minute shoppers. Guilty as charged. It’s not that I forget or can’t do it…I just really, really dislike shopping. Especially Christmas shopping. I know, I know–a woman who hates to shop–oh the blasphemy!! Haha. Sorry, but it’s true. I don’t mind it if I have an idea of what I’m getting or something specific to buy, but just going and shopping for the hell of it–yeah, no that’s not my thing. Firstly, ever since that situation years back, I hate the crowds and I can’t sand to be around a lot of people at the same time. I get all claustrophobic and anxious and my anxiety level goes through the roof and start feeling panicked. Secondly, I hate the lines–yeah, I’m not patient at all. No offense, but some people are absolutely bat-shit crazy when it comes to shopping. I mean Black Friday shopping one thing–but some people are like that no matter what the occasion. I must say I do find it a little humorous when people go all ape-sh*t over sales though. Most of them completely oblivious to the fact that what the store is actually doing is inflating the price, then dropping it back down to the original (or thereabouts) price…therefore not “saving” the customer much at all, if anything. It’s a ploy to make it appear that it does, but it’s not. So in that respect…yes, it’s a little funny, or it is to me at least.

Anywho….whatever shall I do with my free time… hmm, what to do. Me thinks I’ll do a little more “fine-pointing” on the details on my upcoming move. Yep. I’m leaving. For real this time. I’ve already decided and I’m not changing my mind this time. I’m doing it on my own, so there’s no hiccups to hold the move off or people changing their minds. And no one gets to have a say this time either. I don’t want anyone’s opinion or input. Nothing. Nada, Zilch. Nothing. That’s what’s been at the root of all this…me listening to what everyone else wants and to hell with myself and what I want. Well, not anymore. Now I’m doing things for myself and to hell with the rest of them.

I need to get away from here. Away from THEM. I just can’t take it anymore. I’m so miserable here and people are cruel. And by people–for the most part–I mean my family. Things aren’t going so well lately…again. In fact, things have pretty much gone to hell in recent weeks…more so than usual. Which is saying a lot. My grams and I are at war with one another right now and we’re not on speaking terms at the moment. She and I got into big time last week. I had my niece’s concert to go to one night and planned to drive to my sister’s right after it was over for the arrival of the twins. As I was packing my things, I learned that one of my journals was missing. Naturally, I flipped out. I know it’s my brother who took it because he’s one of the only ones who would stoop that low and do something like that. After all, he’s done it before. I was pissed and refused to go anywhere until my grams made him give it back. But she wouldn’t do a damn thing. She just told me that I was being selfish and to pull it together. Oh how I lost it after she said that. “Pull it together”–she really said that. That’s when I let her have it. I mean hell, doesn’t she know that all I’ve been doing  is “pulling it together.” all these years. Since the rape, I’ve done nothing but suck it up. I had to.  I couldn’t tell her or anyone else, for that matter, about the rape or the abortion I’d had. I was too ashamed and scared to say anything. I wouldn’t have been able to face her I don’t think if I had. I’ve kept the secret from her all these years. It wasn’t until the other night that I actually told her–and that was out of pure fury, more than anything else. She insinuated like I was overreacting and that it was just a stupid notebook. So much for what she knows. It’s a hell of a lot more than that, damn it. It’s so, so much more. It’s hundreds of pages of my heart and soul. It’s all of me, all that I have. Which is one of the main reasons why I want it back. Every minute that it’s in my brother’s hands, it has the ability to inflict and release a whole lot of HELL. Just like it did the last time when he stole my journal, read it, and spent every chance he could throwing all my secrets and regrets in my face. The rape, too. That the biggest blow. He used that night to beat me down. He even took it to a further vindictive level going so far as to embellish on my attack by calling me a whore and accusing me of having sex with half a dozen guys at that party, which is NOT true. My grams is always telling me to ignore him, but how the hell am I supposed to do that when he’s using that night–and that HELL–against me? I know they’re just words, but words hurt. God, they hurt so damn much. I wish I could say that they don’t, but they do. I wish it were that easy to just ignore him, but it’s not that easy. At all.

She can accuse me of overreacting, but I’m not. It’s called self-preservation. I need that journal before he starts gathering up everything he needs to use for his verbal attack arsenal. There’s too much in that journal that he could find to use against me. And he’ll do it the first chance he gets.  I know it. Which is why I’m so damn scared. God-knows what he will tell everyone. I  don’t want the world knowing my business or getting in the way of my life. The last thing I need is for the words I wrote and the secrets to get out, especially in this small town. Everyone knows too much about everyone as it is.  I don’t feel like giving them any more ammunition, and I won’t–not if I have anything to say about it.

I hate him. I really do. He used to be my brother, but he’s turned into someone else entirely. He’s a monster and vindictive son-of-a-bitch, he really is. My grams can say what she wants, but I know exactly what he’s capable of…and the damage he can cause. So while it might not mean anything to her, it DOES mean something to me. And knowing that–she still sided and defended him. So I told her I was done with her. Done with all her bullshit and her assumptions and accusations and her just plain bitching. So done. She thinks she knows everything. She thinks she knows me. Well…she doesn’t. She doesn’t know a damn thing about me or who I am. And she hasn’t for a long time. The longer I stay, the worse it’ll get. So I have to leave. Call it running away, call it impulsive, call it reckless…call if anything you want. I call it self-preservation…

Anyhow, enough with the negative…Merry Christmas y’all!!! 🙂




Soooo I’m really over this whole hobbling around on crutches thing…yeah, I’m the worst person to have to be given crutches…Seriously, I’m a major klutz…thus my reason for being given them in the first place. I hate my crutches.I hate my stupid splinted ankle (which has downgraded from a complicated sprain to ligament tear and is currently in a cast boot and focus of “surgery negotiations” )-: yeah…not good). I hate my dislocated thumb that makes my crutches suck even more ridiculously. I hate my bruised ribs.

Ankle (1)Ankle

I hate that I’m an idiot who tries to do laundry at midnight but doesn’t bother to turn on a damn light and so she falls down the damn stairs…yeah this sucks. Really, really, reaaaallllllllyyy sucks. 😦


Everything You’ll Never Know…



STATISTICALLY SPEAKING: …Every two minutes, someone in the U.S. is sexually assaulted. It is estimated that 1 in 6 women will be sexually assaulted in their lifetime. Victims of sexual assault are 6 times more likely to develop an eating disorder and 4 times more likely to contemplate suicide…

–*– This is for the girl that couldn’t tell a soul. The girl that hides the secret horrors of a night so long ago. The girl who lay there and never said a word, there in the wet grass that caught her tears. Who watched the stars in that damp, dark night sky, as she begged God for mercy–begged him to please, just let her die. Who drifted away to someplace else, somewhere safe in her mind. This is for the silent tears that she cried. This is for the girl who did what she had to, just in order to survive. The girl who didn’t have a choice, who wasn’t strong enough to fight…who lost her voice that night. The girl to whom fate was so cruel to–though she never could quite figure out why. Why her? Why that night? Why did time have to stand still as he tore apart her world? This is for the girl that kept it all inside, afraid to feel pain, unable to feel anything. This is for the girl who learned how to lie and deceive so expertly…She was only sixteen.

STATISTICALLY SPEAKING: …There are approximately 8 million people in the U.S, who have an eating disorder, 20 percent of whom will die from complications associated with their disorder…

–*– This is for the girl that can’t breathe–whose shame of that night has become suffocating. This is for the girl that was scared and confused and didn’t know what to do. Who wasn’t prepared…who never knew a person could be so cruel. For the girl that ran away and cried. Who learned how to hide the pain inside, but not how to cope. The girl that found solace from putting her fingers down her throat… This is to the ones that don’t understand, who stand on the sidelines and judge what they don’t know. Those who don’t know what it’s like to have your body slowly destroy itself, from the inside out. This is to the ones who don’t have to hide the scars on their knuckles or feel sick and tired all the time…who never intended for it to be that bad or to go that far. To the ones who will never understand how it feels to look in the mirror and sees a stranger’s reflection staring back. To those who assume it’s about weight, when really, it’s not—rather it’s about reclaiming control…all the things that he stole. It’s about looking in and watching out–escaping to a safer place—away from the self-loathing and self-hate. This is to the ones who haven’t awoken to find themselves on a cold tiled floor, not knowing how long they’ve laid there unconscious for. To those who don’t have to carry the burden of shame, convinced that they themselves are to blame…

STATISTICALLY SPEAKING: …Every 18 minutes in the US, someone commits suicide, and every 43 seconds, someone attempts one…

–*– This is for the girl that found another way to cope with the shame. Who makes herself bleed just to forget the pain…to feel something…anything. This is for the girl they call crazy. Who “cuts” just to feel better. Not deep enough to sever the artery or a vein, but enough to bleed…enough to feel the pain. This is to those who think it’s so easy. Who say she can stop at any time, if that’s what she wants. If only it were that simple, but it’s not. This is to those who say she’s “doing it for attention”—that it’s all just a game. It’s not a cry for attention. It’s not a game. It’s about coping with shame and escaping the kind of pain that never really goes away, no matter what the experts say. She has no ulterior motive…nothing from this that she stands to gain. She does it because she feels she has to. She does it to survive. She does it to feel clean again, the way she was before that night. She does it to take back some of the control he stole. To not feel as weak as she knows she is. To keep what little is left of her sanity… This is for her–and all the others just like her–going through the same living hell as she–day in and day out. Who’ve been given no reprieve and no help. Girls like her that are just looking for an easier way out. A break from the cruel hand of fate and misfortune that they’ve been dealt… This is to the ones who think they have the right. Who think it’s okay to call her all those cruel names. She’s a whore. She’s a cutter. She’s crazy. Unstable. Watch her pretend to eat as she sits down at the table. Go ahead society. Give her a label. God forbid you lift a finger or do anything to try and save her… This is for that girl…and the many more just like her. This is for me. I am SHE. She is me. The brokenness, these scars—sadly, they are mine, all mine…




I’ve seen this girl named Mia.

She’s pretty, thin, and tall.

She has the smallest frame I’ve ever seen.

And not one single flaw.

I met this girl named Mia.

She introduced herself today.

She seems so very nice and kind.

She says she wants to stay.

I know this girl named Mia.

She’s so perfect, and it’s true.

She says she’ll make me skinny, too.

I’m friends with this girl named Mia.

I want her to always stay.

All my other friends have left.

But she will never stray.

The only one I listen to is Mia.

She’s so smart and full of advice.

I’m starting to get smaller.

My health being my last sacrifice.

I’m scared of this girl named Mia.

I can’t get her out of my head.

It’s finally occurred to me.

She won’t be satisfied until I’m dead.

I hate this girl named Mia.

She makes my life a living hell.

Someone please, hear my silent screams.

She won’t let me tell anyone anything.

My worst enemy is this girl named Mia.

She’s a demon in my head.

She seemed so very nice at first.

But I was so mislead.

I’m prisoner to this girl named Mia.

I’m captive to her will.

I have to do exactly what she says.

It’s the only way to ever make this end.

My murderer is this girl named Mia.

She starved me to my grave.

My heart finally stopped beating.

I couldn’t continue being brave.

But it’s okay. I’ll be okay.

I’m in a better place.

Mia–she is gone.

And now I’m finally safe.


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