Thursday, June 8, 2017


Last night my heart broke in a way I didn't think was possible. Not since I heard the words "they found a body and its probably your dad". But for the past 12 hours I haven't stopped shaking. My heart has cracked. I am broken.

I looked in the mirror for the first time before I showered and I couldn't recognize myself. Gone was the light from my eyes. Gone was the faint smile I've grown used to wearing to combat my resting bitch face. My whole face sagged. Who is the girl in the mirror now?

I don't know who I am anymore. I don't know how to feel. I sat in the shower with the heat all the way up and I felt nothing but cold. I shivered. I am

I cannot breathe, friends. I cannot breathe. Because this is it. This is what has finally broken me. I am in pieces. Shaky, poorly oxygenated pieces. I feel like I'm watching myself make tea, take a shower. I'm not driving the car, I'm just a silent observer to my own life.

I did not sleep. I woke up every twenty minutes hoping it was all a joke. Hoping this was a bad dream. That I'd get a call and he'd say "I take it back, this is going to be okay, I'll see you Friday evening." That call never came.

I am breaking.

Monday, June 5, 2017

I Do Not Own This Body

Night time is the hardest. Because my body knows it should be asleep, but my brain won't get the hint. So I lay here, clutching the same teddy bear I've been sleeping with for almost 10 years now, praying for sleep to come. But I can't.

I have to go through the list of people who don't love me first. And then the people who pretend they want me around but don't really. Then the list of reasons my boyfriend should break up with me. After that its the bonus round of every horrible thing I've done or said in the past 23 years. On a really bad day it includes all the fights I've had with anyone ever. But lately it includes living a very new trauma.

A month ago I was sexually assaulted. Nothing, not selling the bed it happened on, not therapy, not upping my meds, can make me forget what it felt like to wake up with a man's hands down my pants. I will never forget as long as I live the feeling that I meant so little to the world that someone thought they could insert themselves into my body without permission. I can't stop seeing it. I can't stop seeing the look on his face when I wouldn't give him a hug before I kicked him out of my house. As if I was in the wrong. And then his dismissive apology "so that thing that happened....yeah that was weird". If I was a worse person I'd name him. I'd tell you all who he is, I'd whip the crowd into a frenzy and start a witch hunt. But I don't want that. I want peace. I want to stop seeing it in my mind. I want to forget it. I want to forget that I'm now a number, one of the many faces in the crowd, another college aged girl that fell asleep after drinking and was taken advantage of. The worst part? It was in my own home, and on the other side of me was my best friend. Also asleep. How sick do you have to be to do that to someone with such confidence?

And so now, when I can't sleep, I run through that list I mentioned before, and then the laundry list of reasons why I deserved it. Not the "oh she led him on" reasons, but the "I'm a bad person and this is karma" reasons. Is this somehow the universes form of balance?

It happened and then I had to go be in a show with this person. Two weekends of shows with someone who believed they had more rights to choose what happened to my body than I did. Two weekends of shows sitting next to them in the makeup room pretending I couldn't still feel their fingers invading me. Two weekends of shows pretending like just showing up wasn't a monumental feat for me. By the final show my body shut down. I had the worst panic attack I've ever experienced, I passed out just from standing up, I hit my head, I was puking, and I tried to not go. I couldn't say more than that I was sick. I was talked into going, I was accused of having a hangover, and all the while I was holding back this immeasurable rage and pain that I couldn't tell anyone about. I don't cry in public, and that day I couldn't hold back tears as I got into hair and makeup. The stage used to be my safe place and that whole afternoon I felt like a prisoner in what used to be my home.

Since then I've been the absolute worst. I've been clingier as a girlfriend than I've ever known myself to be. I feel like my strength is gone. I'm scared to be on my own. I'm scared to sleep. I'm scared to drink too much and then fall asleep. Sometimes I'm just scared to drink. I don't trust anyone or anything. I feel like I'm watching myself go through motions, not living them, just seeing someone else control the ship while I watch. I'm trying to put on brave face. I'm trying to be happy for everyone. I'm trying to sleep normally, but I can't. He stole that from me. He took the little amounts of joy, the little amounts of normalcy, the tiny bit of hope I had, and he crushed it with one action. And I don't think I'll ever be the same.

I'm so fucking exhausted.

Thursday, January 26, 2017

I Love You, Too

This morning I kissed him goodbye for work and told him I loved him. He said he loved me back. I almost cried.

When you break up with someone but you still love each other, life is a little weird. You still cuddle, kiss, hold hands on the couch. You sleep in the same bed, you shower while he randomly wanders into the bathroom to pee, to check his hair, to bring you a towel.

You buy him beer as a surprise, he brings home your favorite ice to munch on (yes, I'm a chronic ice eater).

But there's an emptiness that lingers. An emptiness that wasn't there before. A nagging feeling that you did this to yourself, and even though you're still affectionate with each other, you are in fact alone.

In a matter of weeks I will be in my own apartment. No more rolling over to see the love of my life sleeping peacefully. No more jokes about the oddities of living together, no more coming home to a smiling face. No more waiting at home for him to come home, getting more excited as the hours tick by.

I know that this is necessary for growth. For healing. For us. But dammit, it hurts like hell.

Monday, January 23, 2017

Fear and Loathing In Alexis.

I wish I could say all the things I've been wanting to say for ages now. I wish that a lot of things I need to say could see daylight. That there was no mystery to how I feel about certain people and things. Because while I am very open about specific parts of my life, there is much I have yet to own up to, or even recognize.

I find myself to be quite melancholy lately. I wouldn't say depressed, because well, I mean, I am, I take medication for that, but this is a different sort of emotion. A weighted sadness. One without definition that doesn't feel like the world is ending, but questions, why do I matter in side of this world?

As Watsky once said "there's 7 billion 46 million people on the planet/and most of us have the audacity to think we matter....I know its a lie but I prefer it to the alternative." Maybe I'm a little existential crisis-y, maybe I'm coming to terms with the fact that I'm one very small person in one very large world. I can't make much of a difference on a large scale.

I recently lost my medication. I don't mean no longer am allowed to take it, I mean, I put the bottle somewhere, and haven't been able to find it since. Learning to cope with the negativity my mind can't normally handle without going off the deep end has been quite the adventure, I can tell you that. And trust me, my mind throws a lot of shit down.

I think I'm having a good day, my brain tells me that I'm ugly and my boyfriend hates me. I brag about how wonderful my little cheerleaders are and how proud of them I am, my brain tells me no one cares about my girls or the effort I put into making them good. I feel pretty, my brain tells me I'm unworthy of love or positive attention. No one can hit below the belt like your own mind can.

I guess I keep a lot bottled up because I'm tired of hearing myself talk about how shitty everything is. Truth is, I don't have much to complain about, my mind just tricks me into thinking I do.

That my friends, is anxiety. That my loved ones, is depression. It can literally ruin your life if you let it. I spent three months drowning in a pool of my own making, unable to come up for air, somehow comforted by the fact that I was stuck with this awful feeling now. My reality was waking up and hating my reflection, hating my inner self. As far I was concerned, I was just - bad. Rotten to the core.

I had a meltdown because we ran out of ice. I had a meltdown because Mr. Darcy the Cat wouldn't cuddle with me while I napped on the couch. I felt unloved, unwanted, and unimportant. Many were actively telling me how much I was worth, wanted, and loved, but my brain refused to accept this as fact. And often times, that's just how it is. I have to remind myself every so often that my mind is a chemically unbalanced bitch and I need to fight it with every part of my being.

And maybe because I'm feeling like this a little therapy for me, but we're just gonna say it is all related to my mother. My mother who told me I'd never accomplish anything. My mother who called me ugly, and kind of fat, and not that smart. My mother who chose a pedophile drug addict over me and my brothers. My mother who has a permanent place in my head, who is the voice of all my fears and self-loathing.

Every day I fight this voice. Every day I fight the urge to cry when I see myself, when I think about how little I've done. I know it will all work out. I mean, I hope it will all work out in the end. That hope for a brighter someday is all that keeps me hanging on. I dream of bright sunny days where I'm one of those bubbly girls in a white sundress running through a field of daisies. Until then I'm just hanging on, I guess.