How do I adult?

I had lovely parents. I grew into a very expressive, 20-something individual. I was never pushed to excel at anything though. School was a joke and I’m sure my parents tried to get me to succeed but the drive wasn’t there. College was difficult as fear became a way of life for me and consumed me to the point where I wasn’t able to go onto a campus. I don’t know how to mow a lawn, to shovel a driveway, to landscape and I can barely clean a house. Part of the aversion to house cleaning might be that growing up I was responsible for the majority of the household tasks including making meals and taking care of my younger (now more successful, all-star athlete) of a brother. I had to grow up fast often skipping the most basic of adult activities- taxes, budgeting, etc. I just don’t know how to do it and as a result we’re completely under water. Can’t pay our bills, can’t keep food in the house and I blame myself because I’m basically a large child that has the mental capacity as such.

I’m on disability and can’t afford to come off of it even if I was able to work because I would lose medicaid and lose the only drug that stops hallucinations and keeps me from becoming violent and extremely paranoid. I need medicaid and I have the desire to work because I want to help out and be the best part of my relationship I can be. I’m very sad and that’s the best way I can put that.

I’ve often thought of renting a commercial kitchen and pushing out baked goods to sell but the over-head of that isn’t worth the investment and I’m not sure I’d be a very good business owner. Thought of pet-sitting but the thought of staying in a stranger’s house just makes me scared out of my mind. I’ve looked into freelance writing but most people want some kind of degree (the nerve of some people).

I know I’m not the only one upside down as we have friends in multiple circles that are also struggling financially and that hurts me too because I want to give them everything I have… I just have nothing to give. I’m hoping I can buy Christmas presents for the people I love come Christmas time just to show my gratitude(Even when they think I’m mad at them) of the moral support they’ve given me over the years (you know who you are, you crazy diamond). I don’t have a lot of friends but I love the very few that I do have and we’re kind of all in this same mess together so I know the stress is real for all of us. I’ve seen a friend that has gone to desperate lengths to keep her family’s heads above water and a friend that has given up their quality of life just to put food on the table and a roof over her head. We’re all trying and I don’t think any one of us is failing, respectively, we’re just part of the America that struggles and that’s the sad reality. I guess it took writing this blog to know that we’re not alone and that everyone is struggling in one way or another and it doesn’t make anyone’s problems worse than anyone else’s. We all have ways of relieving stress and making the small things matter. Appreciate what you do have and strive to make things better for yourself (If I could follow my own advice that’d be great… I probably won’t and just keep on crying the rest of the day). Be well.



What’s your deal?

Everyone has a story. Something interesting that happened in childhood, adulthood, or old age. Maybe it was something traumatic that you hold close to your yourself so no one knows. Hopefully it was an earth-shattering revelation that turned your life around. That’s what I like to hear about. I’m sympathetic to the dark times but I’ve had dark times. Tell me what turned you around. What made you a better person? How did you change from average joe to extraordinaire? I don’t think I’m there yet. I hope change is in my future but I just don’t see it coming my way. Maybe something big (or little) will hit me like lightening and I’ll see the world in a different way.

I’m not good at cleaning- when will I feel motivated? I don’t make friends well- when will I find a stranger to trust? I’m terrible at food, I can’t control myself around it and I wish any amount of motivation would stop my bad habits. I just used “motivation” twice in the same paragraph… I don’t quite have a handle on this writing business. Dang. I so badly want to be extraordinary at something. I want exemplary more than anything. Even if it’s just extraordinary to my me and my boyfriend or a teacher, a friend. I want to work hard at something and have it pay off. I know this comes off as whining but sometimes people deserve to whine. Get stuff off our chests. Be honest about what I want. Even if it’s poorly written and doesn’t make a lick of sense. I guess I’m going on stream of thought. Nothing wrong with that.

Not a terribly interesting blog but it’s a way to keep track of my thoughts. I think a lot of people could benefit from writing. Personally, I hate writing on paper- no time for that. I can type quickly though, so there’s that. I think the dream of being paid for being a musical theater actress is about dead. That’s just not going to happen. I could be a writer someday with a bit of education. English degree or creative writing? I can’t come up with scenarios or characters but I bet I could learn. I don’t like many writers but I respect them for making it to the big leagues. Besides, they must be doing something better than me- yes, even fifty shades of grey and twighlight. They’re both doing something better than all of us hobbyist writers. I’ll get better. I will find extraordinary.

The plague

I’ve been so serious sick the past three or four days. Started with what I thought was an allergic reaction. Puffy face and eyes that I knocked down with copious amounts of Benadryl. The sore throat stuck around and evolved into some horrible flu. I’ve been living off of Wendy’s frostys and ice cream. I only sleep a couple hours a night because the pain is ultra intense. I actually woke up at 1am to eat some ice cream. This is not what I wanted to write about today. Onto the next paragraph.

I was talking with my therapist today (nothing wrong with a therapist). Who told me she liked my writing. Naturally I believed she was lying to me because I don’t even like my writing. She explained that even though I like animals and wanted to work with them for a living that some things are better off as hobbies- like volunteering at the shelter and kind of tip toed around maybe looking into careers for writing or just doing it more often. I think she wants me to be able to focus on something other than depression and anxiety. My anxiety is running my life. It’s so hard to leave the house without having a panic attack. It’s gotten to the point where I think I need assistance leaving the house. I put in an application for a service dog. Now all I have to do is wait 12-18 months and fork over $3500! It could be worse. A lot of places are more expensive and this place seems on the up and up.

I’ve been in therapy for probably four years now, on and off, I really hate therapy but it’s necessary if I want to be treated by a psychiatrist. I never know what to say in session and usually end up staring at the ground and playing with my hair. I also get very aware of how itchy I am for some reason. I also have this problem where only people that can afford help are able to get it. If I didn’t have blue care network they would have turned me away. They care as much about me as my $15 copay. I understand they provide a service and should be paid for it but as soon as I’m off my parents insurance I’ll be a distant memory to my therapist and doctor. The only things I’m interested in sharing with my therapist are concrete problems with concrete answers. As in “What are some exercises I can do to wake up more refreshed?” “No, I’m not interested in diving into my deep seeded childhood. I don’t even know you, stranger” would you put your mental health into the hands of someone you know nothing about? A lot of people would say yes because the therapists are professionals… A degree isn’t enough for me to want to share things I don’t tell my closest… Friends? That doesn’t quite work either. I have one friend and I don’t talk about my childhood with her either. I would if it ever came up but it’s just not necessary. I eventually want to unload some stuff in this here blog. Eventually. For now this is just a place full of nothing. It’s basically a diary. Wow, I hate this post. So boring. Sorry ’bout that.

I hope dad brings me soup.


Apparently there’s some study out there that says not having friends is the equivalent of smoking cigarettes in terms of your life-expectancy. I’ll probably die early if that’s the case. I have one friend that lives in Colorado that I talk to everyday but have never actually met. I quite like her. She’s interesting and complicated but also super sweet and concerned about other people. It’s like I met my counter part and she lives thousands of miles from me. I want the absolute best for her in her job that she struggles with and her living situation which is turning around for her. I want her to have love and peace in her life and wish I were fucking closer so I could help her move since no one else stepped up to the plate. See why friends are lame?

I planned a birthday party for my boyfriend months ago and practically none of his friends will be able to make it- with no reason given. His own family got annoyed at me for planning his party on their bowling night. Both of his brothers are backing out and his parents might be there. My boyfriend is one of the most loyal people to his friends and family but he isn’t getting that reciprocated. I’m fine not having a bunch or friends, or even a few friends but I know it hurts my boyfriend when he feels his friends don’t care. I choose to look at it that the important people are going to celebrate his day with us. If I don’t have friends they can’t really disappoint me like my boyfriend is getting disappointed.

If I throw a party for myself everyone I want to be there will be; me and me and maybe my boyfriend. Don’t get me wrong, I do get lonely. I just prefer the company of the boyfriend and sometimes my dad, other than that I kind of like being alone. Maybe that’s why I like writing.. It’s like the ultimate solitary . I get to be alone with myself and I don’t have to worry about saying the right thing… Ever. I get to be selfish and talk about exactly what I want without interruption. It’s a nice feeling. I know my writing isn’t that good or interesting right now and all of my followers are spam but practice makes progress and maybe someday people will want to read my selfish thoughts. Trust me, if I had anything but my life to write about I would. Nothing that exciting happens though. I have some sensitive subjects I want to talk about but I’m just working up the courage.

Now where’s my scone?



Writing on the iPad today. Jesus, I wish I had a keyboard for this thing. I just want to dive in and say I wish I had a passion for anything the way my dad has passion for coding or my boyfriend has for theater. I’ve never considered myself to be an apathetic person but the fact that I can’t find one thing that keeps me interested in enough to submerge myself in is concerning. I have likes… I have lots of likes. I like music, I like art (I can’t paint, draw, or sculpt), and I like acting) I don’t like any of these things enough to devote a lifetime to them. I guess I should have prefaced with that. I want something I love so much I want to spend a lifetime perfecting it and learning it. I want to feel something for…. Something.. I guess.

The amount of times I’ve switched “passions” is amazing- singer(that one lasted years- to college at least). I wanted to be an actor after a couple teachers told me I was a natural and should pursue it. I think I’m too self-conscience to be an actor. I wanted to be a social worker, a therapist, sex therapist, zoologist, marine biologist. I know there’s more… Oh, I was really super into photography at one point. I have an interest in writing and distilling.. Things as my current passions. I can’t even say I have a passion for writing because it’s so hard to get started. My goal is to write everyday and everyday I’m like “oh, god it’s that time again.” But I’m always happy while I’m doing it. Writing relieves anxiety and keeps my hands and mind busy. I just can’t stand the way I write and I know I don’t get giddy about it the way my dad does about coding. I just want to fall in love with something.

I’m starting to think passion may take a different form for me. Do something enough until i can’t live without it. Where if I go a day without doing it my day feels incomplete. I’m even reading about writing (got motivated enough to pick up a book- go me). Maybe if I do it enough I’ll love it like other writers do. Maybe. Maybe I have to make it be a choice. “I choose to love you and I’ll work at it.” Aren’t a lot of good relationships like that? Your partner may do something incredibly stupid and then you hate them with the intensity of a thousand suns.. But you choose to still love them. I’m going to get frustrated with the things I’m passionate/not really passionate about because I’m a novice, but I’ll choose to still love them because I made a commitment. Sometimes people get bored with their partners and they have to find ways to keep things fresh and exciting. But then again sometimes you’ve made a commitment and you find a way to make things new again. So, there it is. I have no passion but I’m making a commitment to commit. The end.


When I was growing up I perceived that I had more freedoms than most kids my age. I dressed how I wanted, wore my hair how I wanted, I even had a nose ring in middle school. I’m not going to speculate how my mother raised me but looking back I have these memories that she was turning me into someone she wanted me to be (what parent isn’t at least a little guilty of that). She often bought me clothes unprovoked adorned with playboy bunnies, low-cut shirts, short skirts, high heels, platform shoes, large dangly earrings, tight clothing. Most mornings we’d get up at 5 am to go to the gym because I was a little chubby (a weight I would kill for now). We’d work out for about an hour, hour and a half and get ready at the gym. She bought me hair product with peroxide because my hair needed to be blonder. It wasn’t until later in life that I felt she was molding me. She’d measure my waist and bust and compare me to how close I was to marilyn monroe’s figure and tell me I was almost there and how pretty I’d be if I lost a little weight. she got me posters of Marilyn- maybe she was being nice, maybe she wanted me to have a reminder. It was just unusual how often she brought up how close my measurements were to Marilyn’s. Why did she care? I should have known better but I got occasionally harassed by guys at my school for wearing revealing clothing and got sent to the principal’s office on more than one occasion for wearing such things. At the end of the day I’m responsible for how I live my life but I can’t help but feel a little resentment towards M.M. for existing because she was perfect to my mother and everything she tried to make me but never could. That’s all I can write for now. I’m having a very anxious day and having a hard time sitting still.


I still strive to look like M.M. … I’m just waiting until I’m just right. Because I finally figured out what I want to be when I grow up. I want to be pretty. I don’t want to waste the rest of my 20’s being fat and ugly. oh, and sorry for typos- I don’t take this blog as seriously as my other one. This one is just for me.