I'm just a fat gal with a blog and an opinion. Well, lots of opinions.

Living Lives Part Two

*TW for mention of abuse & suicide*

While currently feeling like I’m living very separate lives, I also feel as though I have lived a few lives or lifetimes already. I will say up front that I do suffer from Post Traumatic Stress Disorder (PTSD) symptoms, though I’ve never been formally diagnosed. I have also heard that we sort of start anew every 7-10 years and this can feel like a different “chapter” in our lives, or as I see it, a new life all together. It is this that I think I am speaking about today. I obvisouly have not died and been reborn, but I do think that with each phase of my life I have left a part of myself behind, perhaps as a marker or landmark to return to in the old memory banks? Not sure, but that’s how it seems to me (and I have been told that this is classic PTSD symptoms).
My “first” life, if you will, was my childhood. I have described my childhood here before, but doing so made me realize that it was much worse than I’d previously considered. Somehow describing it in words and getting responses from “outsiders” (though I consider most of you friends if not family at this point) sort of gave me a new perspective and I’m still unpacking those feelings I have about that. I would say that my first life was from age 4-10. During this time I went to the same elementary school, had the same best friend and generally was happy. Yes, I grew up poor and in squalor, but those two things are not mutually exclusive, at least in my case. I know now that my mother was/is mentally ill and without access to proper medical and mental health care she went undiagnosed and untreated for many many years. I became extremely independant out of necessity and terribly protective of my brother (and later my sister), too. I saw my best friend, Riana, nearly everyday. It was at her house (as I could never have friend over due to the squalor that was the state of our house) that I felt free of the “poor kid” title and restraints. I envied her more than I knew at the time, but am just now sorting those feelings out.
Early on I struggled to find friends or to fit in, but I met Riana in Kindergarten and immediately felt I’d found my place in the world. We were nearly inseparable. And kids in general had a lot more freedom then. We rode our bikes all over town and made up dance routines to every song on the radio or in Riana’s cassette collection. The kids who lived on my block were a bunch of assholes (I promise I’m being as nice as I can on this). They were very typical 80’s rich-kid brats, though looking back they were working-middle class. They treated me like a freak of nature. My first day in the neighborhood it seemed they went out of their way to deem me uncool/unwanted/gross/weird/etc. I was an awkward redheaded and freckled little girl. I was painfully shy around adults, but quite friendly with most kids. When my mom would take me to the park, before I started elementary school, I would always make fast friends. In preschool I even got “married” to my friend Kelly. He and I made wedding cakes in the sand. Funny thing, we dated in Jr. High years later. Ha-ha!
Problems started to arise as I entered puberty before my BFF. I got my period at age 9 and while our attention to boys was already top priority, I think we began to grow apart at this time, too. I did have other friends. And I began shoplifting. Then I got caught with my friend Sonia (another poor kid, we got along so well) and we weren’t allowed to see each other anymore. In the 6th grade, I grew so envious/jealous of Riana that I stole her brand new white Keds! I then had the fucking nerve to come over to her house the next day in those same Keds. I insisted my Grandma had bought them for me. Parents were called, many heated discussions had and in the end I wasn’t allowed to hang out with Riana again either. It was a strange end to a long friendship. Riana and I had been through everything together. We were molested by a friend of her family, but we remained friends long after that. So it’s strange to me that it was the Keds that were the final straw. That was pretty much the end of that part of my life. I had a few friends in 6th grade, but without Riana there was always a giant hole in my life. It might still be there, actually.
When I entered the 7th grade everything changed. Just everything! Not sure if there was an eviction threat or what but suddenly my parents had a few friends and went out and did stuff (they’d never done that before) and one of those friends helped us clean our whole house. I still felt weird about having friends over though. I had a new BFF Erica and was reunited with a friend from 2nd grade, Summer. I quickly found my place at the “Homo Tree” and also soon found that to many I was still the freak/weirdo and was bullied every single day at Brunch/Lunch. I got my first boyfriend only a month into the school year and had my first kiss that Halloween. Boys consumed my every thought and wish. Erica and I would watch the movie Beaches and felt we were those characters in the film (with my red hair and pop star dreams and she the classier/calmer brunette and more college oriented dreams). We crushed on everything that moved, though she liked the older and more “bad” boys at our school. Almost all we talked about was boys and sex and NKOTB (of course I hearted Jordan, she Jonathon…Ha-ha!). We spent many days at the mall and shopped all day long on about $10 between us. Summer would come sometimes or she and I would go together. Just about every single weekend, on a Saturday, we’d be at the mall. Walking and talking and checking out boys and hitting up the record store and just being silly teenagers and enjoying every minute of it.
The 8th grade was fantastic! My bullies had gone on to high school (well most), I was able to just be me and ended up dating the cutest boy in our school (and a “sevy” too). Summer dated his BFF and we would have double date make outs after school behind one of the portable classrooms. It was magical! Ha-ha!  I had my first real heartbreak when the cute boyfriend dumped me after dating for four months (forever). Turns out he was just grounded and didn’t bother to tell me until a year later when we dated again for a minute, but then I dumped him out of spite. I was very immature, I know. I soon met two gals that I would go on to be friends with to this very day (that’s over 20 years, chi’ren). Steph & I met in P.E. class (1st period, ugh!) when I’d gotten my ears pierced and was trying to swap out the studs for hoops way before I should have. She offered to help and we’ve been friends every since. Alena I met a few months later when I gave her and her friend the combination to a shared frienemy’s locker. We were later punished together and bonded over singing Salt ‘N Pepa songs while cleaning the girl’s bathrooms. I crushed on my first gay guy at the end of the year and was heartbroken at the dance after gradutation when he didn’t even notice I was alive (no hard feelings “Tink”).
The summer before high school was fab and terrible. I was dating all kinds of boys and was making out all of the damned time, but my mom left my dad a month before school began and that did dampen the mood a bit. We had moved into a house, but my dad couldn’t get a loan approved to buy it (even with my grandma’s house on offer as colateral) so we ended up moving again. It was in this new place that the next chapter of my life began. I had a new BFF Joyce, and still hung out with Summer, Steph & Alena constantly. Joyce got me into sex, drugs and rock ‘n roll…and into much older guys. *headdesk* I also was hanging out with my friend Marc alot as he was the coolest and funniest and most sincere guy around. No romantic feelings there, but he was just a rad friend and someone I trusted and could rely on. He truly cared about me and I him. Joyce moved in with us when her dad beat her up. It was so cool! I suddenly had a psuedo-sister. Instead of make-up and stuff, we’d drop acid and get stoned and make out with boys (I was still a virgin at this point). The stupid shit we did, well, I don’t think I’ll ever quite understand it, but it was awesome at the time. I soon met a French guy who would later break my heart and take my virginity (in that order and a few weeks in between). I started hating school so much I would get queasy every day before 1st period. I was in a lot of classes that were over my head or under it. One of my teachers had like a personal vendetta against me and would make cutting that class a cinch later.
Then out of the blue and for no aparent reason I got a phone call from a frienemy, Kim B. I hadn’t spoken to her in months and pretty much hated her guts. So when she called to set me up with some guy she knew, to this day, I have no fucking idea why I even listened to her talk let alone went along with it. I agreed to meet the guy and fell for him a bit at first. He was 21 I was 14. Red flags anyone? He drank so much, but never drove so I didn’t give it much thought. I was cutting so many classes, even whole days, that school didn’t mean much to me anymore. I still saw most of my friends and my dad wasn’t able to be around much to do anything about it. That summer this guy started to beat me up. At first it was the typical beating and then remorse and gifts bullshit. Then it became a regular everyday thing, almost. I soon shut out my friends and became very introspective and quiet (very unlike me prior to that time). My dad was going through a divorce and caring for his father (who was in the last stages of Alzheimer’s disease) while taking care of two little ones and working full time. So when I threatened to run away if he didn’t let my 21 year old boyfriend move in with us…he had little choice.
I spent the next five years feeling like a hostage in my own home. I no longer saw or talked to friends. Every action and moment of my life was controlled by my abuser. I fantasized about escaping or an ex-boyfriend saving me like some stupid knight in shining armour and all of that garbage. I soon had a very zen-like reaction to his beatings and even begged him to just kill me. Yes, it was that bad. When he choked me so badly that I passed out one time (not the last, sadly), I was devastated when I woke up. I had wanted to die and was almost pissed off that he hadn’t succeeded in killing me this time. Towards the end I began to fight back. He hadn’t realized that I’d had it in me all along and neither did I. We’d moved out of my family’s house and into a roommate situation. He began to deal drugs and later started doing them, too. I discovered Ann Rice and retreated into her books for about a year. When the little brother of that fantasy-knight ex-boyfriend showed up on my 19th birthday and mentioned to me in private that he had an extra room I could  use for free, I realized that it was my only way out. Somehow he saw what no one else had for five years: that I was being abused and that I was stuck. I hadn’t even heard of the town I would be moving to twenty miles away until that night, but he helped me find a way to make it work and in the end I did escape the abuser for good. I never could have done it without him and I am trying to find him to thank him for saving my life that night.
It was when I got a job at the local mall music store that I began a new chapter in my life. I made new friends, I was rid of the abuser for good and I started my life all over again. I didn’t know who I was or where I fit in the world. I just worked and went home at first. I would go to my grandma’s house a few times a week for dinner and to email Alena (my dad had recently gotten the internet, a new invention for home users that would eventually change civilization as we knew it). I had a Prodigy account that allowed me to make friends with people all over the world. This also lead to a lot of crazy-stupid blind date meet ups that a girl my age should not have been fucking doing on her own. Luckily nothing bad ever happened and I came out of that phase unscathed. I started to hang out with Summer, Steph and Alena again and it was like this golden era for me. We were all single and happily dating. We would party our asses off every weekend. We would just have the best times, man. It was great!
But then it all fell apart for me again, as it seemed to a lot back then, when I met a guy at a gig I had at a local club I was working for a music industry magazine promoting new bands. It was like out of a movie! I fell for him so hard that when he dumped me on my 20th birthday it was like a ton of bricks and anvils falling on my head. I was beyond devastated, I was suicidal. I don’t think I fully recovered from that relationship when I let a boy from Texas move in with me. *headdesk* He sold his belongings to come live with me, I thought I loved him, but once he arrived I knew it was all wrong. It was company at least, but none of my friends or family liked him and after two weeks I didn’t either. He was just mooching off of me. So when the roommates got us all evicted, I was relieved. Bye moocher, go on back to TX now. KThnxbye. Ha-ha! But I’d already met B by then and it was all over after that.
B & I were friends at first, I’d hired him as part time seasonal help at the music store, but we soon developed feelings for one another and when I moved back home after a financial mishap it became clear that we were supposed to be together. And we have, ever since. 13 years later, I think I did just fine with this one. Ha-ha!
Stay tuned for the next part of this three part series. Thanks for reading. <3 S

Fatty Entrapment…


Have you ever had someone try to call you out for being a “bad fatty?” It doesn’t matter the situation, person, activity, they were just waiting to tell you you’re wrong/hipocrtical/a bad fatty! Sometimes who it comes from is the more difficult part. It can be equally unnerving or uncomfortable if it’s someone close to you or a total stranger. I get the full spectrum operating my cafe everyday. You know that look? The one that says, “How could you be putting that into your mouth?” or “Should you really be preaching health at every size…at Your size?” and so many more.

When you are fat in public you just never know who will take it upon themselves to not only body & food police you, but even try to make sure you fall into some ridiculous stereotype. Heaven forbid a gal eats a donut! Even just once a year! Nope, we can’t have that! That’s “BAD!”  “You can’t be healthy and eat a donut!” “You know you won’t eat just one!” The fuck I won’t! And you wonder what special little joy they are getting from trying to shame/blame/other you. Anything in the attempt to seem better off, I suppose.

It’s sad to me that it must be reiterated daily/weekly/etc, food has no moral value! There is no “bad” food. There’s rotted food, sure, that’s bad! But not in the moral sense. What you choose to put into your mouth is your business and no one elses. No one’s! Not even your mother! Not even your BFF! Not even your Granny! Not their business! That’s it! Get it? You’re not a “bad fatty” or “bad” anything else. You’re just you! That’s all you can hope to be and that’s all I ever try to be.

Then there’s that look of pity or worse, disgust! The look that says, “How dare you breathe the same air or occupy the same space as me?!” The look that says, “Oh that poor dear! She must be out of control/let herself go.” Where? Where did I let myself go? Huh? Fatlandia? Fatterson U.S.A.?! Tell me! Where exactly did I let myself go? Out of control? Your judgment is out of control! I am in complete and total control over my own actions and judgments, thanks. I do not exist for you! I do not live to please! I live to live! I live to experience the wonders of this world! I live to love and to give and to share…what the fuck do you live for, huh?

Whew! Okay, sorry…went off a bit there. It’s just so frustrating to have people say things, even on the sly, about you because you look a certain way. I’m not interested in conformity! I’m punk rock! Conformity is for squares and suckers, ya know?! I didn’t get dressed in the hopes of fitting/blending in. I don’t hope to pass some non-existent grade you’re handing out. I don’t go out of my way to judge or hate anyone, so why are you? I just don’t get it. I mean, who cares? Who has the time?

Stigma is such a piece of shit! I’m sick of it. I think the most freeing thing anyone can do is simply to no longer care what other people think. If I am to be judged on face value alone? Not my problem! Because trying to fit into some existence that doesn’t want me just as I am, for who I am right now, does not interest me in the least. People don’t look up to others who did not stand out. No one says, “I really admire Shirley, she always seems to fit in and not make waves. That’s what I love about her!”

 You cannot control other people or the world in general. You can’t. You cannot do a damned thing about people perceiving or judging you a certain way. That’s on them! All you can do is just be you. Corny? Maybe! Fuck it! I don’t care! It’s how I roll and I have no intention of stopping. It’s done me just fine up until now, why stop a good thing, ya know? Ha-ha! To the lady who said to my friend, “Oh I know I guy who DOES eat cookies for breakfast. He’s your size!” What in the hell lady? What business is it of yours what anyone has for breakfast or what size they are? Fuck you!

What do you wanna tell the people who judge you unfairly? What can we do to wise people up when they confront us with this bullshit? I have an idea…if ever I’m called a name again, I shall resond, “Ignorant coward!” in the hopes this will confuse the poor dears. Yes, confuse! Their ignorance is cowardice! Their cowardice is ignorance. They are so afraid of fat and fatties that they feel compelled to shout from a moving vehicle or utter some slur under their breath? Coward! They obviously buy into all of that diet industry marketing bullshit. Ignorance! Lose the hate, not the weight! <3

All By Myself


I spend a lot of time on my own without ever truly being alone. I mean, I’m at my cafe all day by myself, but there’s windows everywhere and customers coming and going and occasionally a friend or fab-regular will stop by and we’ll chat, but for the most part? It’s just moi. It can be trying and tiring and difficult. I spend a lot of time in my own head, ya know? This has helped me with a lot of self-work and processing events in my life, but it also makes me feel starved for attention. I hate that! Now that my husband has taken up fishing, I’m finding myself with more evenings alone than I know what to do with (sort of).

Some people are simply better adjusted or accustomed to being on their own for stretches of time. Some people actually prefer their own company to anyone else’s. While I respect that, I just can’t figure it out for me in my life. Sure, I have hobbies and interests and such, but when I’m home with the dog and cat and it’s only a few hours before my husband comes home from the ponds? I feel at a loss for what to do with myself. You can only masturbate so much (ha-ha! once is always enough for me)! But seriously? I lose track of normalcy and even what it is I want to do or need to even.

The truth is I’ve never fully been on my own. I’ve never lived alone. When I wasn’t living with an abusive boyfriend, I was living in a tiny apartment with four roommates. Before that I was living with my family. I remember times when I had roommates that I would come home from work and just fall into deep spells of crying. I was depressed, surely, but it never occurred to me to do anything else. Yes, I had a social life at the time, but sometimes I wouldn’t head straight out to Steph’s or parties or dates or whatever. Or there would be a lag in time before things got rolling. I guess, well, I never have been on my own long enough to get used to it.

When I was in that horrible abusive relationship for five years (ages 14-19), I had nothing to call my own. No possession or space or anything. I was the possession. The only refuge I had that had become my sanctuary, so to speak, was the bathroom. He would rarely bother me if I was in the bathroom, no matter how long. Weather it was in the morning for my daily ablutions or make-up applications or long luxurious baths with my boom box (Madonna’s “Erotica” album at the time) and about ten to fifteen candles. I would escape into my mind to escape the horrors of my reality if only for a few minutes to an hour.

I find that when I’m in a panic, I still run to the restroom! When I need to cry or just breathe for a few moments, I’ll pop into the bathroom for the serenity of what that space has been to me in the past. When my husband and I went to Maui, Hawaii, we spent more time in the bathroom than the room of our hotel itself. Ha-ha! It was glorious though! I didn’t even bother with the large oval luxury tub (but he did). When I talk about owning a home one day, the kitchen is the first thing I’ll go on and on about. But that’s because in my mind the bathroom re-do will be almost exactly like that one in Hana, Maui! Paradise! (No, nothing cheesy like floral prints or anything, it was quite understated, honestly.)

I wonder how one does adjust to being on their own. Is there a ritual or routine I could develop for myself to sooth or make it easier? What’s helped you? The most time I’ve spent on my own was probably on business trips or when I went to coffee school (yes, there is such a thing). Luckily for me most of this time and those trips were in Portland, Oregon. That is a fantastic city to be on your own in. I never felt uncomfortable. People would talk easily to/with me. I would go to music stores (physical store chi’ren, not like the iTunes store) and chat with people there. Or I’d eat at the bar at Gustav’s (OMZ! German food! *drools* and blackberry margaritas!) and the bartender would always be chill about it. Even in the evenings when I’d walk (ahem, or stumble) back to my hotel from Gustav’s I’d have a romantically lingering cigarette or two (I quit and now suddenly have cravings again after so many years) and gaze up at the stars and sort of daydream, but at night.

Up there though I actually loved to wander. Weather on foot or in my rental car (gotta love a good rental) and just try to get a tad lost. The last time I was up there my hotel was right on the water and there were all of these little shops and cafes along the shoreline. It was snowing, but I’d still walk along until I was too cold to keep going. Perhaps I was trying to avoid being alone in my room? Hmm. That could be true, actually. And of course all of this was before my fear of germs grew to what it is now which is: Hotels? Ack! Germs! No!

I imagine that with every passing year I should get more accustomed to time on my own. What if I suddenly didn’t have a husband? (For whatever reason, let’s not get morbid.) Or we needed to move out of town for some random reason? What the hell would I do? I get worse later at night. After 10 pm? Any sound at all is to me someone trying to break-in and rob/rape/kill me. Always! It’s irrational, I know. But it pops into my mind without my wanting it to. I should be more comforted by the fact that we live upstairs now, but I’m not. Seems easier in my mind to keep me from escaping with only one exit/stairwell. Or maybe I watch too many horror films. Ha-ha!

I know that none of this is fat related. I do think that it is more difficult to be on your own in public while fat. It’s probably why I rely heavily on my stink-eye look or fuck you glare when I truly don’t want to engage in conversation with anyone (or be seen as vulnerable). It’s why I absolutely hate walking the dog on my own at night (I pretty much won’t do it now, unless my husband is with me). I feel as though I’d be such an easy target for harassment or worse. This pisses me off to no end and that sucks because I should be able to enjoy such things. But we can’t always control our minds, let alone the environment around us. And so I seek refuge in restrooms because most people wouldn’t want to intrude upon whatever it is you/I might be doing in there.

So what can I do to work on this?

Domestic Violence (Trigger Warning Obv.)


I randomly came across this article while Tumbling my day away and felt compelled to read it. When I got to this paragraph I couldn’t stop reading anyway (Emphasis mine):

Acceptance came when I finally shut up and listened to what women around me were saying, what they’d always been saying, what my own life was telling me: that the physical, mental, spiritual violence that men commit against women is so wrapped in the fabric of society that it seeps into our subconscious, poisons our relationships to each other and ourselves. It’s a matter of life and death, not just because of the enormous amount of men that kill women every year but because of the lethal fallout of the patriarchal mindset, which asks us to make insanely unhealthy choices in the name of ‘manning up.’

And then this:

Despite what we’re told, people are hungry to talk about how privilege and power keeps us apart and holds us back. Young men know what’s going on, feel the strain of what they’re supposed to be, but our institutions won’t give them the language of how to talk about it, how to make sense of it, how to survive. What we’re left with is locker room banter and bad tv, an epidemic of crap media culture telling us how to be who we are.

And I see it and have lived it, too. Privilege! It seems to come up almost once a day lately, if not more so. I hadn’t considered it though when examining my own past and abuse. Now? Now I’m looking at it all differently. And people love to pretend that this shit doesn’t happen. Or it only happens to certain groups or individuals or what have you. The truth is that domestic violence happens all of the time, right under our noses. I know this because I survived it. I lived through a horrific ordeal that I will never forget. I live with the post traumatic stress of it and must deal with that everyday.

Like so many harsh realities though, we as a society choose to believe it’s a rare occurrence or worse, the problems of only those suffering at the hands of the violence. The truth is that it affects all of us. We can pretend and deny it all we like, but it’s there! And it is up to each individual to fight against the stereotypes and peer pressures that keep us in this state.To speak up and out and to demand justice! To bring these things to the light and stop pretending and stop allowing others to pretend it’s not there, too.

I’ve often heard that abusers were abused themselves. I don’t know a thing about psychology and what may be behind this, but I can’t say that I believe it entirely either. My abuser may have been abused as a child or even later in life, I don’t know, but we choose how to conduct ourselves in the world. I feel that we are individually responsible for our own actions. But I can see how patterns of abuse can continue unaddressed for generations. We love to hide and lie, don’t we? (Humans, that is).

I have a difficult time even watching movies or television shows that depict anything close to what I experienced. Specifically, a film that I otherwise would have enjoyed, the reboot of “The Amityville Horror” which hit theaters in 2005, starring Ryan Reynolds. There were the classic horror stylings and scary moments that one might expect, but what freaked me out, pulled me out of the movie all together, were the scenes of the main character played by Mr. Reynolds, going after the wife character and what he was saying and trying to do to her. It rang too true for me. It made me nauseous, tense and jittery. It brought up a lot of stuff for me. While my friends were talking excitedly about the scary bits of the movie (the bathroom scene! Nice!), I couldn’t get my mind back into the present. I sort of mentioned this to my husband after the fact and can guarantee I will never watch it again.

And as I get older it seems I remember things more clearly and then have to address these sudden revelations/realizations in the context of my life as it is now. And it ain’t easy! But it is what I call self-work. I am at peace with a lot of my past. I don’t think I would go back and do things differently (it took so much to get me where I am now), but I also don’t think much could be done to change the course so to speak. Somehow that violence was dealt to me for some reason. Who knows? I choose not to perpetuate it. I choose not to strike out at people. I choose to manage my anger and frustrations. We all make choices. We all look back with a suspicious eye sometimes. But we need to keep having these difficult conversations about uncomfortable topics in order to rid the world of this shit, ya know?

What do you think?

If you would like to talk in a more private way, contact me directly: I will not judge. I will not pity you. You can vent/rant/cry/yell/etc…


Computer use can be monitored and is impossible to completely clear. If you are afraid your internet and/or computer usage might be monitored, please use a safer computer, and/or call the National Domestic Violence Hotline at 1−800−799−SAFE(7233) or TTY 1−800−787−3224.

Reach out! Speak up! There is help and judgment-free people who can and want to help!



TMI Tuesday: Suicide (TW)


**Trigger Warning for talk of suicide both as a concept and my own personal thoughts/memories. **


People who are suicidal don’t want to die, they want to be free from the pain. This I believe wholeheartedly. I have been there. I was sometimes unable to grasp that it was simply the pain of living a life I did not choose to live, but deep down I felt the urge to do anything to take control over something and suicide did seem a viable option back then. I can see this now, of course, in hindsight. Back then I was blinded by it all, by my own perception of things, certainly.

I did believe at age fourteen that killing myself would be the only way. But then something changed. I fell into such a depression (now this was both before and after I met my abuser), that I suddenly convinced myself that suicide was too good for me and that the worst possible punishment, which I believed I deserved, would be to live! To endure the life I was living suited my path for personal detriment so perfectly, that daring to consider suicide seemed a luxury. Sick, no?

I allowed my emotions to rule my life. Every new little turn of events left me a devastated and crumpled, weeping ball of despair. Even after I escaped my abuser, the depression’s grips still clung to my heart. Everything requiring my attention left me exhausted. My new job, while fun and exciting, made me feel the need to play a role. I would hide my emotions from my new friends and co-workers the best I could, but my old friends knew the real me. Why they put up with it I’ll never know. I was the truest of Debbie Downers. I was Eeyore incarnate! A thick, heavy, black cloud really did, it seemed, follow me. I couldn’t shake it.

Then I began dating again. Now kids, this was when the internet was new and exciting and fun. This was when things like Prodigy and AOL had chat rooms where you would talk with people all over the world about a given topic (usually the name of the chat room was the topic to be discussed). I met far too many people from those chat rooms in real life. I had no self esteem, thought I had no value as a person. I did dangerous things. I met strangers in parking lots and hotel rooms (not in that way, surprisingly). I had a long distance relationship (if you can even call it that) with a guy in New Jersey (Dear Maude, we even had a song!). I was trying to be an adult. I was trying to try to be me. But I didn’t know what that was or what that should feel like.

Every new guy I met or dated or kissed lead to pure devastation! I was a heartache magnet! And I would revel in each rejection and break up and drive myself absolutely batty over it. I can’t even remember 90% of their names, but man did I think I loved them to no end at the time. Ya know? Then I met someone while working a gig for a music industry magazine.

It was a dark and dank club. I was only 19. Thinking back, I looked hot as hell, but I hadn’t a clue back then. He caught my eye, but I pretended not to notice him. Why allow an opportunity for rejection? I stuck to my task of talking with fans and giving out promotional goodies and chatting up the bands in attendance. As I was beginning to pack what was left of the goodies back into my giant tote bag, he leaned over and said something snarky about the band onstage into my ear. I was shocked. That band was the one I was supposed to be promoting, but he was right, they did suck! He asked if we could chat outside, I said yes. We talked and he walked me to my car. Then for some reason (I can’t recall how it happened) he was in my car as I was getting gas up the road. Then we were in his truck heading out to the beach. WTF?! I know, right? But that’s how it happened. It was magical, like out of a movie. The chemistry was electric! We made out in his truck at the beach that night into the wee hours of the morning. When the sun came up we headed back to get my car. I was smitten!

We saw each other almost every other day for the next two months. It felt like years and minutes simultaneously. Often we wouldn’t even have sex. We would usually take a shower and I would want to jump his bones, but I think he was on anti-depressants or something and so we would just lie naked on his futon and talk all night long. He was gorgeous! He had hair down to his ass. I loved to brush it and keep it nice for him. In the mornings he would get up to go to work and put on a suit and tie! First time I’d ever dated a guy with a career. Those ties? They kill me to this day. Put a rocker dude in a suit and I’m putty! Anyway, things started to get a bit weird when he got a letter from an ex girlfriend. Soon he started to call me his, “Little Ska Girl” (which I wasn’t) and make other remarks, “You’re only 19!” and I blindly played along.Then his ex came to town to “visit” and insisted they were just friends. I even talked to her on the phone a couple of times when he wasn’t home, she always said how highly he spoke of me.

The night before my 20th birthday I was at a friend’s place. We lived on lean cuisines and Jose Cuervo, lemme tell ya! Whew! But I had just found out that I’d gotten a promotion at work and wanted to celebrate and thus left him about five phone messages. He called me at my friend’s place (this is before cell phones, chil’ren) to tell me that he couldn’t see me anymore. He loved me so much that he just knew he wasn’t good enough for me. There were far better guys out there for me. He insisted it had nothing to do with the ex (or that she was a dominatrix and he a classic submissive) and simply that he couldn’t bear to keep me away from what was better for me and my future. What the fucking fuck?! I was beyond devastated! I begged for him to stay with me. To see me. To ANYTHING!!! I begged!!! He hung up.

I cried. I drank a bit (not much as I think I had a mental plan at that moment) and later, after telling my friend that I was fine and just going home, I drove out to that same beach the night I’d met him. It was cold and the winds were fast. I got out of the car and walked out to the edge, where the parking lot becomes a mix of cliffs and paths down to the beach below. I stood on this one particular cliff’s edge and watched as the toe of my boot made some rocks crumble and tumble down. I realized how far up I was. How rocky and nasty and ugly it was below in the dark. I watched the water crash on those same rocks. I knew I wouldn’t survive the fall. I walked back to my car and sat for a few minutes. I think I had a cigarette. I was as clear headed as one could possibly be (or so I thought). I tidied up my car a bit, wouldn’t want anyone to find it a mess (ha!). And then I walked back to that same cliff’s edge. I stared and stared and decided what must be done. Just then my pager went off, it startled me! It was my friend, checking on me. Getting startled like that made me have to pee, like really bad! There was nowhere to go for miles. So I walked over to some sandy bushes and peed in the great wide openness of the night. Feeling the wind on my ass and the relief of the moment gave me pause. I looked at my beeper again. I thought of my friend, Steph. I knew if I didn’t call her within twenty minutes she’d start paging me every five until I called her. So I got up, flipped off no one in particular and walked back to my car. A large truck drove by with headlights the size of my head. They were so bright turning away didn’t help and I felt nearly blind for a moment. But I also felt a sense of myself for just a second. I started the car, lit a cigarette, cranked up my radio and headed home.

It sounds like such a simple thing. It may seem that I didn’t intend to kill myself at all and that I was just looking for some sign that I belonged in this world. It’s possible, I suppose, but I knew in heart what my intentions were. I felt so alone and unwanted that I didn’t believe that anything could shake the feeling of absolutely needing to do that. As I was driving I started to think of my dad and my siblings, of my grandma and my friends. Man, they’d be so pissed at me! Ha-ha! I do think I laughed a little at that. I pictured my friend Summer’s face all twisted with anger and I fucking laughed at the absurdity of being angry at someone who died (at their own hands or not). I wish I could say that this was a major turning point for me, that I pulled myself out of my funk after that night, but I didn’t. I suffered for a long while after that night. That breakup did me in like no other ever had or would again. There is a certain song that I played, on repeat, for weeks on end. I would come home from work and sit in my room and listen to it over and over and cry and cry for hours until I had no tears left and went to sleep. No one knew this. You’re the first to know, actually. When I hear this song now? It jars me. I am instantly aware of the pain and the suffering and what I put myself through, too. It seems now an old familiar thing, a burden lifted and forgotten, back to remind me of what was. That same year I got two Chinese characters tattooed on my left shoulder blade. I rarely tell anyone what they mean out of embarrassment. I usually say it means happy birthday or something cheesy. What they really mean says more about myself at that time. The mean: Everlasting Pain (I would like to have them covered, but haven’t chosen with what just yet. And I am very broke.)

I was lucky. I had friends. They stuck by me, too. Even when I was at my worst. They would come over and put up with my roommates just to make sure I was okay. We would drink the cheapest wine in the world and have a total blast, even for a few hours to take the pain away. They didn’t know what I went through in the abusive relationship (only Summer knew). I started to date again, even met another guy online and he sold everything he owned to move out to CA from TX for me. UGH! What a mistake! Ha-ha! He was a mooch and a liar. Big news and big whoop. I was too tired to be hurt by him by then. What’s funny is that just a week after my birthday and promotion my boss had me conduct interviews for our x-mas staff. My first interview was my now husband. I hired him! You just never know what life will bring, man. You just never fucking know!

My depression stuck around for about a year after that beach incident. I told my two BFFs about that night. We laughed about it. One still says to this day that peeing in the great outdoors saves lives and reconnects us all with nature. Ha-ha! It’s true, in a way. I would rather it not become a trend though (just sayin’). I was in love with love and had no identity of my own. I was lost inside myself and felt trapped. It took a lot of self work, but damn, I am so glad that I got through that dark time. This is no fairy tale, I still struggle with depression. I have always struggled with my past. I hope to one day heal from it entirely. I try not to let it weigh me down. I consciously work and try very hard every single day to keep those feelings in the past. They threaten to come back always, but I know who I am and I know now that I want to live. And I will. I will live to see at least the age of 87!

I share my story here not to gain pity or sympathy, but to let others know that they are not alone. We’re never truly alone! People do care about you and want you to be happy! It seems a foreign thing in your moment of darkest despair, but I can assure you as a survivor that you don’t want to die. And there is a way out of the pain!

Call the National Suicide Prevention Lifeline at 1-800-273-TALK (8255), a free, 24-hour hotline available to anyone in suicidal crisis or emotional distress. Your call will be routed to the nearest crisis center to you.
Website here:

Or email me here: Reach Out: I will listen and I will not judge.

Thank you for reading and helping me on a daily basis. You rock my socks!




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