The price I pay is weight gain

I’m here again with some random ramblings. I am at an all time low in the self esteem department. I have gained over 20 lbs this year alone. I cannot stop eating. My love affair with food is toxic and controlling. One reason to blame: my birth control. Since starting the depo shot, I have gained more than 40 or so lbs. I have struggled to lose even the fewest of pounds. I think I’ve pretty much given up.

No. Fuck that.

I am smarter than food, right? I am stronger than food, I think? I just need to change my perspective. Fall in love with cooking and eating healthy. Crave that feeling you get after you out something good into your body. 

I need to start working out as well. I sit in an office 5 days a week, strapped to a chair. My body is starting to feel the effect. I am tired all the time. My body aches and cramps and just plain hurts. I never feel good, oh and my depression and anxiety seem to be gaining a dangerous momentum. 


But..but….but. How?

I love my birth control. I have zero periods, and the only side effect I’ve had are these clinging pounds. I don’t want to stop taking it. I love sex. I love not being pregnant. Oh and please spare me the “you can get pregnant on birth control!” Stories. I know, I have a doctor.

I think it’s going to have to be a day by day basis with little goals to hit. 3 lbs a month seems achievable right? Slow and steady. Then maybe I can start feeling good about myself again.

Maybe I’ll document my journey through writing. Maybe I won’t. I haven’t decided. 

We shall see.


I’m living the wrong lifeĀ 

It’s true. This life is not what I want, what I need. This Is not how this should play out. I am supposed to be happy. I am supposed to be fun. To be bold. When did I become this hollow shell of a person? How did this happen? I could blame it on a million things, but I think it’s my fault.

All my life I have lived for others. For my family, for my friends, for men. Never for myself. It’s funny really, how I’ve changed myself to fit into different molds. Not me. I think I might know who I am, maybe?

I am wild. I am fierce. I am honest. I am kind. I can be harsh. I am loud. I have passions. I love to laugh. Writing used to be my joy, and I’m trying to find it again. I am a wolf. I am beautiful. I love to drink. I love to cook. I love company. I love to read, paint, and dance. I am clumsy. I trip over my words. I am jealous. I am anxious. I am depressed.

I am so much more than I give myself credit for. 

I have a purpose. I am supposed to love without fear, without regret. I am supposed to enjoy life. I am too young to be this bitter, to be this sad.

My life is not over. It’s only just begun.

One day I’ll become easier to love.

I don’t know where to begin. It seems I only come here when my cup runneth over with sadness, fear, anxiety, and anger. I suppose it’s an outlet of sorts. A release that I no longer have in the real world. When is the last time I actually picked up a pen and put it to paper? I haven’t. Not in a very long time. I need to.

I have so many pent up thoughts, emotions, devastations. Maybe if I write them down, I can let go of them. I can start healing myself, repairing the broken pieces. Maybe I just need new glue. 

I find it hard to let people love me, for fear that they will suddenly stop. It has become tiring for my boyfriend to constantly reassure me that he does in fact love me. My brain fights me every step of the way. It plants seeds of doubt in every corner of my mind. “He doesn’t love you. He is only with you for comfort, for safety.” “It’s not true! I am worthy! I love him and he loves me!” I always fight back angrily and try to win. I seldom ever do.

I guess I’m writing this because it’s been bottled in my mind for so long and this is the only way I know how to get it out. It’s much easier to type this, than to write it on paper. One day I might be able to be perfectly normal. To live without sadness or anger. To live without fear or anxiety.

One day I might become easier to love.

Today is not that day.

I’m struggling for words.

It’s been so long since I’ve been able to push out anything remotely coherent. I’ve started therapy to try and work out some issues, maybe she can fix this writers block I’ve seemed to carry for years. Why would anyone ever want to be a writer? The imaginative and creative process is such a fickle thing. It’s quite destructive. I feel like shit when I don’t write and I write like shit when I do write. It’s so turbulent in my head. I wish I could explain. Although, I’m not some special flower, there is someone out there who knows exactly what I feel. So anyway, I guess the point is that I wrote a tiny little blurb. It’s about love or something stupid like that. Enjoy. Or don’t.
Your kisses, they taste different. They no longer breathe a world of life into my soul. They no longer set fire upon my skin. I don’t feel it anymore. That spark, the ignite. This may not be a bad thing. They taste like a fresh morning, a new start. They taste like sunshine after a rain storm, clean and lovely. The fever is gone, the rush, the vivid flames. Now it’s replaced with a safeness, a comfort. Oh how I love the flavor of 2 am conversations, of waking up slowly to find each other under the sheets. It’s a new feeling, a new journey that I’m finding to be a delight. Please, kiss me more often, I crave that new sensation. Your kisses, they taste different.

I want to bid Farewell to the Summertime Sadness

For no discernible reason other than wanting to see my thoughts typed on a screen, I have come back. I have come back to tell a new story. A new tale of woe, so to speak. I’m trying to appeal to the readers, if there are any out there. I want to become a better writer, so I guess that means I shall have to write more. A lot more if I ever want to make anything of value.

It’s always around this time of year that I find myself growing disconnected from my friends and my general life. I start to ache with a strong need of something new and exciting. Something that never ends up coming my way. I frequent my room more often and I bury my mind into books. I staunch off invitations to leave the safety and comfort of my home and I pass up opportunities to spend time with loved ones. In short, I become a hermit. A time to reflect, to think, to create. It aggravates the hell out of people, or at least it used to. I know exactly the cause, and I know most of you will find it ridiculous and absolutely absurd, but it’s a hundred percent true, I promise.

It’s the weather.

Here in good ole’ Florida, it is an astonishing ninety degrees outside with the promise of seventy five in the evening. It’s September, which means that every freaking retail store in the state is already starting to get ready for “Fall”. Pumpkin spice flavours everything from drinks to candy. Everything is orange and black and of course Halloween decorations have started to litter the shelves.

I hate it. It’s hot. Whilst the rest of the country and world have started to cool down in terms of temperature, we have just started to become more humid, more unbearable. I hate the heat, I always have. I have always found that I am more active, more creative and definitely happier when the weather is cooler. I don’t understand it, but it’s true. I get so excited when it cools down. I get to wear jackets and scarves. I get to have fires out on my patio. It’s not miserable to go on a hike outside. Everything feels better. But at this point in time, I am stuck in limbo. I am stuck checking the 30 day forecast everyday and hoping it’s wrong because it doesn’t present a cool down until November. I can’t wait that long. I have Summertime Sadness. I want it to go away.

So I wait, impatiently if you will, for Florida to decide to cool down. I feel I am waiting in vain. I think when my lease is up I am going to find myself somewhere with actual seasons. Somewhere that has an Autumn season. Somewhere with snow. Somewhere very far away from this God awful heat.

Help? Suggestions?

Anxiety medication with the threat of a therapist.

Wow. It’s been quite some time since I have actually written something on this blog, and for that I am sorry. I do know that there are a few people who actually enjoy what I do write so maybe I will give you something to read tonight.

Let me tell you a story. Since I was about 15 years old I have been a depressed kid. My mother will argue with you and tell you it begin much sooner than that, but we will stick with 15. I can’t really remember anything before that age anyway. The depression got out of hand for my parents so eventually I was made to see a Doctor who then prescribed a medication that made me ill. That didn’t work out for me. I wasn’t going to wake up every morning feeling like dog shit because they wanted some chemically engineered medicine to fix the chemicals that were fucked up in my body. No siree. So I stopped taking them. I worked through my shit like everyone should. I had my outlets. I would write, or colour, or sleep copious amounts of time. Mostly sleep. I was just your normal, average kid battling what most ordinary kids go through.

My parents had filed bankruptcy. I was uprooted from my childhood home and moved to a strange place where I didn’t know anyone. For the entire year that I was 15 I was homeschooled so that I could take care of my dad who had major surgery and couldn’t help himself. That could cause depression, right? I was isolated. I don’t blame my parents at all. I am sure at the time I was a rebellious asshole who thought they knew everything but I don’t blame them now. I can see why they did it and I am thankful. I met some wonderful people and ended up being a pretty ok teenager.

I am 25 now. For some odd reason, after highschool, I became a nervous wreck. Now I don’t really discuss any of this so I really don’t know why I am telling you now. Oh wait…it’s because I work better telling my feelings to blank page rather than a person. That’s says a lot about my personality. My anxiety skyrocketed. It hurt to go out sometimes. It would make me physically ill to meet someone somewhere and if I did, they had to meet me outside. I couldn’t just walk into a crowd of people I didn’t know by myself. At night it got worse. My mind would overflow with irrational fears. Stuff I had never worried about before. It came to the point where my sleeping was deprived because I couldn’t get my mind t ever slow down.

Work could be a disaster. I would get a sudden tightness in my chest, break out into a sweat and I would just want to cry for no justifiable reason. People would ask me what was wrong and I never had an answer. After it passed, I would be exhausted and when I was able to, I would sleep for hours just to regain strength to do it all over again.

People told me to see a Doctor. My mom suggested it multiple times but I was determined to not fog my mind or body with drugs that altered my mood. Alcohol was one thing, drugs were another. Alcohol never really helped anyway, unless I got so drunk that I just passed out. If anything, it made it worse.

So a month ago, I decided to see a Doctor. I decided to tell her how I felt. A Doctor that I trust and adore. I have never had that kind of feeling for a person in the medical field. I am terrified of Doctors so it took a lot for me to even talk to her. She put me on a medication that makes me so sleepy. I can’t take it at work, I can only really take it at night or on my days off. I have peaceful dreamless sleep and it actually has helped me tremendously. I go back for a follow up on Friday. She told me if she doesn’t really hear any progress that she is going to put me on a SSRI and send me to a therapist. I don’t want that, but I kinda do. Maybe I just need someone with an outside perspective. Maybe I need to stop whining.

Maybe I should just keep writing. It’s the best therapist I’ve ever had.

Sometimes I have to find my way back

Often times I lose myself. This usually occurs when I am hanging out with people constantly or focused on certain friends. I began to question what I am doing. How I am feeling. I start to feel everything they feel, not to their extent, but feelings none the less. It begins to slowly break me down, destroying my sanity piece by piece. This is a normal occurrence for me because I want to be there for everyone, every second that I can. It’s also very detrimental for me. My moods become a spectrum of emotions. I get angrier more quickly, sadness washes over me more frequently, I get happy, crazy, more outgoing. It’s so weird and random. Then after a while I realize it’s happening and it’s time to rebuild.

I start to pull away. I may switch who I’m hanging out with. I’ll stay holed up in my room. My sleeping patterns will go haywire. I’ll either go to bed super early, or I won’t sleep until the wee hours of the morning. I spend hours playing video games, reading or fucking around on the internet. I become reclusive, avoiding social interaction. My anxiety usually peaks at this time, a sign that I need to relax and just breathe. Because though I need time to myself, I wonder if anyone misses me at all.

I slowly begin to rebuild my sanity back to normal. I become more relaxed after a long period of time and I start the cycle all over again. It’s a process. One, that I know I should break, but I’ve been doing it for so long, I don’t even know how to go about quitting. I’m addicted to this life cycle and it really is quite sad.

I need to make a new life. Don’t ya think?