dear 2014,
i am 24 years old in washington state. i put my faith in dialectical behavior therapy and eating well. this one is for the books.

a wounded deer leaps the highest.

day 6, 10:04 p.m."thank you for calling the washington health plan finder. your call is very important to us."

day 6, 10:04 p.m.
"thank you for calling the washington health plan finder. your call is very important to us."

day 5, 6:01 p.m.it’s been almost 24 hours exactly since the two storms hit, and it’s be great is everyone could crawl the fuck out of my ass.i’m in a constant state of anxiety. i’ll find myself scratching my skin until it bleeds, falling asleep sitting up, breaking out into hives, sobbing on the floor when minutes before i was perfectly okay. it’s indescribable, an ebb and flow that hits my entire body. panic attacks leave me fucking exhausted but my mind is rushing. there are little pieces of paper throughout the house scribbled with notes i write to myself to cope with this fear of forgetting something. when i do finally sleep, i bolt awake and grab my phone to check the time because i feel like i must have slept for hours when it will have only been just a handful of minutes.a part of it is simply not having any of my things. my transition is compacted — i’m housesitting on top of moving. i’m going to be staying at this house through the 15th and then at another house through the 16th and then i’m staying at a final house while watching a second house across the island through the 24th. once that’s done, i’ll go to the garage where my stuff is being stored, pack up what i can fit in my car, and i’ll go to tacoma where i’m staying with my parents. i’ll be staying in tacoma until god only knows when in order to save money to move into seattle.it snowed here heavily for the first time this winter — the first storm. one of the cats went out the door while i was taking a nap. i don’t know how the door opened, but i walked outside in my underwear in 24 degree weather to the dog barking at a growling cat in a bush. i had woken up so fast that everything was still blurry. for a little bit, i wasn’t even sure it had happened. it felt like a dream.last night was tragic. i was standing outside shaking a container of food in the snow for hours, blaming myself. at one point i slipped and rolled through landscaping and threw my hip out of its socket. i sat there in a pile of snow, covered in cat kibble, my arms stinging from nettles, wearing pajama pants that were soaked through, crying and crying and crying looking at this cat under the porch that was just looking at me back.will had no way of getting home in the weather, and his frustration created an emotional chasm that opened deeper and deeper as the night went on — the second storm. his eyes had no warmth to me but instead exasperation and disappointment and impatience and contempt. all i keep thinking is how we are strangers compared to a year ago. i keep thinking that this time last year i was working on his birthday present, sitting on the floor with tears in my eyes looking at his childhood pictures. a year ago we were going to moshi moshi for valentine’s day, and now being snowed in a house with me is dante’s inferno. a year later, i’m sitting on the floor with tears in my eyes because where i am feels like the last place he wants to be.the cat came back.i’m not built for a nomadic lifestyle. i’m a nester. i need my pictures, my knick-knacks, my journals, my books. my friends are all over the country, and my things are what make those relationships corporeal. my things are my history. they give me a sense of being. feeling comfortable where i am is a huge factor in my overall happiness since i don’t have an anchor. i don’t have a house from my childhood or a town filled with relatives, so the home i create for myself becomes my entire identity. i won’t be truly settled for months, and i know that i’m going to feel so fucking lost until then. it’s fucking scary. all i want is for there to be some time where i don’t feel like my heart is going to fall out of my chest and break into a million pieces. there is nothing about myself right now that feels okay."you’re going to be okay."

day 5, 6:01 p.m.
it’s been almost 24 hours exactly since the two storms hit, and it’s be great is everyone could crawl the fuck out of my ass.

i’m in a constant state of anxiety. i’ll find myself scratching my skin until it bleeds, falling asleep sitting up, breaking out into hives, sobbing on the floor when minutes before i was perfectly okay. it’s indescribable, an ebb and flow that hits my entire body. panic attacks leave me fucking exhausted but my mind is rushing. there are little pieces of paper throughout the house scribbled with notes i write to myself to cope with this fear of forgetting something. when i do finally sleep, i bolt awake and grab my phone to check the time because i feel like i must have slept for hours when it will have only been just a handful of minutes.

a part of it is simply not having any of my things. my transition is compacted — i’m housesitting on top of moving. i’m going to be staying at this house through the 15th and then at another house through the 16th and then i’m staying at a final house while watching a second house across the island through the 24th. once that’s done, i’ll go to the garage where my stuff is being stored, pack up what i can fit in my car, and i’ll go to tacoma where i’m staying with my parents. i’ll be staying in tacoma until god only knows when in order to save money to move into seattle.

it snowed here heavily for the first time this winter — the first storm. one of the cats went out the door while i was taking a nap. i don’t know how the door opened, but i walked outside in my underwear in 24 degree weather to the dog barking at a growling cat in a bush. i had woken up so fast that everything was still blurry. for a little bit, i wasn’t even sure it had happened. it felt like a dream.

last night was tragic. i was standing outside shaking a container of food in the snow for hours, blaming myself. at one point i slipped and rolled through landscaping and threw my hip out of its socket. i sat there in a pile of snow, covered in cat kibble, my arms stinging from nettles, wearing pajama pants that were soaked through, crying and crying and crying looking at this cat under the porch that was just looking at me back.

will had no way of getting home in the weather, and his frustration created an emotional chasm that opened deeper and deeper as the night went on — the second storm. his eyes had no warmth to me but instead exasperation and disappointment and impatience and contempt. all i keep thinking is how we are strangers compared to a year ago. i keep thinking that this time last year i was working on his birthday present, sitting on the floor with tears in my eyes looking at his childhood pictures. a year ago we were going to moshi moshi for valentine’s day, and now being snowed in a house with me is dante’s inferno. a year later, i’m sitting on the floor with tears in my eyes because where i am feels like the last place he wants to be.

the cat came back.

i’m not built for a nomadic lifestyle. i’m a nester. i need my pictures, my knick-knacks, my journals, my books. my friends are all over the country, and my things are what make those relationships corporeal. my things are my history. they give me a sense of being. feeling comfortable where i am is a huge factor in my overall happiness since i don’t have an anchor. i don’t have a house from my childhood or a town filled with relatives, so the home i create for myself becomes my entire identity. i won’t be truly settled for months, and i know that i’m going to feel so fucking lost until then. it’s fucking scary. all i want is for there to be some time where i don’t feel like my heart is going to fall out of my chest and break into a million pieces. there is nothing about myself right now that feels okay.

"you’re going to be okay."

day 4, 6:48 p.m.snow is sticking. the cat i am petsitting ran away. fuck you, vashon.

day 4, 6:48 p.m.
snow is sticking. the cat i am petsitting ran away. fuck you, vashon.

day 3, 11:39 p.m.i feel absolutely gutted. i feel homesick for a place in time, paddling up a stream of doubt and suspicion because i am in debt for not being the person i was expected to be. the friendships i’m missing aren’t mine anymore to miss. i’ve let everything go over time and the vacancies are haunting me. their love isn’t mine anymore. i let it go.
i don’t need to be reminded of my weaknesses or my failures because god fucking knows i count them every fucking day. i know i don’t feel happiness often. i know the full spectrum of my emotional limitations. there’s still a silent part of me that deeply resents how i was changed after the rape, and i don’t mean to hang onto that forever but i’m still not used to the person i am becoming. accepting identity after a trauma is like letting go of the helm after seeing the iceberg. it feels fundamentally wrong but it happens every day.
the thing that’s impressive is how many people are talking in my ear at once, saying the same things, “telling the truth” because “no one else has.” the left hand doesn’t know what the right hand is doing — but they’re both stabbing me in the fucking heart trying to prove that they’re strong enough to do it.
you were my sanctuary. you were a sacred place — like an ocean is to the shore: deep, tranquil, beautiful but dark. an ocean has no corners. an ocean has transparency. when i whispered my fears, you encased the words until they floated away and disappeared into the sky. the heart in your chest became the rhythm in my tide. i was untouchable in the lull. the longer we held our breath, the father away the tide’s edge became, the more steps it took to grab your hand. now here we are: rusted, polluted, dry drowning and surrounded by pools of words that can’t be put back in our mouths.

day 3, 11:39 p.m.
i feel absolutely gutted. i feel homesick for a place in time, paddling up a stream of doubt and suspicion because i am in debt for not being the person i was expected to be. the friendships i’m missing aren’t mine anymore to miss. i’ve let everything go over time and the vacancies are haunting me. their love isn’t mine anymore. i let it go.

i don’t need to be reminded of my weaknesses or my failures because god fucking knows i count them every fucking day. i know i don’t feel happiness often. i know the full spectrum of my emotional limitations. there’s still a silent part of me that deeply resents how i was changed after the rape, and i don’t mean to hang onto that forever but i’m still not used to the person i am becoming. accepting identity after a trauma is like letting go of the helm after seeing the iceberg. it feels fundamentally wrong but it happens every day.

the thing that’s impressive is how many people are talking in my ear at once, saying the same things, “telling the truth” because “no one else has.” the left hand doesn’t know what the right hand is doing — but they’re both stabbing me in the fucking heart trying to prove that they’re strong enough to do it.

you were my sanctuary. you were a sacred place — like an ocean is to the shore: deep, tranquil, beautiful but dark. an ocean has no corners. an ocean has transparency. when i whispered my fears, you encased the words until they floated away and disappeared into the sky. the heart in your chest became the rhythm in my tide. i was untouchable in the lull. the longer we held our breath, the father away the tide’s edge became, the more steps it took to grab your hand. now here we are: rusted, polluted, dry drowning and surrounded by pools of words that can’t be put back in our mouths.

day 1, 2:47 a.m.the calm before the storm — today is the day we kick the chair. tonight was our last night together in this house, and the pit in my stomach feels like the mariana trench.

i will remember the kisses our lips raw with love and how you gave me everything you had and how ioffered you what was left of me, and i will remember your small room the feel of you the light in the window your records your books our morning coffee our noonsour nights our bodies spilled together sleepingthe tiny flowing currents immediate and forever your leg my leg your arm my arm your smile and the warmth of you who made me laugh again.— bukowski

day 1, 2:47 a.m.
the calm before the storm — today is the day we kick the chair. tonight was our last night together in this house, and the pit in my stomach feels like the mariana trench.

i will remember the kisses 
our lips raw with love 
and how you gave me 
everything you had 
and how i
offered you what was left of me, 
and i will remember your small room 
the feel of you 
the light in the window 
your records 
your books 
our morning coffee 
our noons
our nights 
our bodies spilled together 
sleeping
the tiny flowing currents 
immediate and forever 
your leg my leg 
your arm my arm 
your smile and the warmth 
of you 
who made me laugh 
again.
— bukowski

The thing about sadness is that it never warns you that it will come back. You’ll end up with an aching heart again, minutes after laughing, and it will feel like you found someone in your house; someone who you thought had left.

W.J  (via daddyfuckedme)

ok this literally just happened to me

(via dissonantmotif)

1 per

i am newly single after 1.5 years of marriage. this year is my 25th year, which is an age i consider to be officially an adult. 25 is an age of productivity and substance, stories, photo albums and accomplishments.

image

the measure that i held myself to for so long is no longer there. it’s like i have been dedicated to this coloring page every day, but suddenly the lines are gone. so this is my question:

do i continue drawing what was there before, or do i turn it around into something else? the possibility of so much is almost as daunting as the possibility of too little.

i am documenting this year with a picture each day (tagged my “1 per” project), hoping that this time next year i can say “i did that, and it was fucking awesome.”