I made this tumblr in 2009 when it was basically Xanga, before it became a place for scrolling and plastering found images. This is not meant to be elitist. As tumblr unfolded into such a place, it provided a means of discovering, of communicating and I felt like I was able to be myself the only way I know how, alone. I know a lot of earlier “tumblrs” felt this way too. And now as if it were real life, over the years I’ve become scared, overshadowed by the cool, the likes, the comments the anons. It was a place where nothing matters and it still is, but it makes some of us feel like it does. When nothing is real anymore, it’s hard to keep it up because a cool picture of a cat outweighs someones thoughts that are more than one catchy line long.

When I started this tumblr I was in the midst of what I thought was my deepest plunge in my depression. If you scroll all the way back you can see I entered this place to share my box. A box I got from my biological grandmother, I shared letters and stories from my biological father, just a bunch of shit I kept in that box, I shared. I don’t want to feel like I can’t share things in the only place I have to share things, because I don’t go out in the real world often. So, I’m going back to sharing what I make for myself. Getting real.

Some of what I’m sharing are first draft excerpts (and by first draft I mean way first draft) of a book I’m writing. In these excerpts it may be hard to find the theme of this book, which is what has made me, me. A mess. Like everyone else I suppose. But I am a thinker, it’s all I really can do. So I write. And I use writing as a place of normal-ism. That is important to know.

My stories will be shared out of order. I’ll share the ones that hit me at the moment or ones relevant to my life at a particular moment. My stories are about growing up alone, growing up in situations children shouldn’t experience as normal and how that turned into my experiences as a teenager and of course, now. Now that I am older, and I can look at my past and evaluate it, I can share what variables of nurture can systemically make a person like me and what personally, nature has given me. Some of these things are generally uncomfortable subjects for most people to hear, but as I’ve said, it was my normal. Some of these stories I know I will post, but will be the equivalent to slashing my throat open while the world watches.

I don’t serve as a person of interest for most people, but if any readers have questions or feel the need to share things or want me to validate parts of these stories, tell you more about the people that will be in them (which will always be interesting), anything, just ask.

What I want to stress is that people can be people, and we don’t have to be built up of the images we post on tumblr, just to have that collection be an image of yourself. I don’t want to do that anymore. I was never good at trying to be cool, trying to fit in in any place.

h e r e w e g o

I am a very lucid dreamer. As of late I haven’t been able to find control in them, instead I am just terrified, realizing I am dreaming but I can’t do anything about it. 

Christian has sleep issues. There hasn’t been a night in almost two years that he hasn’t had a full on conversation, got up and started talking, or what happens most often, he screams very loudly about some bullshit and scares the absolute fuck out of me. My heart whips out of my chest when it happens. 

Last night I had a crazy combination of dreams that to mention them would be too tedious, but the gist is I was in turmoil during them and couldn’t get out. Then Christian in real life woke me up screaming my name sitting up, just yelling my name over and over. I started to hear it in my dream then actually woke up and I couldn’t get him to get out of it. 

 He seems so scared, real fucking scared, just like I am in my dream but instead he has to do it in real life. This shit is getting whack. 

I am afraid of getting older… I am afraid of getting married. Spare me from cooking three meals a day—spare me from the relentless cage of routine and rote. I want to be free… I want, I want to think, to be omniscient… I think I would like to call myself ‘The girl who wanted to be God.’
Sylvia Plath, written in 1949 at age 17 (via vamoose)