I don’t even know

I don’t write much anymore and I think that’s a sad thing honestly.  Writing used to be something I enjoyed, then school and honors classes took over.  I can’t write stories anymore because I’m either afraid to or I’ve just written so many papers that I cannot bring myself to.  I don’t know that I should continue writing, I realize that I should for health purposes but it has become very difficult to write in light of things.  I’m just realizing that I’ve had some form of clinical depression that has only progressed in the past year, as well as an anxiety disorder of some sort.  I’ve taken a step in the right direction (I hope) and am enrolled in therapy, I’m not too happy about the therapy as a result of it being forced on me but I hope that it’ll help.  I’m very stressed and I don’t feel like people would read what I write, but I remind myself that’s okay.  I write for myself and I think I should do it more often.



I breathe in the sharpness of the cold air gladly. Another breath comes and another, my blue eyes shoot open and my pupils adjust dramatizing the rest of my blue eyes that seem to burst with colors during the adjustment. I sit upright in the dewy grass and inhale the scent. Everything is perfect and beautiful, the sky is blue, not bright blue but between dark and light leaning toward dark just as I prefer it to be. I smile because there’s no bugs, no sun and yet dim light coming from the sky. There’s a faint scent of the salty waters I had visited in Washington the year before. My senses are heightened and I can almost taste the water. I’m about to get up when an outstretched arm appears seemingly out of nowhere, the man looks and me and nods toward his hand. I take it and he lifts me up quite clumsily. I nearly fall because the lift up is so sudden.
“I’m sorry” he says.
“For what?” I reply, still looking around in wonder.
“Because I know how much this means to you. How much you love and want this. You’ve forgotten your worries and all you remember or know is the happiness that awaits you if you stay.” He says it with great pain as if every word stings the very tongue they roll off of. His accent is thick and Italian, I look up at him and see that he is very out of place here. Everything seems prestigious and clean here and I know I fit perfectly because of the state of my hands and the way I feel. He’s rugged with wrinkles and stubble on his face. Middle aged, dark brown hair and a grave look on his face. Yes, very different from all of this.
“You must understand I wish you could stay,” He says, “I am your friend, I don’t wish to hurt you. I wish to help you and your family.”
“What are you talking about?” I ask bewildered.
“This will sound crazy but trust me” he says softly yet sympathetically.
He leads me to a white door in the middle of the grass field. There are sections of different settings, they’re all uniquely beautiful. They are slivers that begin with the door and branch off to become bigger and resemble a clock in format.
“Understand that this is your perfection, these sections are what you want, they’re the natural beauties that you love. You can choose to stay but that door will vanish. I need you to go through the door, I know it’s a lot to ask from you and that you’ve not known me for very long but it’ll be for the best I promise.”
I can’t believe what I’m hearing and after a minute I finally respond “Why?”
“They miss you too greatly, it wasn’t in the book, it was a mistake. I fix those mistakes” He answers.
“What book? I… I just don’t understand” I stammer.
“The book of destiny, the book where your futures are written, rewritten and set. New things are put in it daily but the book made it clear that although things are always in motion and changing your destiny of this day cannot. Too many things would come after. It would set off a deadly effect. That’s why you need to go back. I’m sorry, I wish you could stay because it is really beautiful you know” he says.
I look up at him and feel this need, a need to go through the door. A warmth caresses that feeling with the reassurance everything will be alright and so I open that perfect gleaming white door and step through.

I do not find perfection through the door. I find a broken body, sad, mangled and bloody with tubes stuck into it. The beeping is steady and people are crying and a middle aged woman is holding her hand. MY hand actually. It’s the truth to hard to bear. Tears stream down my face as I suddenly can’t walk nor breath and I go back to being broken and I know what comes next. I have to be put back together. The man picks up my broken mangled soul, the one who had been in that perfect world and paired it with my broken mangled body. The last thing I remember was his smile and a soft thank you. He told me to remember the scars wouldn’t define me. That I should love myself because my beauty was on the inside. He would find me again when it was time.

And then I woke up broken and in pain, choking on the lump in my throat wishing for perfection again.


Sometimes you just lose your will to live and that’s okay until it lasts.  Until death isn’t just that thing you think about when your lonely.  It starts out at the end of a corridor as a whisper and soon the thought echoes and bounces off the walls.  It becomes the only thing you can think about day and night.  You stop caring and you detach yourself from everything, longing to be saved although you know if you detach yourself no one can save you.  You know you’re the only one that can save yourself but maybe you don’t want to be saved.  Maybe you’re tired of saving everyone else.  Maybe you just want to let go and hope for the best.  Death beckons me, I hear its call.  The sound of its name bounces off the walls in my mind growing ever so louder.  It screams and screams for me to join it but not today death.  Not today.  I may hold onto almost nothing but it’s just enough to keep me from finding where the voice of death comes from.  It keeps me from walking down the corridor to meet it.  Find a way to hang on for those of you who know what I speak of.  You never know when something good will happen.  There’s a book I read once called “Girl Over the Edge” by Amy Kinzer.  In it there’s an old man convincing a girl not to jump off a bridge and he tells her the story of the kid who jumped just a few weeks before.  This kid wanted to become an actor so badly but couldn’t seem to land a part and one day he decided to end the pain.  What he didn’t know is a week later they released a cast list and he had landed the major part in the play that would have changed everything.  You see, you never know what tomorrow will bring so hold on a while and stay away from death, don’t walk down the corridor because your luck could change.  Remember that someone loves you.  If you can’t think of someone, I love you.  Stay strong because everyone deserves to be loved.  I don’t care that not many will see this.  I don’t care if no one will read it but I have to try because people are worth it despite how awful they are sometimes.  They need someone sometimes and I’ll be there for whomever really.  Just people need to know they’re loved and that they matter.  They need to know that tomorrow could be better and they’ve got to stick around to see what will happen.

There we stand.  Looking out over the city as the sun sets making it seem as if the town is ablaze.  His hand slowly makes its way toward mine.  I can’t.  So I leave.  I’d rather not have to live with the guilt of killing him.  He calls after me.  I go down the rocky side of the mountain stumbling into a forest.  I’d have to walk home. 


Wow.  I don’t even know where to start.  Well hello there followers.  I haven’t been on here in a while.  Honestly I’m a bit upset because I haven’t written in a while either but I’ll try to :).  I’ve been super busy so yeah…  Anywho if you guys have anything you want me to write it’d actually help because right now I’m not sure what to write.  Hopefully I’ll be writing something new soon.

Ta Ta for now :)


P.S-I don’t know why I wrote “Ta Ta.”


“It’s like nothing I’ve ever felt before.  My mother told me when I was eight what love was like.  True love in her words.  I wonder what happened.”  She says.

“Stop it Emma” Her father says.  

“Apparently it wasn’t true love!” She screams angrily. “In order for it to be true love both parties have to be in lov-” she’s cut off by him slapping her across the face.

“It wasn’t my fault she killed herself because of it I didn’t know” her father screams enraged at his daughter’s outburst.


The very same year her mother told her about love was the year her mother was attacked in her own home.  She was slashed across the face, her eye swollen shut.  Ever since then her father just didn’t look at her mother the same.  

“Your mother chose death.  She chose the easy way out and I’m sorry because I know that’s hard for you.” Her father says calmly.


The look on her faces displays fear as she knows she’s gone too far.