Thursday, July 28, 2011


Lately I'm lost and have been relying more on tumblr pictures than my own words in here. It's summer and for once I just want to relax...feel the sun and stay out of the house, and have no obligations other than a shitty cashier job at night. I'm tired and there is nothing I want other than to write, which I've been compelled to do more and more since I started taking a class once a week. There are things in my brain that keep coming out, and it feels less like writing and more like spilling. Some nights I can't sleep, and I'm too tired to keep typing but the words keep moving past my eyelids and keep me awake. Some things I share in class, others I keep hidden.

School is over. I'm scared for fall, when I will have to stop hiding behind summer and Do Something with my life. I worked so hard to finish "real life" was delayed for so long. But I guess I never believed in a real life for myself, and now faced with it I'm at a loss. I feel incapable of moving forward, and I seem to keep fading further into my past.

I started DBT once a week, and still am not sure what to make of it. It's all familiar, stuff that's been thrown at me for years. But I don't know if I can let myself try.

I started seeing a therapist last week. I was dead set against a woman, and didn't even like this woman the first time I met her. But it's not like anything I've ever done before. I'm broken down into pieces and I talk to them. It's scary and I want to run back into the games I've always played. But maybe it can be different this time.

Sunday, July 10, 2011

my tumblr

Saturday, June 11, 2011


"why don't you talk?"

"oh, her? the quiet one?"

"Why are you so shy?"

"How come you never smile?"

Questions I've heard my whole life. I've inhabited silence until it swallowed me whole, until words disappeared from my lips nearly entirely and stayed in my head, unable to float out. I turned inside out, frozen in myself. My silence protected me, and then it ensnared me. I played dead.

I am always wondering who I could have been in words and facial expressions, who I could have let in. But I am still scared of letting out.

No one ever asked the meaning of my silence. They took it for absence. My silence is not nothingness, it's dense and expansive. It's a language of its own. Therapists and hospitals have left me in it alone, taken it for checking out, for defense, for opposition.

"What is your silence about, in here?"

My eyes spill over. Like someone is dangling a life preserver in front of me and I can't reach it. I am new to words not written on paper. My words are learning to walk on crutches.

Sunday, May 22, 2011

pretty little boxes

I got this box when I was 8.

As I got older it was used for other things

I found it in my basement the other day, thrown into a cardboard box a couple years ago when we had to move quickly. I don't have to hide my razors anymore, they sit out next to my bed with my contacts and glass of water and notebooks, a normal fixture. Gone are the days of lock and key, cheerful childhood plastic boxes.

Once when I was sectioned, they took my box of razors and my knife and stored it neatly in a locker. When I was discharged home they were handed back.

Friday, May 6, 2011

vivid tulips eat my oxygen

"I didn't want any flowers, I only wanted To lie with my hands turned up and be utterly empty. How free it is, you have no idea how free - The peacefulness is so big it dazes you,

...Nobody watched me before, now I am watched. The tulips turn to me, and the window behind me Where once a day the light slowly widens and slowly thins, And I see myself, flat, ridiculous, a cut-paper shadow Between the eye of the sun and the eyes of the tulips, And I hve no face, I have wanted to efface myself. The vivid tulips eat my oxygen. "
~Sylvia Plath

Saturday, April 23, 2011

learning to talk again

I forget that I have a story. All the pieces of my life are so fragmented, detached, as if they happened to someone else. I wish I could put them together, and really feel them, make sense of them, and know that they matter. Even if just to me.


a girl who keeps slipping off,
arms limp as old carrots,
into the hypnotist's trance,
into a spirit world
speaking with the gift of tongues.
She is stuck in the time machine,
suddenly two years old sucking her thumb,
as inward as a snail,
learning to talk again.
She's on a voyage.
She is swimming further and further back"

~Anne Sexton

Monday, April 11, 2011

Secret Weapon

"...just as long as nothing was more important than food. This is how anorexia can save you. This is also how it can kill you. This is where living and dying become the same thing."

Loud in the House of Myself, Stacy Pershall

photos by: Francesca Woodman