I concede. I can’t  make myself a morning person. I’m sure I could try but all I would be doing is tricking myself to do things I usually do at night during the day. I’ve accepted the fact that I usually sleep at 2-3am and fully wake up at 2pm. It’s really a vicious cycle. I have noticed that I am listening to music again. I have not listened to music (on a personal whim) for maybe a year and a half. When I “fell” into my debilitating depression I did not listen to music, I did not eat, I did not do anything really besides working. I didn’t feel like talking, I didn’t feel like going outside. All I wanted to do was stay in bed or stay home because I was afraid of crying for no reason. It was really bothersome and it took a lot out of me having to be conscious to not cry at work or at school.

The type of music that I enjoy listening to is 2000s rock or emo. I don’t know what it is about that period that I’m stuck on. I will never get tired of listening to Coheed and Cambria, Death Cab for Cutie (The Postal Service – to be honest Ben Gibbard), Dashboard Confessional (to be honest Chris Carabba), or Panic! At the Disco (to be honest Brendon Urie). Certain albums encapsulated my life at the time that I was listening to them.

Coheed and Cambria and Dashboard Confessional really helped me through the bad years of my life. I was very unhappy at the time – listening to these bands took my mind off of what was happening to me, but also I could relate to some of the songs. The loneliness, the betrayal, the heartache.

From time to time I think of my ex-boyfriend who is probably still playing the bass guitar for a band. He is handsome and funny. He wasn’t very ambitious but he was a very simple guy. He dumped me because I was too ambitious. He told me that he couldn’t stand being with me because he felt intimidated by me. His friends would boast about my accomplishments, his parents would nag him about his lifestyle and compare him to me. I really loved him. Even though he didn’t have a clue of what kind of work I did or how hard I studied for my degree, I loved him just as he was. He made me laugh, he made me feel that I didn’t need to be someone amazing to be by his side. I wanted him to love me the way I loved him – he just didn’t feel that way about me. When I told him that I loved him all he said was thanks. Recalling those key moments, he doesn’t sound like a very great guy. He really is a good guy. He hasn’t had a girlfriend since he dumped me. To be honest, I check on him now and then. Part of me misses him, I won’t deny that. He’s still doing the same thing. Still gigging, barely playing the bass, still working his 9-5 job, still living with his parents. He’s still handsome.

My boyfriend now, was a guy that I really liked while I was dating the bassist. I don’t know. There was just something about my current boyfriend that I was really attracted to him. I was faithful though. I avoided him at all costs. But my current boyfriend had a lot of things that my bassist ex didn’t – muscles and brains. Yeah, I’m shallow, whatever. When my bassist ex started pulling away from me (impending break up) I started working out, dieting, and making myself up. There were so many times the thought would cross my mind, “if I wasn’t dating the bassist, I would so date so and so.”  Well, I got dumped. I really didn’t think my boyfriend would have been attracted to me, I really thought that I was friendzoned from the get-go. He was just waiting for me to be single, so.

There are some times that he’s kind of dorky though. He’s still young, I’m sure he’ll get less dorky when he gets older. We’ve been dating for four to five years now.

Lol I just checked his profile. Still single.




I wanted to continue the morning pages but when I wake up, hopping on and writing is the farthest thing from my mind. I am reading the book my counselor suggested I read. She told me about it last year. I've had the book since November of last year. I have never read it until now. I read it last night. I can only read a few pages at a time. I don't understand why I am afraid. I'm afraid of the words. I am afraid of reading on. My heart is racing, my eyes are tearing, my face and my ears are flushed. The words are common words, but here and there they bring me back to that place. The place I don't want to be. Old memories that have been pushed down and forgotten.

I am alone in my studio apartment. My house is secure. No one is with me. But why do I feel so afraid? No one can hurt me. No one even knows where I live. They don't know my telephone number. They don't even know that I am miles away. I know that I have to continue reading to heal, I know that. But still I am afraid. I'm starting to regret pushing my counselor's appointment to a month and a half. I think I will call her and see her. I think I need to see her. I don't understand, why am I so afraid. Why am I crying? I am not hurt. I am not in danger. Why. Why. Why.

I know what happened to me. I want to get better. I know I have to do this even though I don't feel strong enough. I know I can get through this because I have people who will support me. They will support me even though they know what happened.

I feel fear. I feel anger. I'm so angry. Why did this happen to me? I didn't do anything to deserve this. I was just a kid. I had so much potential. I could've been something. I had hopes and dreams. Why am I stuck? I keep thinking things could have been better if that never happened. Maybe I would've been done with my degrees by now. Instead, I am stuck. Just running in this wheel, making excuses to not finish my thesis. Pathetic, pathetic.

Feeling sorry for myself. Pity party. That's what he would say. Even though he is not here either, I hear him in my head. I hear my mother in my head too. I hear my father in my head, my grandmother. I hear them. Everyday, they tell me how I'm not good enough. Not smart enough. Not attractive. Overweight. Lazy. I hear them, over and over. I can't see past their voices. The whispers are coming back. Why, why. I've been doing so well. The medication, it's been working. They have been quiet. But ever since I started reading this book, they're back, I hear them.

They say I'm a liar. That I should keep it to myself. Don't spread rumors. No one will believe me. I'm not lying. It happened. Believe me, believe me.

I never wanted to be sexually abused by my father. Who would ever wish for that. Heavy breaths, so hard to breathe. My eyes are blurry. I have to read at least a page, two pages, three. I have to. It's hard, it's difficult. I'm still alive, I can do this. I can. I can. I can. Even though –

Rain. Darkness. Breathing. Touching. No, I don't want to. Please stop. Please. Don't do this. Please.


2am. This is the time I am normally in bed. I wanted to idle on Instagram for an hour before finally calling it a day, but I am committed to updating. My last entry was “three days ago”. It was really two days ago. The night before I couldn’t update due to a late afternoon meeting, night shift, and early morning class. The night before I also worked the night shift. I will focus on managing time. 

For some reason I’ve been daydreaming about my friend from my adolescent years. I really miss what we had. I wonder how she is doing now. The last I heard from her (almost 20 years now) she had married and had a child. We haven’t kept in contact. I feel it might have been because of her husband. Before she had a child she had told me that she felt she was falling out of love with her husband. At the time I had finalized my divorce and had encouraged her to evaluate her feelings. 

I daydream about how we would meet up after school. We’d walk to the Mcdonalds on a wharf, right along the bay that is protect from the ocean. We’d buy cans of Dr. Pepper from the exchange or the commissary and pick up an order of large French fries. We’d either eat there and sit by the window. I’d stare out to the dock and look down at the blue green murky water, my eyes tightlining the submerged rope covered in fuzz. I remember her and I walking underneath the cherry blossoms or the bare trees, depending on the time of year. We’d walk all the way to the hospital where her mom worked. Even the sterile smell of the hospital lingered in my nose, the sickly sweet bandaid smell. 

We promised each other that if we never found soulmates, we would be each other’s soulmates. 

I hope she is happy where ever she is.