They don’t tell you..

They never tell you when you’re young, naive and impatient to grow up that it could mean rape, panic attacks, psychologists, heartbreak, and lies.
They don’t tell you as your figure comes in that you get noticed by boys all around and have to learn to watch your back so you don’t become another rape victim, upping the ever climbing statistics.
They don’t mention that you will be stabbed in the back hundreds of times before finally finding someone who will help you watch it instead.
They never tell you that finding, “the one” means enduring heartbreak after heartbreak, shattering your trust in the majority of humans.
They don’t tell little girls that, “becoming a woman” means bleeding through your favorite underwear, never ending cramps, annoying bloatedness, and complicated moodiness.
They forget to mention that driving is fake freedom, given only to a limited few, who are automatically not to be trusted.
They forget to inform you that sometimes coping means slicing, thinking sometimes leads to thoughts of ropes and pills, or that the days never seem to end.
So honey, don’t try to grow up. It’s not what they tell you.


A Downpour of Thoughts

I am a down pour. You know the kind. The ones where you look out your window and it doesn’t look like anything is happening, but you look at the puddles, or go outside, or even focus on the sky for a moment and realize it’s pouring. I am that rain. The one who can go unnoticed, but still does so much damage. The one that is so loved and so hated. I am a breezy, chilly, nearly unnoticeable, painful, screaming, downpour.



Hello, darkness, my old friend.

Silence is darkness, darkness of the ears. But there is no absolute silence. When I stood in an anechoic chamber, all ambient noise sucked out as by a sponge, the roar of blood filled my ears: always there, never noticed before. In 2001: A Space Odyssey, space is silent, as a vaccum is, but what you hear is the breathing of the astronaut. Silence is irrelevant if there are no ears to hear. If there are ears, there is blood and breath.

Silence is John Cage’s 4´33˝. For four minutes and thirty-three seconds the piano does not play. During that time there is silence. Silence of the piano. But the audience breathes, shifts, rustles; the air conditioning hums; cars pass on the street outside. You hear it. It is what you hear, what you had ignored before. The daily blood and breath in the…

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My parents are incredibly service minded. My father is a doctor and my mother has spent the majority of her life trying to figure out new and different ways to help others. I’m all for service, but one of the biggest problems with having siblings who struggle with reading and having them be preoccupied all of the time with service means that sometimes they don’t see the pain that their own daughter is exhibiting. Sometimes they don’t notice that the air around me is toxic, destroying my lungs with every breath. They didn’t notice when I started cutting, and sometimes they just look over me. It’s not that they don’t care or pay attention to me, because they do. They are great people and incredible parents, but it’s easier sometimes for them to overlook the pain. I don’t know how to handle myself. My grades are slipping, teachers are harassing me, and honestly..I don’t care. They have yet to notice that as well..