you came to me when i was broken

Hey everyone, I'm back! Everything in my life has been going so well and I'm happy to announce that I am officially taken. Here is a poem I wrote for my incredible, sexy, smart, loving, amazing boyfriend, Krishani. I love him more than words can explain, but I'll give it a try:

you came to me when i was broken

climbing inside my heart 

sewing the pieces back together

you came to me when i was broken

entering my precious body 

making the pieces beautiful again

you came to me when i was broken

seeing into my damaged mind

changing every thought to artwork

you came to me when i was broken

clinging deeply into my soul

weaving us tightly together

you came to me when i was broken

fixing each part of my entity 

mending me until i was whole,

to just get high and let the blissful obliteration wash over my mind and body.

Seriously? Go fuck yourself. Like I have bad days too, I don't need people bitching at me because I have a simple fucking request. It's so annoying. I have more bad days than good lately and I don't take it out on other people. Maybe it's because I take it out on myself, but still, that's better than being a passive aggressive little fuck.

Ugh, now my day's turned shitty. I think I'm going to go smoke about 15 cigarettes then have a nap. Why does addiction and bulimia have to have such a strong grip on my life? It just makes me miserable. Do you know how much easier it would be to just give into it? To just get high and let the blissful obliteration wash over my mind and body?

Fuck....I just miss it so much. I feel like I lost a best friend or something. Or an husband. My addiction was my love and my life and being separated from it sometimes is just unbearable. I'm not going to relapse but I want to. I want to so so bad.

your body broken like your soul.

Love hurts

It rips the heart apart

As you willingly surrender

Your soul no longer yours.

Love bruises

Hit in hidden places

While you cover any marks

Your head tells you it’s okay.

Love scars

The slaps turn to beatings

And you lie broken on the floor

Your nose dripping blood.

Love destroys

Hope no longer present

So you shoot up to be numb

Your track marks show your pain.

Love kills

No sense of worth

Because you think you need him

Your body broken like your soul.

Love ends

Abuse not worth a life

So you escape his hell

Your heart still aches.

Love heals

Mending all wounds

Even if you never forget

Your scars will still slowly fade.

her forever exhaustion written clearly on her once flawless face.

Back When She Was Beautiful: Part One

She was beautiful once. It was a long time ago. Before she sold her soul to the monster. The devil. It was back when her eyes sparkled with life and love. Before the light burnt out and the life was stolen from her. Stolen and given away to the pills. To the needle. To the tin foil and the pipes. To the street. She once strove for thinness, cursed with curves. But now she's too skinny. All ribs, gaunt, hollow face. Her porcelain skin once glowing, now pale and marked. The scars she sliced into her arm now match the scars on her heart and soul. Cuts that sliced deeply inside and out. The needle she's become a slave to punctures her skin, piercing her veins, leaving track marks down her neck. Down her mind. A complexion once clear is marked with blemishes, imperfections. Dark circles rim her dead eyes. Her forever exhaustion written clearly on her once flawless face. She thought dope would make her more stunning, perfect. She was wrong when she thought it would give her everything, back when she was beautiful.

her ability to break free growing, repairing the cracks in her soul.

This is a poem I have been writing off and on for years. I would always put it down, only to forget about and come across it again months later. I finally found it again and decided to finish it. I finally had the ending. I think writing it in the midst of bulimia and addiction, I could only write the beginning and middle. But now in recovery, I was able to see the finish line. Enjoy.

'ABC Poem'

She was Free

She was alone
Afraid to breath, to bleed
Ripped apart by their stares
Whispers and laughter erupts.

She was aware
Her innocence taken, broken
Each lie shredding the truth
The unveiling of her secret
Revealing of her soul.

She was accused
Blamed for the unthinkable, unbearable
Harsh comments bringing shame
Destroying the stability of her mind
Frustration bubbles over.

She was blamed
Told that she was despicable, deserving
Screams portraying her worthlessness
Shattering any remaining hope
Falling to her knees.

She was battered
Torn to bits by beatings, betrayals
Brutal remarks scar her skin
Searing pain into her soul
Shrieks rupture eardrums.

She was broken
Snapped in half by evil, enemies
Every bash breaking her spirit
Shattering her bones and strength
Tears slide down cheeks.

She was captured
Spirit shackled in rope, reined
Controlling her thoughts and will
Destroying all independence
Silent surrender palpable.

She was compared
Viewed against others prettiness, perfection
Never good enough, a failure
Crumbling her torn esteem
Head slumped in shame.

She was capable
Overcoming the impossible, indescribable.
Her ability to break free growing
Repairing the cracks in her soul
Becoming whole.

got a bunch of bad habits, and i wear 'em like a crown.

So just as I thought I was feeling better, a new wave of frustration hit me like a bus.

Firstly, some weird sketch bag was sexually harassing me via Twitter. So I blocked him and moved on. But it left a bad taste in my mouth. Like I'm the first to admit, I'm adventurous in bed, and am probably considered kinky to many. Plus, I'm bisexual, always have been, always will be. Though I've only ever been in relationships with guys. It's so frustrating that men assume that because I'm not straight or 'boring' in bed, that they can say stupid things to me acting like I'll sleep with them if they make a comment. I'm not a slut. I don't sleep around. I share that intimate part of me with a very select few. So although I'm fairly open about it, it doesn't mean I shout it to the world and share that knowledge and part of me with just anyone. Kinky does not equate promiscuity.

So right after that, my mom got a message on Facebook saying, "I need to talk to you right away". So of course I knew it'd be about me. Something I posted, something I said, lyrics I quoted, my recovery, etc. This for some reason struck a nerve, badly. It just enraged me. Partly because I instantly knew exactly what she'd bring up. There is a band called Down With Webster. They're Canadian and have a combination of rap and alternative rock. It's amazing.

One of their songs says, "Addicted to the lights and sounds. Got a bunch of bad habits and you wear em' like a crown. You're royalty around here baby, get down."

So I was listening to their music, and liked that particular line. Now back in my addiction it may have meant something completely different to me, in fact it did. I was proud of my addiction back then.  I thought I was bad ass, tough, cool shit. I wore my track marks like tattoos. But now, I take those lyrics in a much more positive way. There is this quote I love, that says something about a girl looking in the mirror after all the pain, scars, struggles and still is there and alive. So it says, "She straightened her crown, and walked away like a boss." That is how I now view these lyrics. To me it means I had all these habits, disorders, and now I have overcome them. I have no shame in them They are apart of me and my story. So of course I will wear my strength of my struggles like a crown. And my healed scars like a tattoo that shows all I've been through and have ended up on the other side of.

But of course, to this woman, she probably assumes I've done something or am slipping up and feels the need to tell my mom. I'm 23 years old. I'm an adult. You don't tell my mother on me, It's disrespectful. If you have something to say or are concerned, talk to me. 

This all goes back to that horrible pressure we feel to always be 'okay', to always have a smile on our faces because, god forbid, if we have a bad day, we're going to fall apart! This is so unrealistic and silly. Anyone who knows anything about this knows that if you don't have bad days, there's probably something wrong. It's normal to have ups and downs. And it's so fucking annoying that we all have to hide it and put on our happy masks just to reassure other people. We're trying to remove those masks. We're trying to be ourselves. So please, please, just let us do that! Let us frown when we need to, cry when we need to, scream, shout, yell when we need to. We need to feel all of our emotions authentically, not just the positive ones. Otherwise, we may as well be numbing them all again. Which isn't the goal. So I guess I'm just going to have to be myself and try to ignore when people react like that. It's the only way they'll learn that all feelings are okay feelings. And bad days happen. Recovery isn't easy and never will be.

So keep shining everyone. Don't let people's ignorance stop you from being you.

Much love, xx.

she can never go back and make some of the details pretty, all she can do is make the whole beautiful.

So in case you haven't heard, I've got some issues. I've got scars, scabs, bullet holes, stab wounds, puncture marks, track marks, a broken smile and a gaping black hole of pain. So no, I'm not perfect. Never was, never will be. But you know what? I don't give a flying high fuck.

So you want to know why? Probably not, but I'll tell you anyway.

 I realized, that me, and only me, should be at the top. I may still be climbing my way up from the underground, but don't you worry or doubt me. Cause I'll fucking make it up there. I'll be so high up there that every bitch, ex, loser, and scumbag that ever crossed me will be scared. And those who wrote me off, well, they'll be begging to be my friend. Good, let them beg. But they'll be begging for a lifetime because to me, loyalty, honestly, dedication and real love is key for me. If you didn't have it when I was at my lowest, you won't have it when I'm at the top. Sure, they'll pretend, but it's too late. I've already seen their true, ugly colours. And those who did have my back? The ones that were there for me when I was completely broken, ugly, damaged. Well I know they'll still be in my life, because they deserve to be.

Now, before you think I'm ranting and raving for no reason other than the fact that I'm into myself (haaa, yeah right, have you met anyone with bulimia who loves themselves?), let me tell you how I came to the above realization:

So you all know my ex. The love of my life, turned friend. If a friend is what you want to call it. He has a new "girlfriend" named Tiffany. Cheesy, skank-ass name. So after months of being terrified to check all social media, I finally grew the balls to check. I was so worried that I'd have a mean message from him, or worse, no messages at all. But there were some. They told me that he still loved me, that he hadn't loved anyone else since, and that he wasn't single, but that things were complicated. Anyway, long story short, we decided we'd talk, maybe be friends. Fast forward a bit, bitchany finds out that we're talking and decides to send me a message, demanding I no longer contact him. I didn't reply, why would I give her the satisfaction? But upon reviewing her message, I decided, "Wow, he could have done sooo much better." And I mean, no offence to this girl, it's not her fault she looks like a horse and acts like she's six. Well, sort of. The least he could have done was show some respect and throw a dime piece in my face. Then I'd understand. Then it got me thinking, why was I so upset? She's a downgrade, and he left me when I needed him most. I should only care about the people who have been there from the start, from the bottom, up. 

So I may be being a little nasty, and I may seem arrogant. But I see it differently. I see that they've been nailing it in my head at rehab, at every meeting, at every group that I am worth it, and maybe for the first time, I finally believe it. I finally realize that I am worth every bit of recovery, respect, love, understanding, compassion, etc. And after all the hard work I've accomplished getting and staying sober, I deserve to have a day  and a blog post where I rant in about how awesome I am.

Fuck, I deserve more than just a day. But I guess for tomorrow, I'll try to tone it down a bit. Maybe.

And even though I can't go back in time and fix everything and make it all pretty, I can move forward, learn to love myself and know that my whole is still beautiful. Imperfections and all.

after injury, a scar is what makes you whole.

The first few days after I cut myself, all I felt was guilt, shame, and burning. I was incredibly angry at myself for damaging my skin, which has no marks aside from a freckle here or there. I turned the one thing flawless on my body into something ugly, damaged. And what if they didn't heal properly, would I have to wear long sleeves every day for the rest of my life to hide my embarrassing scars, the ones that showed nothing but crazy and weakness?

My cuts have healed up pretty nicely since then, but are still visible. I'm hoping they do eventually totally fade, but taking care of them has helped make them less stark. And the crazy thing, is that I've almost grown to like them. The first time I went out without sleeves, this cashier looked right at them and gave me this awful look. It was a mix of disgust, and pity. It was like she thought I was gross, but still felt bad for me. At first it bothered me, I went back to wearing hoodies in 90 degree weather. But after a few days, it just made me angry. So, so, so fucking angry. Who was this girl to look at me with pity?

That was when I almost grew to like my scars, and what they mean. Imperfection is beauty. To me anyways. I see imperfections and marks in others to be stunning, but in myself I hate them. Why should I demand perfection of myself, but not in others? People who are damaged are more interesting. Stronger in a way, since anyone who has gone through something and survived, came out the other side with a new understanding. A new strength they gained through survival. And not only is there something beautiful about imperfections, tattoos, scars, anything, but what happens to wounds and scars? They heal. I kind of love my scars because they give me a new hope. I cut my skin, I put a knife deep into my flesh and created open injuries. Injuries not unlike my emotional ones, where there is pain, and blood and damage. But over time, my cuts healed, filling in my wounds with brand new skin. My skin was broken, damaged, un-whole, but my body healed and fixed me, making me whole again.

I used to think people with scars were damaged, unwhole. I used to think people with scars like mine were lost and pained. I had no hope for them. I thought once you were that low, that you would never be able to get back up. Your scars would always give you away. But now I'm seeing that it's the ones whose scars have healed, they're the ones more whole that anyone. Because they've allowed themselves to heal. They've found a way to overcome everything, move on, and let their wounds close over. And if you can overcome that and have the scars to prove it, why not show them off to the world?

This all just motivated me to heal my inner wounds like my outer ones so I can show off those battle scars too. So today I will go out without sleeves to hide who I am. And I dare anyone to look at me with pity, cause I sure as hell don't pity myself for having them. I'm probably even stronger than the person staring.