Dear Person,

I never thought I would be doing this and yet, here I am – writing you this letter.  Of course, you will never read this nor receive a handwritten copy so I’m really *not* doing this.  However, I got this idea from a client of mine.  Not that I hadn’t heard this before but when she brought it up she made it sound almost magical.  I am writing this letter to you.  Then I will read it.  After that I will read it once more, which will be followed by my decision on whether to send this to you.  I know what I’ll decide.

I will never let you read this.  Why? Because I’ll look like an obsessive and delusional girl.  Wouldn’t want that, now would we? Let’s get started for real this time.

Dear person,

I don’t know you.  I only know what you let me see of you, which admittedly isn’t much.  Who could blame you?  I’m the girl in your class with the resting bitch face that rarely talks to more than one or two people – you not being one of them.  You probably think I hate you.  I am 90% sure of this.  I never start a conversation with you and I rarely smile at you as I pass you in the hallway.  If I was you I would definitely think you hated me, and that would intrigue me honestly – that tends to be the effect I have on people.  I’ve learned this and I’ve learned to love it and depend on it to make people buy in to this image I’ve created of “mystery girl”.  I guess I’ve always been like that but now it’s more pronounced because I’m aware of it.  Anyway, this is about you.
I know very few things about you and I honestly don’t find you that interesting or attractive.  It’s not you, it’s me.  You are probably not a wonderful, charming, kind, humorous and intelligent soul.  Who is?  Or who the hell knows, you might be.  What I’m trying to get at is that I create fantasies and you have become one.  I’ve seen our future and it’s not a bad one – compared to others I’ve seen of me with what’s-his-name.  This time it’s just you and me, me and you.  Two little professionals making the world a better place, one client at a time.  You really can’t blame me for the fantasies, though.  I am an INFP after all.  I have this smaller fantasy that you would smile at me tomorrow afternoon and say “Hey, ___.” *insert crooked smile because those are the only smiles I like*  You would make stupid yet funny conversation, notice I did not say conversation about the weather (do that and I’ll literally drop-kick you).  Then, you would suggest we go for a coffee date, “Hey, we should definitely talk about this later, like at Starbucks or something.”  “Oh, sure! Sounds good.” is what I would say.  So then we go on our coffee date.  We have a few laughs, many smiles and I leave feeling hopeful and hopeless at the same time.  Because no one will ever be enough for me.
Nothing will ever be enough for me.  I want too much.  So much that no one could possibly satisfy this want – a want I am unable to put into words.  Don’t feel too bad… You never really had a chance because I refuse to set myself up for the possibility of another disappointment and heartbreak.  Like I said, it’s not you, it’s me.
Anyway, thanks for reading this.  Don’t worry about asking me out for the coffee date.  It would’ve been amazing at best but knowing me, I would have never let it amount to anything.  I saved you from my indecisiveness and from my bitchiness.
You’re welcome.
Except I’m not a bitch.  I am indecisive, though, no getting around that!
Anyway, have fun in class and let’s try to not make more eye contact when we accidentally catch each other looking at the other.  It’s gotten kind of annoying now, tbh.  (and also kind of cute but that’s irrelevant).

Giving up before I’ve even tried.


When you’re fucking depressed

the whole world is dark.

When you’re fucking depressed

you write this kind of shit through tear-filled eyes.

When you’re fucking depressed

you feel like that’s all you’ll ever be.

When you’re depressed

you could never imagine turning over a new leaf.

When you’re depressed

it’s hard to see things differently.

Being depressed

is not a choice.

Being depressed

is being caught in a trap.

You don’t know how you got there

and you know you’ll have to sacrifice something to break free.

Making that choice,

Making that sacrifice is deciding which limb to cut off.

You know it’ll hurt like hell

and you know it’s your only chance at surviving.

Being brave means you allow yourself to feel all of it at once.

You don’t shy away from the pain, the fear, the anxiety, the mistakes.

You welcome it with a hope you’ll break through it all.

Leaving the depressed state is standing with feet firmly planted, facing that dreaded wave of emotion knowing it’ll sting like needles as it crashes over you and knowing you will feel refreshed and renewed once you make it through.

And you’ve made it through.

I contemplated running out of the room.  He would have been so frightened.  Especially because he considers himself extremely paranoid.  But I still thought about it.  Running out of the room seemed like the best way to get my legs to stop trembling.  It’s as if they begged me to escape that room while I still could.

This isn’t what you want.

This isn’t what I planned for.  I feel trapped.  I’m 23 and stuck.

Oh, but it is what you planned for.  You made all of this a reality from what was once only a probability.

I didn’t think it would turn into a prison.  I never imagined I would feel chained to this chair.

The grass is always greener on the other side.  You will always want more.  You will never be satisfied.

It’s a curse.

That it is.

It’s not that I don’t want to nor want to;

It’s all about how I’d like to still respect myself when I wake tomorrow.

It’s not about you;

though I do like you.

Your eyes are like unreachable stars in that I strain my neck for both;

and I crave to know more.

You don’t know me like I know you;

and I don’t know you in the one way I really want to.

You nod your head to say goodbye,

words invade my head like a tsunami

and I am left, with lips parted, begging you to stay another minute.

You can’t hear me.

You won’t listen.

You don’t know.

It’s always the same; every day we desire to know and be known and every day we are the ones to get in the way of that.  We stop ourselves from moving forward.  The fear stops us from advancing, the fear is so strong and we unknowingly feed it day after day… When will we wake up? When will we stop? Won’t you help me?

I sometimes feel lonely.  I’m always alone.

Alone doesn’t mean you’re lonely.  However, lately these two are interchangeable for me.  I have no one to talk to.  I have no one I feel comfortable texting to discuss the latest, irrelevant and simple thing in my life.  I would feel like I’m bothering them and that they have better things to do than listen to me go on and on about this new cute boy.  To be fair, I haven’t dated anyone since high school (six years and counting) so I have some right to be excited about possibilities.

I have so much I want to say.

I’m afraid if I type it the words will be accompanied by tears.  I’ve never felt more alone.  I hate this feeling.  This is not normal for me.  I usually enjoy alone time but lately all it is doing is reminding me I have no close friends my age that I can call up without hesitance.

It’s my own fault really.  I’m the worst introvert ever.  I’m insecure.  I feel like a bother.

What the hell is wrong with me…?

TL;DR: I have a crush on this new (cute) guy in the grad program and I wanted so badly to talk about it/him with a friend and I realized there was no one I could text who would actually want to listen to this.  I want to cry but I won’t.  I know the tears will never stop if I allow them to start.  I’m going to watch Impractical Jokers now to forget about how sad, lonely, and miserable I am. 🙂


I’m alive.  In case any of you were wondering.  Is this blog private? I have no idea if it’s public or private, if I have any followers, if it’s real, if any of this even matters?  I have no idea.  However, I will continue to write.  Once a year.  At least that’s what it seems like, haaa.

Anyway, I am about to start my second year in the counseling graduate program and I am so so happy to be on this path.  I want to help people.  I want to convey to them that someone does care about them and is willing to listen to them.  I love doing that.  I wish I could do it for my mom…

Do you ever feel hopeless? Do you ever feel like nothing will ever be the same or normal ever again?  And that you will possibly never be happy like you used to be?  How do you deal with that?  What can ease some of that pain?  How can you take away some of that pain from the person who was hurt the most?  I wish there was a way to transfer some of that pain and burden from one person to another.  I would take my mom’s pain and hurt twofold if it meant she would be a fraction of the person she used to be.

How ridiculous am I?  I’m hoping and wishing my mom can return to who she was before this all happened.  That’s impossible.  It’s audacious to desire such a thing.  It’s as if I’m asking she forget how much she was hurt and try to live as if it never happened.  How could I?  It’s selfish to desire that.  I will admit it.  But is it so selfish to desire she forget if I know my mom won’t feel as hurt and will have some normalcy again? Is it so bad to wish we had a magic wand we could wave around someone’s head to erase all their painful memories?  Is it wrong because we want to pretend as if it never happened or is it wrong because we want to avoid that uncomfortable feeling of listening to how much someone is hurting?

I have no idea what the right thing is.  I have no idea what to do.  I can’t do anything.

I’m back.  I turn to this space when I feel like I have no where else to turn.

I feel hopeless. Useless. Desperate.

The power I wish I had is something we all dream about.  I can’t take her pain away.  I can’t magically make her wounds disappear, never to be thought of again.  If I could, I would soak up her pain, her hurt, her memories and carry them with me until I hit my grave as long as it meant she would never be bothered with them again.  I would do anything and everything for my mom.  She doesn’t deserve this.  She deserves more than anyone else I know.  Hasn’t she been through enough, God? It’s more than enough.  I just don’t understand.  I don’t think I’ll ever understand.  I’m not sure understanding will even make me feel any better; it probably will make zero difference.  I want answers.  I want resolutions.  I want an obvious change.  I want something I can’t provide.  I want to give something out of my control.  I want my mom to be okay.  I love her.  I can’t stand hearing the hurt in her voice when I call her up.  I’m two hours away and there’s nothing I can do.  There’s nothing any of us can do.  There’s nothing she can do.  I heard that “sadness flies away on the wings of time” but I suppose it has yet to take off.

The past could’ve very well been a lie.  Our present is an unending nightmare.  The future is clouded and makes no promises.  There’s nowhere to run.