The Rundown

I've always liked to write. I would read books all the time as a kid for enjoyment and sometimes to escape my reality. When I was a teenager, I was into poetry and wanted to be a singer in a band, trying my best to write lyrics and learn guitar. At one point, I was living with my mom and she found my journals. Of course, a lot of the songs were about how shitty I felt all of the time. Well, she took this personally and yelled at me for a while about it. I realized that I had no privacy and I ripped them all up; every single one. I had at least three notebooks full of writing and sketches and I tore up everything.

I would like to try to write again. I’d still like to try to write lyrics and maybe sing, but that would involve me exposing myself to new people and having them see and hear my work, which sounds completely terrifying to me. I will probably write garbage and hoard it like Smaug. I would like to start writing again even though I sing like a bad Courtney Love impersonator and I'm pretty sure that ship has sailed.

I’m one of those people who will cut ties and burn bridges with no hesitation or remorse. If I get into an argument or if I had a breakup, I would give back anything and everything they had ever given me. I want no reminders. I don’t want to think about someone I trusted betraying me. So take all of your shit back please. Oh, god. This is turning into a diary and it’s just spewing out like word vomit. Well, hopefully you will just scan and not read all of this. I have the self-esteem of a rotten potato.

I recently found out that I have bipolar disorder along with PTSD, so I've been struggling a lot with all of that lately. I essentially quit my job; I don't think I'll be able to return. I have been taking a look at my priorities and trying to make some adjustments. My mom was always working, and as a single parent I knew she had to. She got to the top of her field before she just spiraled downwards. I don’t know what happened. I was supposed to go to my aunt’s for vacation over the summer and I never went home. There are a whole slew of stories about that time in my life. It was tumultuous to say the least.

I worked my ass off to give my kids everything, and turns out they don’t care and they don’t appreciate the things that they do have. So, I will try and pursue something that doesn’t tear my mental health apart and something that I feel good about doing. I have always wanted to make a difference in the world. Now I’m starting to think that that is simply part of my disorder thinking that I am special enough to make a difference and that I was meant for something great. Now, I doubt this. I’m here to live and die just like everyone else. The best I can do is try to do the least damage while I’m here and maybe help a couple people or animals along the way if I don’t off myself before that happens.

Anyway, no reason to be a whiny asshole about it I guess.

Anyway, back to the point. The reason I am here, on this site, trying to write.

A) I'm trying to fund formal yoga training so I can teach adult and children's classes.

B) To try and write again.

C) To get things off of my chest.

So, there it is. Some of the things I write about may be uncomfortable, some may not. I have paintings of adorable donuts with faces and filled a whole sketch book with severed heads. This may turn into some weird diary with obscure poetry mixed in, who knows.