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He Always Was a Mouth Breather

30 May

So if anyone has followed my series of unfortunate events, I finally graduated out of the teenage angst stage and made it to what seems like a much shittier stage that i’d like to call the “piss-poor-less-fun-and-much-more-angsty” stage. Let’s also ignore the fact that I haven’t even touched this part of the interwebs since September. Yeah, I fell off the beaten path. And to be honest, I’m not even too keen on doing some big huge inspirational post. I think this one is just going to be a really informational post about my life since, well, September. That is, if I can concentrate because David is blaring music right now and I’m not sure if I can concentrate while Tech N9ne is depicting murdering his psycho bitch and her boy toy.

So, I moved out of Minnesota on August 8th of 2014 and got to Kentucky on August 9th. I moved down for two reasons, but I ended up finding my purpose once all was said and done. The original plan was to come down to the state of Kentucky and gain residency so I could go to college at WKU and pursue my hopes and dreams of going to WKU and pursuing a degree and competing for the world-renown forensics team. For lack of a better term, my grandfather was also “coincidentally” terminally ill with stage four pancreatic cancer. So the plan was to take care of my Pop and help my Granny while they were gracious enough to let me stay in their home for the year to gain residency. It was kind of a sporadic plan, to be honest. I turned 18 on July 26th of 2014 and was moved out in less than a month. That decision was made in part by a woman that shaped my life in a really short amount of time, but she ultimately got me out of the hell hole that I had called “living”. The morning of the 8th, I literally packed up my car with every belonging I could possibly take with and actually, it was all the belongings I had. I remember that whole week was fucking shitty, too. I couldn’t manage to hold a conversation with my parents without some sort of fight erupting. I’m pretty sure I went and got wasted more or less that whole week, too. (If you’re reading this mom and dad, I’m sorry. I owe you a bottle of makers mark…or a few) It wasn’t even that I didn’t want to move, that wasn’t it. I didn’t have my life together to where I wanted it before I left. I didn’t say goodbye to half the people I wanted to…Or people didn’t want to say goodbye to me. The night before I left, I was laying next to my mother (because my bed was covered in my things) and texting the guy that had me wrapped around his finger for a few years. Do you know what it’s like to beg and plead someone to say goodbye to you and let you get closure and them decide to tell you the night before you trek 900 miles across the country every reason why they hate you? Ask me about it sometime. It’s a fucking phenomenal story actually. So 3am came to approach and before I knew it my alarm went off to leave that morning.

900 miles is a long, long drive by yourself. But thank the Lord sweet baby Jesus for aux cords. I left that morning and said goodbye to my family and to be completely honest, I lost my fucking shit. I did one of those really psychotic slow drive-bys around my town (which actually ended up to be like, four rights and a stoplight). I think the only reason I did it was because I contemplating shitting on everyone’s porch who fucked me over before I left. HA. I would have had to shit on everyone’s porch. But, I finally made it out of town, got my shit together enough to see the road and just kept driving. Was it an easy drive? Yes. Would I do it again? Yes. Alone? Debatable. But to be honest, I think that drive was supposed to prepare me for what I was getting myself into. I think I was ready to move out and it was long overdue, but I don’t know if I was ready to face the reality of what I was coming into. I mean it’s one thing for a kid straight out of high school to move out, but to move 900 miles from home with everything in your car was another. But after 900 miles and like, two pee breaks, I finally made it. And at first, it was really shitty. I didn’t know anyone and had to adjust to having little to no cell phone service and no internet. When you live in the middle of bum fuck Egypt in a town that’s half Amish, you have to make some adjustments. But, I soon adjusted. I found my first job within the first week of living there and picked up my second job about a month later. My life consisted of working between 30 and 60 hours a week depending on my schedules and caring for a terminally ill man. If I thought I knew what physical and mental exhaustion was before, I definitely knew what it was now.

I was pretty shitty at balancing my life at first, I’ll admit. My days generally went with me working double shifts almost every day, staying out really late into the early morning and waking up a few hours later to do it all over again. In between that, I had to go along to every doctor appointment and chemo treatment as well as picking up prescriptions and trying to make sure my Pop ate and got to the bathroom. If you ever learn to appreciate life’s simple things, you learn to do so when you watch someone in their finals days. I had worked in a nursing home before, but I think it’s ten times harder to care for someone when they’re your own blood. I’m still really emotionally tore up about it to be honest and I’m okay with that because the feelings I still carry from it ground me. God puts you in the right place at the right time and I’ve never been a super religious person, but watching someone die does that to you. Life is a really, really beautiful thing and it’s really, really fucking frail. Towards the beginning my Pop was alright. He was over 6 feet and 130 pounds, which was a lot of weight for what he normally was used to. He drank at least a glass of milk a day and ate at least half of a meal. He was still walking around with just a cane and he could barely get to the bathroom on his own, but it was possible. Obviously, he digressed. If I’ve ever known a stronger man, it was him. He battled stage four pancreatic cancer for over two years. Look up stage four pancreatic cancer and then try to tell me two years isn’t a long time. To be honest, I don’t know how he did it. Pancreatic cancer is extremely treatable if found early, but it rarely is caught before it’s too late. Pancreatic cancer in its late stages is one of the most aggressive and debilitating forms of cancer known and my Pop fought it like badass. Like a really southern, tobacco chewing badass.

Do you know what it’s like to try to predict when someone is gonna die? It’s like trying to predict if your shit is gonna give you hemorrhoids; you know that it’s going to happen eventually, you just don’t know if this time is that time. My job wasn’t job 24 hour nurse, it was also errand runner and caretaker and shoulder to cry on and apparently grim reaper. See, at the same time that my Pop was ill, so was his sister. My day went from leaving for work at 8am, working til 3 and having an hour in between my next shift until 9, then heading over to the hospital to check on either my Pop or his sister depending on what time period it was. From there I’d stay for a few hours  making sure the nurses kept on their shit and then driving half an hour to get home and having a few hours until I wake up and do it again. Did I wish things were different? Yeah. But would I actually change any of it? No. The end started when my Pop finally stopped eating or drinking on his own. I remember leaving for work one morning and telling him that if he didn’t drink anything while I was gone, I was taking him to the hospital whether he liked it or not. I got home from my regular 8 hour shift at one job and he was sitting in his chair almost unresponsive. He had become almost completely incontinent and it was to the point where my Granny wasn’t able to help him anymore. And to be honest, I was barely able to lift him myself. We had our neighbor who was a sheriff escort us with lights into town to the hospital and got us into a room as fast as we could. Pop weighed in at 113 pounds and had a blood sugar left of 98. Although I gave him an insulin shot that morning, his body consumed all of it just by simple body movements. To have a nurse tell you that if you wouldn’t have pushed to get him to the hospital at that moment that he wouldn’t have made it through the night, it really puts trusting your gut into perspective. He stayed in the hospital for a few days, just enough to get him more fluids and regain his appetite. The doctors decided to stop his chemo because he wasn’t physically stable enough for it. To be honest, it all kinda blurred. I don’t think I got any sleep for a few weeks straight. At that point I didn’t have many friends because I was so consumed with working and taking care of Pop.

My Pop was checking into the hospital for the final time on September 22nd, 2014. It was a miserable time, I’m not even going to try to bullshit around that. I woke up, went to work, got off, went to the hospital and stayed until he fell asleep. Being that I was his primary caretaker, I was on the nurses list of “people to update in the event of emergency”. I could call at anytime and get updates on him and on almost every single lunch break, you best believe that’s what I was doing. The last few days in the hospital weren’t even coherent. He was so doped up on pain medication that he rarely recognized faces. Generally, he hit on all the nurses and tried any type of flirtatious advance he could. At this point, he didn’t even remember what year it was. Thursday of that week, he was discharged from the hospital into hospice. Hospice is just a really fancy way of saying “being sent home to die ‘peacefully'”. I actually didn’t know he was going home to hospice. I went to work one morning like I normally did and came home to a hospital bed in my living room. Try telling me that having a hospital room, respirator and oxygen tank in your living room makes for a good time to watch Survivor. Remember how I said I was the one who was ultimately supposed to predict his death? I was left to decide when my family from Minnesota was supposed to come down for his final moments. Predicting death is really shitty. My Dad came in from Minnesota at 5 o’clock on that Friday and drove all night to make sure he was down to see my Pop.

Pop passed away in his sleep on September 27th early in the morning, around 5am. My Dad came in and woke me up and all he said was “Bella” and looked at me in the dark. No words were needed. I knew exactly what it was. For the few days he was on hospice, I didn’t get more than an hour of sleep each night. He woke up every hour to go to the bathroom and couldn’t go on his own and my grandma wasn’t strong enough to help him by herself. I think I got even less sleep after that. I went to the living room and he was laying there so, so peacefully. His eyes were open still and he was still warm. My Uncle isn’t normally a crier, and he cried harder than I did. I think it finally hit my Dad that my Pop was waiting for him to come down just so he could finally go. My dad got less than 12 hours with him, but I think it didn’t take my Pop 12 hours to say goodbye to his son. I honestly believe in my heart that he could have held out for as long as he needed to, just so he could say goodbye to my Dad. And it’s not that he couldn’t wait long enough to say goodbye to my brother or my sister, but I think he had just enough in him to wait for my Dad. That morning was by far one of the most emotionally damaging points in my life besides his funeral. See, the process with hospice is that you have to call the people in charge of hospice and let them know that your loved one has passed. Then they send the hospice nurse out, then they send out another nurse and finally, they send out the coroner and the funeral services to come pick up the body. What’s even worse is that hospice needs their shit back, of course. So before the body is even cold, they have to come back and get the bed and the oxygen and the respirator because hey, someone else needs it now.

Cleaning a dead body is really shitty. Cleaning your grandfathers dead body is even shittier. I had the privilege of cleaning his body and preparing him to transition into his final resting spot. Was it ideal and is that the memory I would like to take to my grave? No. But it was humbling. BUT OF COURSE, I had to be awkward and stupid and couldn’t handle the situation without using really terrible humor. As we were moving his neck, his mouth popped open and one of his dentures had fallen from his top gum onto the bottom of his mouth. Of course, the only thing that popped into my mind when the nurse looked at me was “Well, he always was a mouth breather”. Stupid fucking thing to say Bella, stupid thing. And of course, when his eyes wouldn’t slide shut, the ONLY thing I could think of saying was “Well I guess he wants to stay awake”. I feel really bad for the nurse because she didn’t respond to any of my crude jokes the entire time. And to be honest, I’m a really awkward person in emotionally questionable situations. Having your grandfathers dead body in your presence while you give him a sponge bath is what I’d say an emotional situation.

The funeral was probably the second hardest part of the experience. Not only did I bury the man who taught me the most about life in a few short weeks pass away in my living room, my entire family fell apart. That’s an entirely different story that I’m not going to dive into, but to literally have your mother, brother and sister sit behind you in a church and discuss how you are no longer part of the family is a special situation in itself and to be honest, I don’t think it’s a grudge that I’m ever going to let go. My friend Jesus and I are going to discuss it. But needless to say, the entire experience humbled me to no end. I was a nanny and a babysitter for a majority of my childhood and teen years. To be able to say I have cared for life as it entered and as it left the world is something I never thought I’d say so young in life but I do not regret it at all. My Pop taught me how to fight and how to love endlessly. The hardest part of saying goodbye to him was seeing him at his best throughout my childhood and seeing him on his deathbed. To watch a grown man cry out of sheer pain is a sight that I don’t wish upon my worst enemy. My Granny and Pop were married for over 50 years. To watch a person say goodbye to the only person that they’ve known and had by their side for majority of their life is one of the most beautifully tragic things to witness. Love is not getting matching tattoos and doing drugs together. Love is staying with someone in the last moments of their life and watching them take their last breath with you by their side. My grandparents know what love is. I will ALWAYS and CONTINUOUSLY model my relationship after THAT standard of love. I might not be the sharpest tack in the box, but I’ve got life experience to the moon and back.

So 3,000 words later. That’s what I’ve been up to. But fast forward to now, I’ve moved on from that. I now live in a large sitting a few minutes from WKU in an apartment with my boyfriend whom I would not trade for the world. I’d love to go on and brag all about how he is literally the light of my life, but I feel like being in the feels right now and I’ll save the updates on my life currently for later. But, I am out of Granny’s and completely on my own. But that was the jist of my life. Now since then my life has been a completely fuckwhirl of unfortunate events BUT I’m still extremely happy and proud of my life thus far. I feel like not an 18 year old trapped into an 18 year olds body. It blows, actually. But I’m living, happy and healthy. And thank GOD I made it out of the teen angst stage.


3 Ways to Perfect the Art of Being a “Crazy” Ex-Girlfriend

2 Sep

Now i’d like to say I have quite the expertise in writing this post. I’d like to think i’ve earned my master’s and doctorate degree in the matter of one breakup. I’d like to think that my list of credentials far exceeds most, which is something I think is a note-worthy feat. Before we dive to far in, let me put a little disclaimer out there. Not all men refer to their exes as crazy and not all men are in the same category. So if you’re a dude, i’m not saying this is who you are. But if this is who you are, you suck. A common misconception about being a “crazy” ex-girlfriend, though, is that we have to work hard to get the label. Believe it or not, I didn’t have to lift a finger to earn the title of “crazy”. Believe it or not, I was bestowed this title whether I wanted it or not.

You see, the word “crazy” has begun to piss me off to no end. Generally when I get really salty, I cry. So if you wanna see a KimK hot-mess-meltdown, call me crazy. Why, you ask? Crazy has such a negative connotation in my book. The word “crazy” used to be something I thought of as wild and exciting when I was younger and now the word just makes me feel bad and misunderstood. I think of it now that any person who is different or mentally-ill gets labeled as crazy. But what really comes to mind when I hear the word crazy being tossed around? A negative way to describe a woman who stands up for herself, goes against the grain of life and is in touch with her thoughts and feelings. Anyone can be given this label by anyone, as well. It’s not just a man-to-woman thing. I’m no dictionary, but i’m pretty sure that’s not what it means.

When you break-up with someone (or you are the one who is broken-up with), it’s easy to get lost in the shuffle of the bad break-up blues. But wait, there’s a way to divert your mind from those blues, did you say? Maybe “accidentally” slip the fact to the general public that your ex used to give oral sex to his best (male) friend when he was high because “he’d do whatever it takes to make his bro happy”. But that’s none of my business, though.

Getting lost in the shuffle of a really bad breakup can leave both parties feeling some kind of way and to be honest, some people just really can’t get over how pathetic their ex was and have to tell the world. So world, I dated some really, really, really shitty people that I wouldn’t mind seeing being slipped into a long coma. The most common result of a breakup, though? The coveted title of “crazy ex-girlfriend”. Some women shudder in fear of gaining that title, but some of us lace that bitch of a shoe up and wear the hell out of the red sole. Titles can only take you down if you want them to…why not embrace it? So get a crazy notebook and a crazy pen out because it’s time to learn the ever-so-valuable art of being none other than the crazy ex-girlfriend.

1. Play To Win

Momma doesn’t play to get even. Momma doesn’t play it safe. Momma doesn’t care about feelings. Momma plays to win. If your ex screwed you over, why the hell would you play it safe with his feelings?
Some women feel like they can’t take control over their life at the hands of a man. Or to remain gender neutral, an ex feels like they have to be lesser than one ex out of fear. Uh no. That’s not how I roll. I naturally feel sad and down about things, but then I have to pick myself and remember that I am a sassy, independent woman that doesn’t allow a man to put me down. When you’re in the aftermath of a break-up, do not be afraid to make it known to your ex that whatever went down was NOT okay. Do not be afraid to give him, or her, a taste of his own medicine. After all, why get even when you can win?

Why is this considered “Crazy”?:

Men don’t like to lose. Women don’t like to lose. Plain and simple. If you want to earn that title, play and win. If you win or attempt to play the same game he or she played, you’re showing them that you don’t take being disrespected lightly. The fastest way to become the crazy ex is to let it be known that you don’t take shit. Learn fast, sweet girl, that asserting yourself means you are “crazy”. Own it.

2. Re-Invent Yourself

There is nothing more “crazy” than getting in touch with your inner self and updating your software. Want to cut your hair? Develop a new style? Pierce your nipple? Go for it. Ouch, but go for it. There is nothing that an ex hates more than seeing you doing better without them. And even further, there is nothing an ex hates more than seeing you become better by yourself. So if there’s something you’re dying to change, get on it! Nothing says “my crazy ex-girlfriend” like dying your hair blue and getting a forehead tattoo.

Why is this considered “Crazy”?

Just as I mentioned, no one likes to see someone improving without them. We all know that one girl who constantly re-invents herself. People often fear this change and after a break-up, it’s easy for your ex to play you off as having an identity crisis without them. So go ahead. Go ahead and have an identity crisis. I know my ex did when we broke-up. He got the ugliest haircut I have ever seen. It wasn’t crazy, it was dumb as fuck. But that’s none of my business, though.

3. Be Confident and Post as Many Selfies as Possible

We all know that one girl. She posts those selfies with a quote that has NOTHING to do with the selfie, but you have to admit she looks pretty dope. When an ex goes and creeps on your social media, or hacks them if you’re too dumb to change your passwords, they’ll see that your life is moving forward. They’ll see your selfies and your cat pictures and immediately laugh because clearly you are so mentally unstable that you actually find beauty in yourself. CRAZY, RIGHT? If you really want to go above and beyond “crazy ex” status, post pictures WITH FRIENDS. Or maybe, post a slightly provocative picture because there’s nothing more empowering then being a crazy AND a slut. Exes can’t handle that your social footprint keeps on trudging forward. Being confident in yourself is threatening to others because they know that it’s harder to put confident people down.

Why is this considered “Crazy”?

It’s an absolute travesty when someone is confident in themselves purely because they feel good. So naturally, they must be crazy, right? You mis-label what you don’t understand.

Now as a disclaimer, I know that there are some women who REALLY earn their title. And you know what, go them. I am a “crazy ex-girlfriend” and you best believe I will be the best one out there and future girlfriends better watch out because my name goes down in textbooks. Being crazy is my game and it’s something i’ve learned to embrace. If being outspoken and refusing to be silenced makes me crazy, then send me to the mental ward because I never want to be sane. And hey, if word gets out that my ex has “psoriasis” on his penis, you can call me crazy. That’s none of my business, though.

These Shocking Photos Show The Scars You Can’t Normally See. And They’re Horrifying.

22 Jul

This is more powerful than I thought. Wow.

Kindness Blog

Words have meaning, and they possess the power to change the world.  They can inspire us to do amazing things, or to commit the most  horrible acts.  It’s up to everyone to understand they are responsible for wielding that awesome power.  Because words cut the deepest, and yet leave no marks, they can truly be the most devastating form of abuse.

PhotographerRichard Johnson, who has himself suffered from the worst kind of verbal abuse, created a series of photos to illustrate their incredibly harmful effect.  These images, created for theWeapon of Choice Project, are important because they remind us that the terms we throw out in moments of anger or frustration can be just as damaging as physical abuse.

CAUTION!: The photos below feature victims and strong terms of emotional, sexual and verbal abuse.

Weapon of Choice

We presented each participant in the Weapon of Choice project with a list of hurtful words, and…

View original post 488 more words

The First Time You Are Dehumanized

22 Jul

This post includes crude language that is not intended to be used lightly nor in a joking manner. The crude language used in this post is meant to express feelings and educate people on the problem that is dehumanization, misogyny, and racism. This post is written by an extremely angsty feminist who was recently called a cunt. In this post I will not be censoring words that are otherwise known to be extremely offensive and politically incorrect. This post is not for children nor for people who think words like “cunt” are okay.


The first time you are dehumanized, you more than likely aren’t aware of the phenomena that is dehumanization. The first time you are dehumanized, you become aware of the fact that there are people in this world who still revert to old-school tactics of racism and misogyny. For some, the first time you are dehumanized, you become aware of the labels that are sharply thrown at you and label yourself as a crusader in anti-racism, sexism and misogynistic thinking. For me, the first time you are called cunt, you become inspired to write an angsty blog post about it because the person who called you such names isn’t educated enough to read a blog, none the less understand that some things just aren’t “A-Okay”.

There are some words that I choose to not put into my vocabulary. Many people tell me I’m a “spaz” or a “prude” (okay, let’s look up the definition of prude) because I choose not to say words like retard, nigger and cunt or partake in use phrases involving “that’s so gay” or “you’re a fag”. I have no shame in telling the people I’m around to not use certain words around me because I do find it highly offensive and if you’re going to use words that are extremely offensive to me, you’re clearly not going to be around me for much longer. The hardest part about choosing not to use certain words and try to remain as politically correct as possible is quite a double-edged sword. At my age, I am looked at by adults (i’ll be one in six days so ha) as a “feisty teenager” who is still undereducated about the world. By my peers, I’m looked at as an “uptight bitch” who can’t “be chill”. For me, I feel better about myself because I have a core set of beliefs that I like to uphold. Everyone has beliefs, right?

Before I dive right in, let’s define some words and terms that will more than likely be used frequently through the post.


verb \(ˌ)dē-ˈhyü-mə-ˌnīz, (ˌ)dē-ˈyü-\

: to treat (someone) as though he or she is not a human being


noun \mə-ˈsä-jə-nē\

:  a hatred of women


noun \ˈkənt\

1 usually obscene :  the female genital organs; also :  sexual intercourse with a woman
2 usually disparaging & obscene



: the belief that men and women should have equal rights and opportunities

: organized activity in support of women’s rights and interests

Now that we have some terms defined, let’s dive right into the problem at hand. THE WORD CUNT, USED IN A NEGATIVE MANNER (is there a manner in which it isn’t negative?), IS NOT OKAY.  There are many words used in the English language that are commonly scrutinized, and understandably so, for their negative use and connotation. The question remains; why do we still use them? Why do we still use words that demean other people? Why do we use words that do nothing to benefit ourselves nor the other person? Now in the case of the word cunt, I choose to take a very…upfront approach towards the word. I do not think it is an appropriate word in any context. Many different types of groups identify themselves against the word, as well as for the word. Yes, I claim myself as a feminist. Why not? I think everyone should claim themselves as a feminist. Hell, I think everyone and their mother could claim themselves as a masculinist (that’s now a word). Do you know why I believe everyone should call themselves a feminist in some respect? Because as defined above, a feminist is someone who believes in equal treatment and representation of BOTH genders. Who doesn’t want that? As a feminist, I don’t believe that every male needs to be castrated and every male is a chauvinistic pig who thinks with his penis instead of his cerebral cortex. Contrary to popular belief, as a feminist, I don’t burn my bra (not all the time, at least) in a ceremonial manner. Now, that being said, as a feminist, I do not believe that the word “cunt” should be used in place of other degrading words. There are many arguments out there discussing the fact that the word cunt has historical roots that simply refer to the vagina. While that’s all fine and dandy, why must we continue to use the word cunt in place of vagina? If that is the context in which you are using the word, of course. Now, when using the word cunt towards a woman, you have to look at what is trying to be accomplished. If someone decided to call me a cunt, I would have to ask myself this: are they calling me a cunt in place of slut, bitch, whore, etc. OR are they truly saying that I am a 17th century slang word for a vagina? Chances are, they are not calling the latter. So, why is it so offensive to be called a 17th century slang word? The same reason it is offensive and not okay to call someone a nigger. Words change and evolve over time. If you look of the history of African-Americans and the terms they have been referred to over the years, you see an evolution that has gotten worse and worse over time. What started out as Negro, evolved to negre from modern French times to later be used as negress and finally, nigger was established and further used as a derogatory term by early Americans. The word started out as niger, a latin term meaning black, and evolved to nigger, which is now used as an attempt to define and entire race as means of dehumanization. Someone please explain to me how that is okay? So when we look at words like cunt, the same process applies. What started out as a slang word for female genitalia is now being used to describe a woman who is seen “disrespecting” someone or something, not conforming to social norms or acting in a way that someone would otherwise not agree with. So let’s ask ourselves…is the word cunt being used to attack my character because I am an old-time vagina? No. Cunt is being used because there is no other word that can compare in terms of demeaning a woman. Now, as a disclaimer, I am NOT saying that men do not face other types of discrimination with words. As well, I am not saying that other races and ethnicities do not face discrimination with words. What I am saying is that out of all the types of social problems, what discrimination is brought into light the most?

Yes, I was called a cunt. There is much debate within the feminist community, and in many other communities, in fact, about reclaiming the word cunt. While I cannot say whether it is right or wrong, I can question it. I’m all for being a sassy independent woman and taking charge of my body and being proud of it. Yes. I have a vagina. I am proud of having a vagina and although it bugs me from month to month, I am not ashamed of myself nor my body parts. Being proud of my vagina does not mean I am proud enough to “reclaim” a word that has such a negative connotation and begin renaming my vagina, my cunt. That is not okay with me. If it is okay with other women, own it and be proud. But for me, I shall stick to vagina and will continue to crusade for cutting out the c-word.

Could I have chosen to sit back and act like it didn’t happen, that I didn’t get called a cunt? Yes. Could I have chosen to not speak my mind about it? Yes. Could I choose not to post a picture of the instance in which I was called a cunt? Well, I could but where the hell is the fun in that?

I asked a simple question. I asked someone to please stop disrespecting me publicly via social media in a way that was demeaning to me and it showed my face in the act where people could openly see that it was myself who was being disrespected. I asked a male to stop disrespecting me and so in return, I am a cunt? It doesn’t matter what the background story is. It doesn’t matter who the person is. What matters is that people still think that calling a woman a cunt is an acceptable form of insult. Can I handle being called a bitch? Yes. Can I handle being called a slut, whore, skank, etc.? Yes. Can I handle being called a cunt? No. Here’s why. I don’t like to glimpse into my past, but I believe that if I can help other people, then I am helping myself.  I learned at a very young age what it is like to be controlled by the likes of a male. I was in a physically and emotionally toxic relationship that I experienced way too young and I will experience the repercussions of that experience for the rest of my life. I remember the first time I was told no. I remember the first time I wasn’t allowed to leave the house and I remember the first time I learned how to correctly ask permission. I remember the first time I was told to go back and change my outfit because I looked like a slut. I vividly remember the first time I was hit because I didn’t respond to a question in an appropriate manner. I remember being held so tight on a leash that I began to fear for what would happen if I were to unclip my collar. I remember what it felt like to pick myself and leave that leash behind and from that moment on, I promised myself I would never allow myself to be controlled by another man or put myself into a situation of control. I promised I would never let another pea-brained man tell me who or what I am. Back that up. A man does not call a woman a cunt. An uneducated child calls a woman a cunt.  Any man who believes it is okay to call a woman a cunt is not worthy of my time, my attention or my love. As well, any woman who thinks it is okay to call another woman a cunt has lost my respect. Out of all the words in the english language, why choose that one?

The first time you are dehumanized, you realize it is wrong. The second time you are dehumanized, you do something about it. The first time you are called a nigger, fag, cracker, cunt and countless other derogatory terms, you take it in. The second time you are a called a nigger, fag, cracker, cunt and countless other derogatory terms, you let it all out.

Time is Money, So I Went and Got a Savings Bond

26 Jun

Totally ignoring the fact that I’ve been on a hiatus for way too long, I’m gonna hop back on the interwebs and crawl out of a hole. Moral of the story, mental illness is real. Keep that shit in check or else you’ll fall off the face of the interwebs. BUT,  a LOT has happened since I’ve last publicly racked my brain. Let’s see:

  • Graduation, check.
  • More jobs to add to resume, check.
  • More jobs to keep off of a resume, check.
  • Car, check.
  • Car Accident, check.
  • Impending college transition, ………..

Needless to say, things have changed drastically in the past few months. For some reason, I’m still not 18 yet so this whole “independence” thing hasn’t set in completely. AKA I’m still forced to buy cigarettes and scratch-off’s from the underage-teen-black-market. Yes, that’s a thing. I’ve been waiting for this whole “independence” thing for a long time and as it’s getting closer and closer, it’s become apparent that it’s a whole bunch of bullshit. One day, you are 17 years old and you are still wearing a pull-up and having your parents sign consent forms and the next morning, BAM. You’re teeming with adult-angst (because we can’t call it teen angst, now can we?) and you start paying bills and paying for cigarettes with the money you pulled out of the couch you got for free off of craigslist and then before you know it BAM you’re 40 years old and your uterus is trailing behind you in a small radio-flyer wagon and the bags under your eyes sag lower than your nipples. All I can say is, I will NEVER let ANYTHING hang lower than my nipples.

If I’ve envisioned anything in the time that I’ve attempted to “grow up”, it’s not anything happy. Sure, I’ve got my whole life set up in front of me. A good college education for the next four years, competing on the top forensics program in the nation and making a name for myself that sticks out from the rest. Yes, I plan on accomplishing all of my dreams and I refuse to let anything get in my way of accomplishing those dreams. And I am in no way saying that I didn’t try to work to the top, but when I look back at it all, I wonder if I tried accomplishing everything for myself or for everyone else? I have tried for so long to work for everyone else, make this coach and this teacher proud, be traditional, keep my grades up and my attitude even higher. I look back at it all and wonder if I hadn’t been so conservative, if I hadn’t stayed up cramming for pointless tests, if I hadn’t shot for the stars, if I would still be happy with that result? As I’m beginning to transition into “real life” (which I still am convinced is a whole bunch of  bullshit that the bush administration is somehow involved with), I’m beginning to wonder if I’m happy with the path I’m taking. I feel like if I don’t make some sort of change and claim of independence, I’m going to be living the rest of my life for someone else and never for myself. When I look at it, the biggest person (people) I think I’m living for is not for one specific individual, but this entire society.

Hold up. Now as you’re reading this, you’re going “oh my Clinton, this young hooligan has no common sense and she is trying to pull the young-feminist-liberal-I-hate-society card. Quite the opposite, actually. Society is a wonderful circle of bullshit. (On my quest for independence, I’ve learned that the word “bullshit” makes me feel sassy and senile. I enjoy this feeling.) It’s beautiful, because society has shaped a lot of beautiful people. Elizabeth Taylor. Megan Fox. Ed Gein. But it’s also shaped a lot of not so beautiful people, and those not so beautiful people make me question a lot of my decisions. (In my defense, nudity is ALWAYS a good decision. God would have wanted it that way) Because of society, I am not allowed to get tattoos, piercings, a nice set of fake knockers, six husbands nor a wife without being scrutinized. Think about it, though. Anytime you make a decision, do you think about what YOU want or do you think about what others are going to think? The question should have answered itself. Yes, I’m sure there are plenty of people who claim the path to self-righteousness and attest to the fact that they live solely for themselves but we all know that’s a bunch of bullshit because I’m sure someone just read that and got offended. So, thank you for proving my point.

It’s always difficult to make choices when you’re still not old enough to buy a pack of Marb Reds. (Why must I put a down payment on the next four years of my life when I can’t even legally give myself emphysema. Can someone explain that to me?) It’s so difficult to start making choices about your future when all you have to rely on is the previous 17 years of knowledge and hope that your public education served you well AND that you can successfully tell the difference between “your” and “you’re”. If you can’t, your an idiot.

I don’t have much to say in this post due to the fact that I don’t want to overdose on the ol’ blog when I quit cold turkey. All I do have to say is this: I’m completely ready for my future but for a change, I’m ready to do what I want to do and I’m ready to start making choices for myself and choices that make me happy, even if they are a bit unorthodox. 🙂

I’m Lost, But I Don’t Need Help Finding My Way

12 Apr

A little fun fact about me: as much as I like organization and outlines in a clear hierarchy, I also love flow writing and letting whatever comes to my mind come out in no particular order.

Awhile back, I wrote a really crazy, bold post about my struggles that I was having at the time and writing an open letter was a good way to express my feelings without disclosing any details.

“It is easy to write. Just sit in front of your typewriter and bleed.” 

So simply put, I believe in the process of sitting down in front of your “typewrite” and bleeding. I believe and have put so much faith into the fact that if you can express your feelings in words, you can do anything in life because some of the most important things go unspoken. While it may be true that “when words fail, music speaks”, it is also true that when the music stops, all you have left is the stupid verbs, nouns and adjectives that you use to define your entire life. At the end of the day, all a person has is their name and their voice. If you don’t have your sense of identity and the ability to speak your mind and advocate for yourself and others, what do you have? Are you an individual or are you just another one of those pre-fabricated drones that allows opinions and the idea of stereotypical normalcy to shape you? When you lose your sense of identity, you lose your ability to use your voice and when you lose your ability to use your voice, you lose your ability to set yourself apart from the 7 billion voices on this planet.

It’s common to have a mid-life crisis, right? It’s normally to come to the realization that you’re no longer youthful, right? Is it normal to be so early in life yet so late in thinking? You know, it’s coming up on the marking of my one-year with the ol’ blog and the journey with this whole teen angst stage. Hell, I’m on the cusp of becoming a legal, adult member of society. In this one year, this one long and eye-opening year, I have learned that this journey doesn’t have chapters. This journey isn’t an open book that has volumes and chapters. This journey doesn’t have an “unabridged” version because this journey is still being written. You can’t put nomenclature on something that is still in the works, you just can’t.  This journey started from the day I started thinking for myself as an individual. Many people would care to argue that my journey started at conception, at birth, at first breath but I care to differ. My journey started when I was able to recall my first memory; my first thought free of influence. My journey started and I’m honestly at the very beginning. And you know what? I want my journey to be fucking beautiful. Spectacular. I want my journey to be fucking breathtaking because I refuse to let the storybook of my life be anything less. When people look at my journey, I want them to wonder how I did it; how I made it through alive. People will look back at my journey and realize that none of it was easy and the word hard is an understatement. I want people to look back at me and be dumbfounded on how I did it and how the hell I made it out alive.

Do you know what I find beautiful? Absolutely astonishing, beautiful is an understatement. I find the simple and contradicting, irreducible complexity of the human beautiful. I’d say that being a human is beautiful, but what’s more beautiful is that there are few humans who can label themselves and whom others can label as astonishing. As humans and individuals, we manage to be knocked down so far that it looks as if our spine malfunctions from the waist down and yet, we seem to crawl ourselves out until our fingernails are so broken and the pads of our fingers and ripped raw to the bone. Now I know that unfortunately, some humans don’t make it out. Some humans get knocked so far down and instead of having been paralyzed from the waist down, they’re paralyzed from the top of the head to the bottom of the chest. Some humans are knocked so far down that the two components that make up every muscle, movement and minute of our bodies existence are frozen to an incapacitating measure. When the brain stops, the muscles stop. Not only do the muscles stop, but logic, feelings of love and living stop in the process. When the brain stops functioning, the heart doesn’t have anything to act out it’s feelings and deepest desires. It’s like wifi and a cellphone. A cellphone is a plethora of knowledge waiting to be released and it’s just waiting for the moment to send its information to the right places and things. When it connects to wifi, it has a mode of transportation, a link. Our hearts are cellphones and our brains are the wifi. Our hearts have all of the capabilities and yeah, sometimes they need an update, break down momentarily and malfunction. Without a connection, the two are worthless. If your head and your heart don’t connect, what are you left with? You’re left at the bottom of a hole with no way out. Those humans that don’t make it out of that hole are not weak. They are not cowards. They are not defeated. Those humans are brains and hearts that never got the chance to connect and in turn, they acted as individuals and not as one. One of my favorite quotes come from a show about drug addiction and addicts in general and something that really struck me was something the main person in the show said.

“You’re not giving up, you know when to surrender to the fight”

Knowing when to surrender takes more strength than anyone will ever realize. Being able to look the obstacle in the eye and accept that fact that there is no winner is something that no words can begin to describe; no cacophony of sounds will ever be able to please an ear. If anyone ever tells me that I have given up, I will look them straight in the eyes and gaze right into their soul because in that moment they will know that I did not give up. I never gave up. I fought a battle and I won. I didn’t win because I came out victorious but I won because I was able to accept my defeat and sit down. A strong person is able to find their weaknesses, but a stronger person is able to make their weaknesses their strengths.

I am not giving up. I will not give up. I have way too many thoughts and emotions and feelings that the world hasn’t experienced yet. And here’s what I’m going to admit. I am extremely, extremely lost right now. My life up until this point has not been a cake walk and for the longest time I thought I knew who I was. The fact that I’m just now trying to deal with things that have haunted me for way, way too long is something that I don’t wish upon anyone. The fact that I can’t even look myself in the mirror and recognize the smile I put on and the reflection in my eye is something I never thought I’d have to go through. Being able to say you don’t recognize yourself because of change is thing, but not being able to recognize everything that you built yourself on is another. You spend your life finding the morals and concrete principles that you try to use as your moral compass. Well what happens when you moral compass is broken? What happens when that light you watch in the sky to guide you goes dim and the road you’re traveling on begins to fade. What do you do then? No one ever tells your that it’s going to be easy, but they also don’t tell you it’s gonna be this hard. Sure, in ten years I might look back on this in ten years and say wow, look at how far I’ve come and wow, look at how little those obstacles were. Hell, in ten years I might still be stuck not knowing how I am. I hope to hell I’m around in ten years is all I can say.

So I admit it. I’m lost. I’m really, really lost and I’m looking for myself. If any of you see her, let me know that she needs to come home. And as I sit her and bleed all over this keyboard and I let all of my tears flood the cheeks that used to hold smiles, I realize that I am very, very lost. I am lost but please don’t try to help me because I’m gonna do it on my own and I’m going to find my way. I will find my way and you will watch me, you will all watch me and realize how beautiful struggle really is.

Addiction is More Than 9 Letters

28 Feb

Preface: Ignore all spelling and grammatical errors. Proofreading is not my friend today and I’m sure as hell not going to decide to be a part of the grammar gestapo tonight. Too many feels.

So I haven’t been on the ol’ blog in almost a month and I’m going to be quite frank; this teenage angst stage thing really has me drowning in a pool of imbalanced chemicals and terribly wretched hormones.  So I’m sorry that I haven’t been spitting out any good material lately! This is a personal blog, right? Ha. This is my blog and what I say goes so yes, this is my personal blog and I use it to vent my personal problems while everyone finds humor in my creatively-worded tragic life events. And, due to the fact that I release all of my stress through words on a public domain (because that’s what all the cool people do, air their dirty laundry in public). Fuck. I just forgot what I was saying. That’s actually what I’m gonna vent about. I can’t remember shit lately and to be quite honest, the worst feeling in the world is knowing that you don’t have you marbles in the same jar.

Have you ever been at a point in your life when you’ve finally been content? You’re not completely happy, yet you’re not completely sad, but you’re content. You finally feel like you’ve gotten over your grief, settled most of your grievances and let go of the grudges you’ve held onto for quite sometime? AND THEN SOME DOUCHE COMES IN AND MESSES UP YOUR ENTIRE LIFE AND SHITS IN YOUR CEREAL AND MAKES ALL OF THE FLOWERS WILT AND DROPS SYMBOLISTIC ACID ON YOUR TONGUE AND THEN ALL OF THE WORK THAT YOU PUT INTO BEING HAPPY IS SUDDENLY DESTROYED AND YOU’RE ANGRY BECAUSE WHO DOES THIS SALLY THINK HE IS COMING IN AND SHITTING IN YOUR CEREAL LIKE WHO DOES THAT, WALKING AROUND LIKE HE OWNS YOUR CEREAL BOWL WHEN NO YOU ARE A SASSY INDEPENDENT WOMAN WHO DIDN’T NEED HIS SHIT. So that pretty much sums up my life metaphorically speaking. For the record, no one really “shit” in my cereal bowl. I’m sure I’ve referenced this in previous posts and whether you’ve put pieces together or not, I hate people. Just kidding. I’ve been struggling with someone for quite sometime and it has it’s ups and downs and it’s moments, but it’s at a crossroads. Hence, it is my fourteenth epiphany this week. If you’re not all about reading my personal life, stop reading. If you would like to continue, feel free. So I was in this really fucked up, awkward, unexplainable relationship (meh, that’s a gross word. I don’t know what it was. Is. We’re still sorting that out) basically, it consisted of me falling (he tripped me. It was a trip, not a fall) for him, him not knowing how to be a decent human being and admit he had feelings too and then he left for rehab because he’s a drug addict. So, I had one of the worst summers of my entire life because the person that I attached myself to left for four months and I had no contact with him the entire time. BUT, I’m supposed to keep telling myself that it’s a good thing that he’s in treatment because he’s SUPPOSED to be getting better and it’ll “change” him. Yeah, okay. I spend my entire time talking to his family, supporting him in any way that I can and not giving up on him like EVERYONE else had (has) and keeping my faith in him because, hey, everyone needs someone to believe in them, right? Wrong. He get’s back from treatment (and of course he writes a facebook status about it, completely ignoring the fact that I’ve sent him weekly messages of support) and the conversation goes like this:

Bella: Hey, glad you’re home from treatment and I hope everything went well.

Him: Yeah.

Four letters and a period. Four. Words. And. A. Period. I spend months supporting, loving and believing in someone who doesn’t have the decency to at least say HEY or HI or GO DIE. Nope. So, in that moment I cried. A lot. Ha. A lot is an understatement. But, I tried telling myself that he wasn’t worth it, he wasn’t worth my time and that I am a sassy, independent woman that don’t need no man. HAHAHAH. HAHAHAHAHAHHAHA. That doesn’t work and no matter how much you tell yourself that is does, it doesn’t. You try to pick yourself up as best you can and move forward. So that’s what I tried to do. I tried dating other people, doing other things to take my mind off the fact that I never received closure from anything and tried blocking him out of my head. I ignored him in the hallways and when people would tell me that he was talking about me, I told them I didn’t want to hear it. The subject was sore and it was something I tried to repress. I heard he was getting back into drugs again and drinking and half of me was like oh wow, I knew it. The other half of me died a little inside because I knew this kid like the back of my hand; he is one of the most musically talented I know. This kid never failed to make me so damn happy, even when he was pissing me off with every ounce of my being. The only person I couldn’t stay mad at no matter how hard I tried. I promised him before he left that I would never give up on him, ever. I told him whenever I got the chance, that I wasn’t ever gonna let go no matter what the circumstance was and no matter what happened, I believe in him and I wasn’t giving up. And for months after he came back I kept telling myself that I gave up, that he was hopeless and he was a lost cause; no hope. I firmly believe that the day that I FINALLY convinced myself that I gave and let go of him, was the day that he decided to come back into my damn life. It wasn’t even a nonchalant way of doing things, it was extremely straightforward and when his name popped on my phone, I think I went a little neurotic. At that moment, I realized that no matter how hard I tried to convince myself, I will NEVER give up on that kid. It’s crazy because no one will ever understand that kid like I do. He is a complete prick, I totally admit it. A complete asshole. I can’t even begin to explain how much this kid pisses me off. But he is also one of the most beautiful people I know and he has more to offer to the world then people want to see. I think the world of this kid and everyone will always judge the situation and judge me for my choices, but no one will ever understand our relationship. Are we in the process of sorting things out? Yes. Is it easy? Hell no. Not one bit. He finally realizes how he treated me like absolute shit and that I was the best thing in his life, but he still hasn’t made a conscience effort to want to turn his life around and stop being an addict. Thankfully, I’ve learned from last time and am still extremely guarded and am not going to let him into my life that easy. Simply put, if he meant everything he’s said and wants to prove to me he wants me, he’s got to work for it. And “wanting me” doesn’t necessarily have any kind of romantic connotation. We started out as friends and that’s what he lost overall, a friend.

Addiction is such a mind boggling thing. Addiction is so commonly misunderstood, that’s the hardest part of it all. People think if they give an addict an ultimatum, they’ll get the result they want. You can’t say “It’s either me or (INSERT ADDICTION HERE)”. Naïve people always tell me, “Well, just say to pick you or drugs”. Ha, okay. Clearly if you give a drug addict the choice of a girl or a bottle of pills, they’re clearly gonna pick the pills. Watching an addict throw their life away is probably the hardest part and you can all say it, probably not the smartest choice to stick around and watch the downward spiral. I keep asking myself all of the time exactly WHY I stick around but honestly, I don’t know? I don’t even know if it’s something Freud can help me with because it’s so mind-boggling. I don’t know why I stay. I don’t know why I let someone back into my life when I was finally at peace, but I am a firm believer that the moment I gave up was the moment he came back. Addiction all starts with one choice, one really stupid choice and soon, it blossoms into a lifetime of struggle and pain. Obviously, I can’t speak from exact personal experience but I can say that I watched it firsthand and I watched what it does to a person. It rips families apart and takes a future and flushes it down the toilet. It takes lives, breaks lives and makes living unbearable. I think the biggest pet peeve is when someone says that an addict is an addict because they choose to be. As I stated earlier, it’s a stupid choice that turns into a lifetime of chaos and from there on, you’re screwed. After that one stupid choice, why would someone choose to then throw the rest of their life away? Go to the google and look at what Meth does to the brain and you then try to tell me that someone chooses to feel like they have bugs crawling on their face. Yeah, didn’t think so.

I know the exact thoughts running through your head right now, too. I’m a stupid teenage girl who gets involved with stupid people and have no reason to complain when I brought this all upon myself. And you’re right. I know that you’re sitting here reading this and saying that I’m complaining about playing with fire and getting burned when I walked up and sat around the campfire in the first place. It’s so strange because I have been able to walk away from so, so, so many people in my life. How many girls do you know that have been able to leave a physically and emotionally abusive relationship at the age of 14? Well if you didn’t know one before that sentence, you do now. How many girls do you know that perform a speech every goddamn Saturday at 9AM that reflects their experience with rape and their experience with rape culture at the ripe ol’ age of 17? So answer me this; why is it so goddamn hard for me to walk away from a person that is so deep into addiction that only the grace of God can save them?

Addiction is so much more than nine letters. So much more.

Maisy's Mom

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