Clearing the Dead Underbrush


A lot of things have been coming in and out of my mind recently. Old hurts and regrets that need to be burned out/removed for my well being and for my safety.

There are some things I can’t talk about and probably never will be able to talk about. Not sure if they’re worth talking about. They’re over and done and rehashing them won’t change what happened.

I feel this aching need to reach across the years and reframe and explain what happened and why and how I really felt and to change what happened anyway. Because it all broke my heart and it hastened my breakdown. I think the breakdown was a long time coming, between my childhood and my mental illness. But the painful relationship and the drinking and drugs to try and mask the pain sure drove that train faster and faster.

I shouldn’t still have any feelings about it. But it wasn’t really that long ago, either.

I’ve been sober for three years now. Not counting one slip up, which would push my sobriety date to October.

I still have these haunting feelings that if I had only done something differently I would have been enough. I knew deep down the whole time that I never would be. But I never dreamed I would have been abruptly and completely abandoned, especially after sharing with this person that it was my biggest fear. It had happened to me before and nearly broke me. I was reassured that would not happen again. And when I, after my hospitalization, had to pull back a little from this person for my own sanity, I was abandoned, again. Completely. Gone without a trace, just like in my literal nightmares.

To make it worse, I heard the words I had been longing to hear, right before it happened. I can only think that was orchestrated to try and be even more cruel.

But I knew it was going to happen that way from the start. When it began, I looked myself in the eye in the mirror. I had a stupid grin on my face and told myself, quite clearly, “This is all going to end in tears.” And I still couldn’t stop myself from walking down the path.

They say everyone passes into your life to teach you a lesson. I can’t fathom what this lesson would be, other than to keep your cards close to your vest and always assume everyone is going to hit you where it hurts most. And then they’ll leave.


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Almost Midnight


I’m browsing Internet Wayback Machine. I’m able to find some of my old journals. Makes me sad when some of these things didn’t get captured.

I used to be so free with my words. I guess it was my age. So free with my words and my feelings. I think I bring some of that quality to this blog, I try not to censor myself but I’m not really UNcensored. Plus my language isn’t as colorful (not swear words- although there are a few of those. I mean just flourishes). A lot of it was age, I was 15-19 over the course of my LiveJournals. The ones I could remember, anyway. I know there was a couple that I just can’t remember the user names to.

I think I have an obsession with timelines. I’m just so puzzled about how I went from there to here and I just keep sniffing out the trail, trying to find clues and maybe somehow if I can see the path to here I can take the path back to there.

Which is not how time or life works.

Sorry if I’m not making a lot of sense. I’m tired and need to go to bed. I can’t stop thinking but I have something I need to do in the morning so I can’t stay up much longer.

I’ve made so many mistakes and I can’t stop making them. The same ones over and over and over…….

I’m reading a journal entry from right around the time I turned 19, in 2004. It’s about being melancholy and wishing my childhood had been different. About constantly yearning for the validation of adults. About loving The Beatles. About men coming into my place of work and telling me to smile more because I’m beautiful when I smile (LOL!).

It ends with this:

“Life. Things just trudge on, without your consent.”

Thirteen years later and I’m still feeling the same things. I guess I’m not paying enough attention to the present. I’m either anxious about the future or obsessing about the mistakes I’ve made in the past.

God, it’s midnight. Good night.

If I Were to Vlog/I Am Surprised By a Sudden Flood of Memories


I’ve been thinking about vlogging instead of/as well as blogging. I’m probably better at writing my thoughts out than improvising them to a camera, but the YouTuber concept intrigues me. I guess I would talk about the same things I talk about here, which I guess is mainly mental health, although that’s not what I intended when I began this blog.

My vlogging would not contribute anything to the vlogosphere. There comes a point, however, when you have to stop thinking about what other people “need” and just “do you”. I was taught from a fairly young age not to indulge in any content creation that will not lead to monetization. Which seems like a strange thing to teach a kid. But I was told that my efforts should always go to something “productive” and “productive” did not mean art for the sake of art, it meant marketability (and thus, money making).

Specifically, I was very into fan art and fan fiction, both of which I wanted recognition and appreciation for, but was met with lectures regarding the concept that fan work was a waste of time. (I can tell you it wasn’t; they both allowed me to hone the crafts of art and writing. I’m not a professional by any means, but I’m certainly better for having practiced.)

[Here is where my post veers off course. Some sections redacted]

Some who knew me back then have vocalized to me in the last few years that they felt I consistently acted in such a way as to be “different”or rebellious, when in actuality it was quite the opposite. I tried so hard to express myself, my authentic self. I never acted in a way to simply raise eyebrows. I just liked different things, and sometimes had the courage to express those predilections.

It was honestly an incredibly distressing and invalidating thing to hear, that I was thought to just be some sort of rebel without a cause, when in actuality I was desperate to fit in and be accepted, especially by the adults in my life.

Back then I was very conflicted because I did not want to disappoint my peers and did not want to disappoint the adults at home.

I was also in a bad romantic relationship. Trying desperately to attain the validation I craved from the adults around me, trying desperately to feel desired, all the while being emotionally abused. And at the same time, dealing with the constant criticism and ire at home. Often in regard to this abusive relationship. Why wasn’t I strong enough to leave? Didn’t I realize what a terrible person and example to my younger siblings I was being??

I didn’t know who to turn to. I didn’t know how to ask for help from the other adults around me. All I could see were these forces trying to pull me in all different directions. All the while never receiving the love and validation I craved to feel whole.

I’m sitting here for about ten minutes now, having read through my previous words, this tangent I have gone on. The thoughts jumping around. Not knowing how to proceed. There is a lot more to the story. Years worth of material and pain.

And none of it cut and dry. I’ve never been perfect. No one is. I don’t think that means I deserved the poor treatment, though. Right? Like maybe sometimes there is a bad guy in a situation, and it can’t possibly always be me.

I feel like as this blog (SACF itself, not just this post) ages and progresses, I will probably air more things and go into more detail. I’m doing this all under my real name. It’s always possible the people I speak of could stumble upon this blog, and see themselves. And most likely feel I am “remember things wrong”. Which of course I will! Everyone remembers things in their own shade. But that doesn’t mean that I’m wrong entirely.

Some people do not accept the elasticity of their memories. Myself, I have allowed people to plant doubt in my mind. When in reality, my long term memory is very good, even if my short term is not so much anymore.

In addition to my growing faith in my memories, I am beginning to receive affirmation from others who were THERE, who really saw, as a third party, what was happening.

And they are telling me the whole time I thought I was crazy, I wasn’t.

I wasn’t.

I wasn’t being treated well. And it did scar me. So I talk about it as the feelings come.

As I get older and my children do also, I increasingly realize just how fucked up some things from my childhood were. It makes me re-evaluate the current relationships I have with people from my past. Sometimes I think I should just completely cut whole parts of my past out. I’ve been conflicted with that, especially as some behaviors have continued and I feel less and less inclined to be treated as though I’m simple. Or wrong all the time. Or crazy. Or not wise or clever. Yet I maintain contact, wish for validation, and make myself vulnerable. Again and again.

I don’t think I feel angry. Maybe a little angry. Hurt. Hurt is something I would mask as anger as a child. So I got marked as the Family Bitch. Which is laughable, as I feel I have become so incredibly toothless over the last decade…

Ugh, I can’t keep going. It all wants to spill out of me at the same time. And I fear this all is coming out as me feeling like a perpetual victim. Which I do not feel.

But that doesn’t mean I haven’t been victimized.

Anyway, the whole point was that I’m considering vlogging. I guess vlogging rants like this?

I’m not particularly pretty. But I don’t need to do it for the views. I need to do it for me. For my self expression. Just for me and if someone else likes it or gets something out of it or, best of all, if someone is helped by it, that would just be a big bonus.




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