Daily Prompt: Mirror, Mirror



If there is a mirror in the nearby vicinity with it’s reflective face turned to yours truly, chances are I’m casting surreptitious glances it’s way, checking my posture and hair and more than likely whether or not my slightly chubby cheeks and jawline are making my face look as round as I abhor it to look every time I laugh or smile or look down.

I’m self-conscious. I always have been, and I think it’s probably a safe bet that I always will be. I envy the girls that can pull their heads back and turn their necks into layered rolls just for the laughs. I would kill for confidence like that. But, no, I’m constantly trying to make sure that the double chin that has been trying to make a home with me is safely tucked away from judging eyes.

There’s a twinge of guilt for admitting all of this, because I’m afraid I’m coming off as judgmental myself. I am not. So many of the women I find attractive and desirable have traits that I try to hide on myself. I just… don’t like it on myself. It’s kind of like how my younger sister says she wants to look like me and thinks I’m beautiful, but she’s bulimic because she wants to be able to see her bones and thinks that that is what’s beautiful for her. It’s not that she judges me for my lack of a thigh gap, she just doesn’t want one herself.

Do I like what I see when I look in the mirror? Sometimes, honestly. When I’m posed just right and my makeup is done and I’ve created the image I want the world to see. Not many people are aware how bad my self-image is. I mean, I’m a stripper. We’re supposed to think we run this bitch with just our bodies, right? But there are so many things I want to change about myself, but that’s probably a topic for another post on another day.


Do You Understand?

You would never understand.

How can I even begin to make you understand the way I feel, this mind crushing depression? How do I explain how the line between mania and depression keeps becoming blurred as both feelings bleed together to create this mass of emotion and internal turmoil?

What can I say to make you be able to understand these self-harming urges to grab the nearest sharpest object, press it into the skin of my forearm or thigh and pull it across until I see the skin split and blood slowly drift to the surface and spill over? How can I put into words why I feel the need and want to do it, why it feels so good and so bad at the same time, and why I feel no remorse when I do give in?

If I could, I would bash my head into the wall, over and over again, until the pain brought tears to my eyes, and even then would I stop?

I have no coping mechanism. I can not talk about it, because it’s a tried and true fact that no one fucking cares. They all just get tired of listening to the same shit over over about how I just can’t get over it, And when their suggestions are of no help, they just get mad because they’re trying to help, I just don’t want their help (obviously, right?). 

This feeling leaves a knot in my throat and hot tears waiting for the chance to plunge down my cheeks and fall from my trembling lips onto my trembling hands. My head feels too full of everything, as if it’s being pushed from both the inside and the outside. The urge to pull at my hair, claw at my skin, to release this tension and anxiety makes me nervous and fidgety.

I’m only 20 years old, and already I’m so done with life. I’m no good at it, and I can’t seem to get the hang of it. I’ll never be good enough at anything, and being mediocre at best is crushing any self esteem that might ever try to lift me up.

Falling In The Darkness

I acknowledge that I basically have little to no reason to feel this way right now. Things really aren’t going too bad in my life, except for the one thing that seems to keep me on this perilous edge; money. 

(And to keep things absolutely in perspective, I’ve already backspaced an entire two very long sentences because my insecurities are fucking with me right about now)

I was diagnosed bipolar when I was probably 12-13. I don’t remember the doctor visit, or the diagnosis except for them telling my mother that I was “manic depressive”. A little personal research found that title to be directly tied in with bipolar, and suddenly a lot of things made sense. I’ve tried different medications, none ever making me feel better. I am a recovering cutter, my most recent self harming happening almost 6 months ago. But I’d be lying if right about now I wasn’t thinking about doing it again, even if I know I won’t.

The last psychologist I saw I barely talked to because he had me talk to some student intern and then had her fill him in on the details. And when he saw that I called myself bipolar, he looked up at me over the rim of his glasses and in his condescending tone that set in stone the fact that he had just lost me as a patient, told me that I was not bipolar, and to never call myself bipolar.

I hate it when people tell me I’m not bipolar, and to never call myself bipolar. I generally seem to hate it when people just dismiss my feelings in general, as if I don’t know what I’m feeling or I’m just being “irrational” and not understanding myself. 

So, this morning I wake up in a funk. And I’ve been feeling it coming on for a few days now, but I’ve tried to ignore it and hope that it goes away before it started. No such luck.

So what’s wrong? (Because God knows I’m not exactly in the mood to talk about what’s right, so bear with me, please). I am a 20 year old white female with little to nothing to put on a resume but one fast food job and strip clubs living on her own who, without friends and her grandmother, wouldn’t even be able to eat. I just started working two different strip clubs in the area, because I was getting seriously burnt out on one of them only making maybe $8 a 6-hour shift. I’ve got bills coming up that I’ve got to pay, I need a oil change and new windshield wipers. Fuck, i need gas money, since both of the clubs are 30 minutes away from my house.

It’s all this money stress that’s bringing me down. And listening to my mother stress about her money stresses and feeling like I’m supposed to do something to help but not being able to because I can’t even help myself. Fuck, I even bought my mom new windshield wipers while I’m still barely able to see on my long drives to work and back when the snow is slushy and my windshield wipers only make the problem worse. 

So now I’m on that slippery slope, and even though i try to buck up, IT’S NOT FUCKING WORKING. I don’t know what any one expects me to do, honestly. I can’t fucking help the way I feel. Oh, sorry my depression and anxiety is getting in the way of your happiness or is cutting into your depression. Here, let me console you and help with your problems and we’ll pretend mine don’t exist. 

I guess I kind of know where I was trained to feel like my emotions didn’t mean anything, and like my problems weren’t that important. And it’s stuck with me. I can’t help but feel like I shouldn’t talk about my problems. I’m so afraid everyone’s going to get tired of listening to me bitch and moan and rant. I’m so afraid of being a bother….

And it sucks, because I’ve got a pretty awesome guy that actually wants to be around me and thinks I’m pretty cool, and I don’t want him to have to deal with me. I don’t want anyone to have to deal with me. Which is also probably the reason I have friends, but don’t really talk to them. I know my shit gets old, that everyone eventually just gets tired of me being tired.

Now I guess we need to pose the question: Will my blog ever stop being so damn depressing? Yeah, eventually. But I’ve got to take it one day at a time. And these days aren’t so bright in my head.

Weekly Photo Challenge: Family


The first thing I thought of when I saw the word family was my biological family that I grew up with; my mother, sister, and brother. Admittedly, we all have a strained relationship with each other for various reasons.

The next thing I thought of was my friends, those people that I turn to for advice and support and company. But, truthfully, I don’t exactly have any familial friends, for various reasons.

The image my mind settled on, thinking of family, was one of groups. To my left, I saw my biological family, standing together looking at me. And to the right, I saw the friends that I’m closest to, standing in a group and looking at me. And away from both of these groups I stood, looking with each of them in my sights and both too far away for me to reach out and become a part of. I don’t even have my arms outstretched, I’m not even trying. 

But, I do have someone. Someone who doesn’t question me, who always wants to be with me, who never hurts me. And right now, it’s kinda just me and him in our little family. His name is Little Prince of Darkness, or Prince for short. And it’s his unconditional love that keeps me going sometimes. Sure, it gets lonely only having your cat as your closest family, but in the end, when people’s shortcomings keep them out of arm’s reach for me, I still have a little ball of fur that just wants me to hold him and love him.


This is it! This is the time! You’re gonna blog, and you’re gonna blog like you’ve never blogged before!

(Cue personal insecurities and extreme self doubt)

Well, maybe you can try again some other time. No one’s gonna like the stuff you think you should post anyways.


And that, my friends, is how all my other blogging experiences have gone down. I tell myself this is going to work out, and then somehow manage to spit in my own face and erase all trace of my thoughts and opinions from their internet existence.

So why am I trying again? Why keep making progress that I’m probably just going to null and void anyway? This time I’ve got something I didn’t have before. I have support.

Don’t get me wrong, I’ve had friends that have read the shit I’ve written before, tried to encourage me to go on. But this support is a little different. This is the kind of support I’ve needed, taken for granted once, and now am finally receiving it in abundance. However, that is a topic for another post in the future (I can’t give you all the good stuff now, can I?).


As of today, I am a 20 year old white female in middle eastern America. I will be 21 in March, so until then I’m biding my time drinking the wine I can convince others to buy for me while I listen to a broad range of music including, but not limited to, the likes of William Control, Motionless In White, Ed Sheeran, and The Rocky Horror Picture Show Soundtrack.

I love to write. I like to play my violin, but those personal insecurities raise their ugly little heads when I try, making it impossible for me to play in front of others or when I know others are around and can hear me. I am an avid reader, a moderate movie watched, and a horror/gore fanatic. 


Can I promise a post every week? Every two weeks? Probably not. But will I do my best to post when I can? You’re damn right I will.

So let’s be friends, shall we?