Where Are We Supposed To Be?

Where we are supposed to be is someplace in the present. It’s the place we we feel safe, where we feel loved, where we feel most familiar, where everyone knows us, and where we know everyone. I know this place, hell we all know this place, and I think we often forget that this place exist.

We tell ourselves we’re not good enough, we’re not ready, we’re not “quite there yet” to feel safe.

We do this by calling ourselves names, jumping into old vices, doing anything and everything to stop ourselves from feeling loved.

We don’t feel safe because we don’t allow ourselves to feel safe.

Self. Sabotage.

Sabotage manifests from our own limiting beliefs, which are created and ingrained in us by the age of seven. Then, through confirmation bias, these limiting beliefs only get stronger over time.

Society will remind us, nay, badger us, that our limiting beliefs are real: we’re too ugly, we’re not rich enough, we’re not good enough, we’re not what society deems us as desirable… reminding us that we’re not important.

Some get badgered more than others, while others are privileged enough to have it a little bit easier to breakthrough.

Regardless… because of all the badgering, by the time we reach our 20s, these limiting beliefs are cemented into a vault digitally locked into our brain: the key code floating with numbers of a combination we’ll grow to forget.

How do we get back to the familiar? How do we get to our safe place? How do we open the vault?

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She Popped In My Head Again… and I’m pissed. update #3 on life change

Again I’m not going to edit this or read it over.

I’m here to spew so let’s spew. It’s more real that way, anyway.

Beyond the anger, frustration, despair, and desolation is a fork standing at attention, it poking The Halal Guys beef bowl I brought home to devour. However, I can’t really enjoy this delicious beef bowl because she’s poisoning my brain once again and I’m simply angry.

Yes, I’m talking about my ex of so many years ago and I need to write this out: unlike the other posts, I’m not going to delete this one. I’m tired of being silenced: writing things out is how I’m able to cope with so many things left unsaid.

I want her out of my head. She’s a trigger that halts my life and I end up doing destructive things to myself. I need to write this out or I might fall back to my vices.

It sucks because it may look like I’m a fucked up individual, a fucked up – crazy ex boyfriend. It hurts because I’m trying to find the balance between being able to take off these mental shackles that are pulling me down… while also being respectable.

Whenever I hear stories about my friends’ exes and the things the negative things they say, I often times think about my own actions and if I was a shitty boyfriend and if I will and am a shitty ex.

Here it goes…

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Shoving a Gun Down my Throat

I’m at it again – the whole “I can’t sleep because I’m going through some mental shit right now” and since I haven’t written anything in awhile… this jibber jabber of text can hopefully help with the instability.

You could ask, who are you writing for? And, I’m going to be straight up and tell you that I’m writing for myself.

Writing is how I cope with my mental fragility. Therefore, I don’t care about the grammatical errors that happen in this post, I don’t care if my words are illogical… all I care about is the fact that I’m writing.

I’d rather write than shove a gun down my throat.

There are so many things that are racing through my head right now. I want to tackle how my manic-depression and PTSD keeps me awake at night: I’m tired of waking up screaming as another night-terror after night-terror after fucking. night. terror. blasts through my hippocampus as it rips through my emotional memories of nostalgic pain.

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Stop Caring About The People Who Don’t Care About You

A few weeks ago I relapsed and I gambled.

For those who don’t know I have a gambling problem and I made the grave mistake of going to a casino, withdrawing three hundred dollars from the ATM, and blowing it all away on poker.

Old habits die hard.

I have this belief that though bad things happen to me all time. I’m talking my car getting stolen, getting fired, having the IRS freeze all my assets,  and the list continues…

However, the consequences that take place when I gamble, are consequences that end up being destructive to myself and others. I’m talking the things that happen after I gamble are. just. fucking horrible.

I have no idea why I write in the wee hours of the night or morning.

How do I explain this? How do I put it?

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The Most Romantic Breakup Story Ever

I was recently asked if I had a breakup story to share.
This is the story –

When I would close my eyes and think of her, I would see her smile. It forms ever so slowly to where her eyes squint softly, her cheeks begin to glow, and then the tiniest of dimples appear as if to remind you that there is indeed pure beauty in this world.

Angelic elegance.

Her smile more than plants your feet on the ground because it’s made up of empathy, compassion, and the type of selfless love that tells you that you are home.

If you don’t smile when she smiles, you have no heart. Her smile could make your heart ache with comfort.

In this moment she wasn’t smiling.

Her eyes looking down. I was in front of her as she was in front of me. The lady’s back leaning against the wall of her bed, while I sat idle on a stool in the middle of her room.

The only noise that could be heard was a sniffle from her nose, the pensive scratching from my nails, and the lamp’s bulbs radiating energy from being on for too long.

We were just trying to make sense of the last two hours.

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