Blossoming Spirits

Currently Streaming My Conciousness

Keeping Secrets 

I can only talk about my mental illness w my friends and I think sometimes they don’t understand that once I see a professional about it or tell my family it will become real. It’ll be a real issue that I’m forced to talk about and deal with. It’ll be stares from family members and questions at dinner and having to sleep with my door open so they can check on me. It’ll be ignorance and family members not understanding that sometimes people don’t need a reason to feel this way, that nothing had to happened to cause this. It’ll be my brother being unapologetic for years of jokes about people with mental illness, and the continuation of those jokes bc he’s a shit person most of the time. It’ll be me inevitably having to come out to my granny and everyone else bc that’ll be where the story starts. It’ll be whispers when I get up to go to the washroom. It’ll make me the major topic of discussion. It’ll be having to talk about my assault and how I lost myself. It’ll be explaining to my mom that that one time in 11th grade when she picked me up from school bc I was having a panic attack and I told her “I’m just done,” I meant with living. It’ll be having to explain to my family that I hurt myself and why I did and how I managed to hide it for years. then it’ll be constant questions of “but what would make you hurt yourself? like I don’t understand why people do that. suicide is a sin.” it’ll be something I’ll have to face everyday in front of other people. bc honestly I could leave my friends if they were ever awful about it and just put them in my past to never deal with them again. but in my situation I can’t leave my family, I can’t escape them. I have nowhere to escape. especially not now. not while I’m living at home. 

Maybe when I move next year I’ll get professional help on my own but I don’t need them to know about it.

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Displaced Blame

What he did to me wasn’t my fault. I deserve to be happy. I deserve to want what I want. I deserve to feel safe with men and not be afraid of them touching me.


I deserve so much more than I’ve been dealt. 

Smell of Memories

One day in english we were discussing the novel A Grain of Wheat and there is this one scene with a female character who “won’t be able to forget their smell” after 2 men break into her house. My professor asked what this meant and everyone looked around dumbly and I just said really quietly “they raped her” and my prof nodded at me and talked a bit about that and what it meant for the female character.  


I was surprised how hard it was for me to say that out loud for some reason. 


Maybe it’s because I still can’t forget the way he smelt either.

most days I’m glad I didn’t kill myself, and I think that’s great progress

Thoughts on a Club Lover

okay so I can’t stop thinking about the guy I made out with on my birthday last weekend.

And not in a romantic or lustful way, but in an analytical way.

I’ve had issues with self-esteem and worth for such a long time that whenever someone gives me affection, I tend to think of it as a sick joke. Because in more than one occasion, it has been.

so I can’t help but torture myself into thinking about his motives. Was he just so drunk that I looked better? Did his friends dare him to make out with the fattest or ugliest girl he could find?
Even though he grabbed me and held me and thanked me with a beautiful smile, I still can’t trust that it wasn’t a joke.

I can hardly comprehend the fact that maybe, just maybe, he wanted to. Maybe he wanted to because he actually liked the way I looked.

Why can’t I allow myself the simple pleasure in accepting the fact that I might be good enough.

I want our legs wrapped around each other’s. like cars wrapped around telephone poles. I want you to be the greatest accident I ever get into. Like being merely injured in a car crash, I want to be great full to have my life after being with you.

(June 20th, 2013.)

Neil Hilborn – The Future

“I think a lot about killing myself, not like a point on a map but rather
like a glowing exit sign at a show that’s never been
quite bad enough to make me want to leave. See, when I’m up
I don’t kill myself because, holy shit, there’s so much left
to do! When I’m down I don’t kill myself because then
the sadness would be over, and the sadness is my old paint
under the new. The sadness is the house fire or the broken
shoulder: I’d still be me without it but I’d be so boring.”

I think about this poem and that quote all the time. I don’t think I’ve ever related more to something in my life.

I Hate You.

August 31, 2013

I fucking hate you. I fucking hate you. I. Fucking. Hate. You.

I hate seeing you out in public. I hate the way you smile and say hello and ask me how I’m doing, as if you care. I hate seeing pictures of you. I hate hearing about you and your stupid little life.

I hate the way it ended. I hate the way you treated me like shit. Like I was some sort of useless toy. I hate how you played around with me. I hate how I always crawled back, because I thought I could never do better. And I hate how you thought that too.

I hate the way you touched me. Like I was repulsive and unwanted. I hate that you let me believe that you liked me. I hate that I stuck around for over two years.

I hate that you didn’t even look me in the eye the last time it happened. I hate the way I cried and cried because I felt so dirty.

But we did have some good memories. I loved the way you made me laugh with your annoying fucking voice. I loved your eyes. Your tiny fucking stupid eyes. And I loved your lips. Your fucking weird gross lips. And I loved your smile. Your crooked, metal-filled smile. I loved your house. Your tiny, crammed house. I loved your family. Your strange alcoholic father and your loud obnoxious mother.

No. No, I fucking hate you. I hate you for the hell that you put me through.

But the thing I hate most of all, is that there is still a small part of me that would crawl back to you, simply so I could feel something, anything at all, again.

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I spotted this little artistic graffiti while walking one day, and it really sparked something in me. It made me realize I should be proud of what I create, no matter what I may worry others will think of it.

I burnt my skin in shapes of horseshoes hoping I’d get lucky enough for someone to notice.

(June 14th, 2013)