Haha

It’s Mother’s Day coming up, so I’m thinking of all the women in my life and all the awesome roles they play (mothers, non-mothers, and never-mothers alike).

http://everythingisgoingtobeokcomic.com/well-behaved-women

It's my pie...

The way I describe my depression is that I'm a piece of pie; missing a piece.  Now, you can fill the missing piece with another piece of pie, say, an apple pie, but my pie is blueberry pie.  So, the apple pie fits into the missing piece, but it will forever be an apple pie in a sea of blue berry, it doesn't fit, it's not going to fit, and sure it may taste good, but the truth is, it's not blueberry, and that feeling, that nagging feeling in the back if your mind, that blueberry is not apple, and apple is not blueberry, starts to drive you crazy.  So you do this.

You try to fill the piece of you missing, with cake.  Chocolate cake, mind you, which is kind of the best.  But when you fit the cake into your missing piece, the crumbs don't match up to fully fit into your pie.  So you get that nagging feeling again that not all is right with the world.  But the nagging feeling is now an itch that you can't quite scratch.  You, as the pie, just want to be a whole blueberry pie.  Is that so hard to ask?  So you do this.

You try to make a whole other piece of blueberry pie, a better pie if you do say so yourself.  But you know, and your mind knows, and your heart knows, and your big toe knows, that you can't just make a whole other pie when that old pie with the missing piece is sitting right there, watching you, judging you, needing you.

So you sit at the kitchen table, with the light shining on you like a halo, and you choose, I mean, you have to choose, right?  Life is all about choices!  You have the whole pie, and the one with the piece missing.  You want the whole piece of pie, because that's fucking happiness, and the other is fucking misery.  You want to be happy right?  Right?  RIGHT?  Or do you want the missing piece, and feel relatively whole every once in a while, but utterly broken?   What do you want?  And you ponder, because what you want is usually dictated to you, and you've never actually stopped to think about what you want?  Did you ask to be a blueberry pie? 

So I, as the maker of the blueberry pie, make my choice.  I am neither whole, or broken, I am on the verge of completion.  I make my own choices.  My depression is my own, and I control it.  I will be whole, and I will be broken, and I have to live with it, I have to be okay with it.  I have to be okay with it.

My invisible friends.

I'm wanton

Nights vulnerability...

The night, in my opinion is beautifully and wonderfully vulnerable. It is like a woman, spread out, waiting to be devoured. As a woman, spread out and waiting to be devoured, every whisper is like a shout, and every touch is intensified that even the most feather like touch will leave you gasping and aching for more, arching and pleading for some kind of connection. Night is honest in its utter silence and reserve. Even though the world is dark, you have to open your eyes and be focused, and let your eyes adjust to the majesty. As the creatures of the night come out to prowl, there is a presence, allowing for the hunt, the vulnerability of spirit, allowing truth to be set free. Freedom comes at 2 AM, when happiness is abound, and feet ache from wandering aimlessly, that they take you to refuge in the comfort of home where Morpheus wraps his arms around you, welcoming you to heaven. The day comes, a respite for night, until vulnerability is upon us again, promising passion, love, and honesty.

Husband and I were arguing, tears were shed, hugs were given, but I still cooked for him, because I love his stupid face.

I’m the mother to a wonderful 7 week old, and at times I get sad because I don’t know what he wants when he’s crying and I’ve done everything possible for him, and I come to the conclusion that maybe it’s just me.

I’m very calm with him, I love him, I smile sweetly at him, I say to him that I understand that there’s a divide between us and I wish I could help him more as I kiss his chubby cheeks. And when he calms down, if he calms down, I hug him close until he falls asleep, and I but him down in his bassinet. I stare at him in such awe that I’m in love with this little creature, that when I sit down and focus on my breath, I realize that I’m dying a little on the inside.

My child breaks me everyday, but when he looks at me and focuses on me, I pick myself up again and start all over.

I realize I’m very hard on myself, but with my history, I gravitate towards it because it’s my punishment. I’ll admit that I love my child more than myself, that I care about him more than myself, but I’ll keep going because he needs me, and I need him.

I need him.

Hoping my wedding pictures look as cool as her.

How to Wear Flowers in Your Hair

You’ll look as fresh as a daisy.

By Rian.

One of the movies I love. It would’ve been perfect if Mickey Rooney wasn’t the “Japanese” landlord. How embarrassing and racist.

There was once a very lovely, very frightened girl. She Lived alone except for a nameless cat.

Breakfast at Tiffany’s (1961) // dir. Blake Edwards

You...

Are the master of yourself