I just realized that I don’t wear my truest feelings on my body like I thought I do. I’m over here ranting about my crappy apartment and completely forgetting how special I feel when someone sees me.

It’s not about house, money, or type of adventures I go on. It’s the emotional roller coaster that has been about to ignite the passion I had a long time ago. I can’t say for certain what makes me long for my friend. A person who grew up in the same time and different place. We have the same parents. It’s really quite extraordinary.

I think my silence in writing has made my voice sound weak. I’m stronger now than ever before.

I’m flat broke with no kids, no money, no job, and no ambition. I have the kids I gave life to before I left. They’ll always be my kids. No money because no job. And no job because well… would you hire a scatter brain to pour coffee at $16/hr when you can have someone half my age or younger?

It’s been a while since I was looking near here. There’s a few places but they never call me back from my resume. I don’t know if it’s because I’m over qualified or if it’s because I have a really big mouth.

The people around me are starting to really enjoy the show. It’s a constant “will he live there or run away” kind of thing. I’m over here waiting for the balloons to drop and say “April fools! He’s completely imagery and a figment of your mental state!”

I literally didn’t sleep for the past two nights because I am so sure he’s a fraud. I know I am. There’s no way my book about my experience with neurodivergence is going to sell. I’m not going to be rich and famous. I’m just a small town girl who wants to explore the possibilities around me.

If money was no object and i could remain where I am. I’d buy myself a car and still use public transportation in the city. I’d go to libraries and parks. I’d see the world from an angle that is slow paced and unpredictable. I’d stop by some random food truck and pick something that’s perfect for sharing while knowing the lifestyle choices are enough to get my body moving.

I can’t imagine how I must look from the outside. I always think I’m making friends and I’m just checking in. Saying hello, what’s new, how are you? No one actually knows what happens behind closed doors. Unless they hear screaming because we really do love an audience.

For myself? I figure I’m part of a social experiment started a few decades back when my mother and grandmother decided to start some new therapy program. They interviewed my great grandmother, my grandmother, my mother, and yes. Even me! But I didn’t know anything about it.

Years later, I brought my own daughter to therapy when she was about my age at the time I was there.

I don’t know what this experiment could possibly mean or if it’s even remotely real. I know my mother, brother, grandmother, and great grandmother were all neurodivergent. They just called it different things.

It’s the connection we share with the universe and the closest people we know. I didn’t think it was special but apparently not everyone has the ability to realize they have a true connection to the world they live in.

It’s all about your outlook. I could always point out the things I’ve been grieving. My kids, even the adults, my friends, my job, money, time well spent.

Well now I’m sitting here thinking if I spent over half my life working on every one else’s dreams, why don’t I get to start working on mine?

I used to write poetry quite often. I was told it was cheesy and a waste of time and effort. The fact that I wrote a poem then embroidered it and had it framed was too much. Like, the effort it took to make something heartfelt was time wasted?

The time I spent pregnant, breast feeding, changing diapers, getting my own health in order… that was time wasted. I spent all that time feeling sorry for myself because I didn’t deserve to feel loved.

I sure as hell didn’t share love in the same way either. I was a jerk. I yelled and screamed horrible words, knowing it would hurt and cause more pain. I always thought I was telling him all the things I appreciated but I guess I never actually told him to his face.

I’m beginning to see the balance. How two men can be so different and the main reason is who they were raised by. The man who had parents quite similar to mine sees art as wonder. I see it as self expression and the colors always amaze me.

I lived my life in black and white before I moved to Portland. I didn’t know anyone who was not a parent first. I never did drugs until my doctors decided to give me things for the migraines.

I’m still in pain most of the time. It’s a different kind of pain. This is the pain that causes your mind to move too fast while you’re sitting still. It’s the pain of memories long forgotten, making their way back in.

I will never see myself as a famous artist. I’ll never get to Europe. I can dream, set goals, and live my best life. It’s not the same as having someone to share it with.

I have a person who sneaks up behind me and kisses my neck while I’m washing dishes. I’ve never seen that outside of the movies. He does this randomly. I’m always surprised when he chooses me instead of someone else. He rarely chooses himself if I’m there. I literally tell him to go almost every day because I have never felt so safe in my life.

The fact that I can lower my walls and he can see me at my most vulnerable scares me more than anything else I’ve ever faced.

I’ve faced fights, knives, things flying past my head. I’ve flown across the room at my brother because we were fighting over the tv remote. I’ve fought for my children, I’ve fought for my family. I’ve never really stopped fighting.

Until now. Now I have to wait for my nervous system to recover from four decades of suffering and trauma. I don’t know if I’ll ever trust myself and I also don’t know if I’ll be okay.

I’m going to trust the universe to tell me because I’m pretty sure that’s all I’m waiting for.

Is there some kind of social experiment going on in my life? I don’t know. If there is, I’m hoping everyone watching is enjoying the show. I rather a life of excitement and drama than one with the news on in the background and never seeing a single smile from my partner’s face.

The only time he ever smiled was when he had his kids. We committed too early and didn’t want to hurt the kids. Instead of me being truthful, I let my children be as happy as I could make them knowing I was losing a piece of my soul every day that passed.

While the majority of my life was trying to take care of too much, now I’m just trying to get by. I can whither away like everyone else, or I can be the gem I wish I was meant to be.

In the perfect world, in a perfect place, in the exact perfect moment; the love I share for the one man who really deserves it will finally see how much he means to me.

It’s definitely not the fancy clothes or job. It’s not even about the sex. It’s the connection between two people who had the same life experience from different angles.

I was the youngest of three and only daughter. I was treated like an only child and beaten because my mother made time for me. I would braid hair and make things. I was so damn creative. I would finally feel safe and my brother would be told he couldn’t have a snack by my mother.

I would be halfway across the room before anyone noticed, just because our mother wanted him to wait twenty minutes for dinner and he couldn’t wait.

My book has all the stories I remembered without the trauma dump. I don’t think anyone needs to read about things other famous authors have written. I want to write my stories from my perspective.

Which is what I do with my blog. It’s been way too long since I’ve written here. I’ve been working on a personal project for a while now and I’m not quite ready to share anything about it.

I guess I have the mania that makes everything better. I don’t know really. I don’t feel like I’m invincible but I do feel like anything is possible. I thought I was happy in a life where I was angry all the time. The drunk driving, the drugs, and the lying.

I can’t do lying.

Am I lying to myself because I think it’s okay to feel happy with the first person who ever really wanted to see me? I lived a long life full of responsibilities and schedules. Now I’m dying for a routine again. I’m so grateful for the two years I’ve already accumulated. I’m not sure my apartment will ever change. I’m not sure how anything can get better for me.

I’m not going to blog every day. I’ll share my thoughts from time to time. I’ll post some poetry on Facebook and images on instagram. I don’t know if anyone really wants to see a teenage mom and ex drug dealer falling in love with their lives.

Who knows, I would probably tune in myself.

Every day feels like I’m in a movie. I don’t know who the actors are or who’s playing games. I really hope my home is my safe space. Too bad my home is a person.

I need to find a way to express my feelings towards him without becoming a trusting fawn every single time I get vulnerable.

I think he’s having a hard time trusting me because I let him see all of my bad before anything good. Now I am ready for the fun parts and I really think he’s going to run away.

Maybe it’s just our time. A time to feel happy and free while spreading awareness and positivity surrounding mental health and addiction.

I am addicted to pain. I t