Stories. Not a blog.

“Do not be so open-minded that your brains fall out.”

I had a sad dream about a beautiful, pink frog that was the size of a roll of tape. It fit perfectly in the palm of my hand and I took care of it; happily, lovingly, carefully; until it suffered an accident. The wind roared and screamed, and in one big swoop took my little love out of my hands. And then down it went, slamming against sharp rocks; its fragile arms and legs torn from its body as it fell into the water.

I tried to jump after my little frog, I tried to save it, but someone stopped me; pulled me back and wrapped their arms around me as I cried.

And then my eyes were blinded by the darkness.

My little frog had been taken away from me—and I was heartbroken.

Strangely, somehow, I managed to turn back time; and I chose the same little frog I had tragically lost. I held it in my hands and I whispered, My little frog, I love you with all my heart.

And then I hurt it without meaning to.

Its beautiful, small head was ripped from its body by my horrible, clumsy fingers. As its body twitched in agony, I desperately tried to feed it; hoping and praying that I could save it, keep it, and wash away the guilt I was feeling for what I'd stupidly done.

I could feel its joy at being held by my hands and its pain as it struggled to breathe. It was horrible; watching something that I loved so deeply die by my (foul and disgusting) hand(s).

A dark part of me, a wounded part of me, separated from my body, and tore my little love from from my hands. It stomped until nothing was left, until my little frog had disappeared from existence. She was now a small memory.

Disgusted, the wounded part of me said. I am disgusted; and I hate you for what you've done.

And then the room went dark.

I screamed and cried out, but there was nothing to be done. I couldn't save, I couldn't keep, something I had loved so much. And it hurt. It hurt a lot.

And then the dark part of me spoke again, apathetic and mocking.

Who but an idiot would care so much? About a pink little frog with no name and a small heart.

Who but an idiot would care so much? About a strange and sad dream that broke my heart.

Who? Who? Or should I say r i b b i t ?

C. W.

After months of struggling with secondary trauma at work, I will (officially) begin working part-time soon; and there are no words to describe how happy and liberated (and exited!) I feel.

I enjoy my job a lot, but the toll of hearing people’s trauma—and feeling like shit afterwards every single time—has fucked up my mental health in ways I cannot even begin to describe. Their stories and pains are so similar to my own and having flashbacks and physical manifestations of my mental symptoms mid-job has been excruciatingly difficult. And to make matters worse, the boredom and workplace drama that I am forced to witness have not helped, either.

Only time will tell if working less, yet still working (there) will help to improve my mental space (something tells me that it will!). Some drastic changes have been on the horizon for a long time and this one was long overdue.

I shall update soon on how the endeavor is going.


C. W.

(sorry about my absence; it's been a strange and busy month)

i'm officially in therapy.

i had my first session yesterday afternoon and it was wonderful.

j. was great; she was engaging and attentive. (and although i was terrified i didn't feel like i was talking to a teacher that had forced me to spill the beans because i'd done something wrong. i didn't vanish when she asked me (deeply) personal stuff. i didn't lie—because i didn't feel like a wounded deer in an open field. i didn't do so many of the things i am used to doing in order to protect myself from people.


it felt good.

it felt the way therapy is supposed to feel like, even though i've never been in therapy (that one time doesn't count) and have no idea of what it's supposed to feel like. (if that makes any sense at all!)

i'm excited. i'm hopeful.

she's kind. the price of it is worth it.

i'm really happy i didn't give up. (on myself on my healing on my search on my future)


c. w.

I’ve been thinking a lot about where I am going—and where I want to be. Part of me wants to be gone from this world forever, but the other part of me desperately wants to succeed—and then some.

I feel that time is flying by (even by my standards it’s going fast) and that is terrifying; but until I finish my endeavor (which is going, going!) it will continue to swoop on by…until what? I achieve my greatest dream or end up dead?

Time will tell.

(gah, sorry for this, I’ve been feeling a bit blue lately)


C. W.

Let's talk about this therapy stuff I mentioned in my last post.

Plain and simple: I found the experience humiliating and heartbreaking.

I felt no connection or genuine sympathy from my therapist and I hate and despise that I forced myself to get my money's worth out of her by telling her stuff that is so deeply personal and private. Stuff that made me feel vulnerable and crappy in the worst way possible.

I felt like a fraud. A phony. A fake. I questioned my decision, but not out of nerves or general excitement at the prospect of something new; something unknown yet healing (like going to the doctor's office when you're sick)—but out of frustration and fear. Fear that I was spilling the beans to someone I didn't like; someone who was judging me and also wanted our session to end as quickly as possible. I could see it in her face. In the way she talked. In the way she sat. In the way she looked around the room. Geez, what a shame.

I hate that she was late and that her half-assed apology felt as genuine as basically every single YouTuber apology video ever made.

I hate that instead of feeling safe and comfortable I resorted to doing what I always do when people ask me about me; or when I feel trapped or cornered: I lied. And that made me feel terrible inside. I wanted her to be one of the few people I didn't lie to; someone I could be completely honest with, even if it fucked me over. But alas, it was not meant to be.

I had so many hopes for “this”. I desperately hoped we would click and that I would feel safe and comfortable; that I would feel like she was someone I could talk to and not feel judged by. Someone who would be able to help me stop—or at least lessen—my destructive and intrusive thinking and suicidal thoughts.

And now I'm back at square one.

And I'm out of $250.

Aw shit, man...

I'll have to keep looking.


C. W.

...and I felt disappointed. confused unsafe

She was late.

I felt uncomfortable (not vulnerable, which is OK)

She made inappropriate assumptions. (so) I lied to her.

I'll keep looking (or maybe not)


C. W.

What a horrible month February has been! I was physically sick, mentally unwell, spiritually and emotionally heartbroken (in the worst way possible), and financially drained.

Awful. Awful. Awful.

What an awful, stressful, heartbreaking, expensive month it was!

But it is over.

A new page is upon us (upon me, thankfully!) and I feel hopeful.

I feel good. I feel calm.

All shall be well.

And if it is not, then there is always April. May. June. July. August. September. October. November. January... February... March... April...

On and on, the months shall pass, until I find one where things will be just that.


not bad. not sad. not terrible. not heartbreaking. not anything except OK. (or maybe even happy, if only for just a little.)

(and if not in this life then perhaps in another.

someplace, somewhere, (good) things are going to come; and they're going to chose to stay every single time.)


C. W.

I am lucky and I have good fortune.

Flowers. I like flowers. But I have never enjoyed receiving them. I find it to be a selfish and heartbreaking process.

R. gave me a glorious pink rose for Valentine's day and although I was over the moon at having received something so beautiful, I am now watching it die—and it sucks.

Flowers look so much more beautiful on the ground, or in a pot; someplace safe and fresh and kind—a place where they can live and thrive. Like us, flowers need a home.

My flower does not have that.


I have struggled with insomnia since I was a child, and after a few hellish months (most recently) where I “slept” an average of 2-4 hours a night or would sometimes go a day or two without sleeping, I decided to make an appointment (in December of last year) to see my primary care doctor. We met in late January and she prescribed sleeping pills to help with my insomnia/anxiety—and they have not helped—at all. All they do is make me feel angry (not because they don't work, but because they “just do”) when I wake up and that's no way to live. I am usually pretty chipper in the morning—even if I don't manage to sleep a wink—and feeling cranky right off the bat is, simply put, disgusting. It ruins my day and makes me feel bitter and resentful for no particular reason.

I called her nurse today to see if something could be done (med change, etc.), and I am expecting a callback on Monday or Tuesday of next week. I hope something stronger is prescribed and that it is non-habit forming. I do not want to be dependent on sleeping pills for the rest of my life, but I suppose if it comes to that then it comes to that (although the idea is heartbreaking, to be honest).

We'll see what she says (and what she prescribes).


C. W.

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