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starting over

I haven’t written about my feelings over the past few months.

I guess that’s for several reasons. I was trying to be selfless. When you try to put someone’s feelings above your own, it’s difficult to make room for your own thoughts. I was beginning to feel as though what I felt didn’t matter, and I was both at fault for that and not. Had I given myself the opportunity to explore my feelings, I would have come up with an answer I wasn’t prepared to deal with yet. 

Am still having a difficult time dealing with.

I know myself well enough to know that navigating my personal issues through words is the best way to cope with this fallout. So I’m going to try harder and put this here as a reminder that there will be brightness and darkness and you will feel okay about all of it as long as you give your best - your best to yourself by being kind, and your best to others by not holding them at fault for someone else’s indiscretions.

Let yourself continue to be open to love, and hurt, and the possibility of both. 


When my family would leave me home alone when I was younger, I would walk back the hallway, with my back against the wall, and shut all the doors in the house. Then I would sit in the living room on the couch that was pressed against the wall, and I would stay there until someone else returned. If one of the doors was open down the hall before then, I knew something was bad wrong. The doors never opened, but I never stopped believing that one day one would.

I was once also convinced that once, I did the bloody Mary chant wrong and she got trapped in my wall, because there was incessant scratching inside my wall at night. I know you’re probably thinking that I was absolutely justified in thinking that, and I was, but it turned out just to be a bird trapped in the chimney flue.

We had an old, old Ouija board in the guest bedroom closet, and I would not walk in there. The shelf fell once of its own accord and that was the end of my time in that room.

There wasn’t a single place I didn’t feel like I couldn’t turn around and catch something staring at me. I washed my hair super fast in the shower. I ran and jumped in my bed when I had to get up in the night. Heck, I fell asleep on a pallet on the floor until I was 13. I still have my mom come get in bed with me sometimes at home and I’ll be 23 in two months.

I was never afraid of what a person could do to me. I think it was my soul that I feared for.

Now things are different… (and please don’t get me wrong, I read a list of scary two sentence stories from thought catalog while I was home alone recently and sat with my back against the living room wall all day until Josh got home). Mostly, though, my fear lies in coming home to find a murderer in my house. Or being kidnapped and tortured. In some ways, I find that to be very vain. I feel like it’s more important to be worried about my soul. Maybe I’m just not as crazy as I once was. Is my soul just not worth fighting over anymore? Because that’s terrifying. Am I just growing up and caring about less important things?

I don’t want to think that. I think I have just moved away from the ghosts. I’d certainly like to believe that the south is just haunted. I don’t doubt I could find plenty of evidence for the truth of that. But I also can’t escape the truth of a quote from Laurie Halse Anderson’sWintergirls. 

“In one aspect, yes, I believe in ghosts, but we create them. We haunt ourselves.”

Maybe, I’m just done haunting myself.

(copied from my wordpress blog.)

I left on a sweet note.

I left on a sweet note.

"The best way to get kids to read a book is to say: ‘This book is not appropriate for your age, and it has all sorts of horrible things in it like sex and death and some really big and complicated ideas, and you’re better off not touching it until you’re all grown up. I’m going to put it on this shelf and leave the room for a while. Don’t open it."

-  Philip Pullman (via abookblog)

well, I certainly didn’t wake up today thinking “maybe today I will be profoundly moved by a sparkling gif,” but here we are


well, I certainly didn’t wake up today thinking “maybe today I will be profoundly moved by a sparkling gif,” but here we are


Mildred Pierce (dir. Michael Curtiz — 1945)



everything personal♡


everything personal♡




“Now go, unleash hell.” MY NEW WATCHWORD.