I should preface this with, I just poured my 3rd glass of wine. And it’s more than the recommended serving size.

So, today.
Let me tell you about today.
It wasn’t awful. All in all, it was a pretty good day. There’s a good chance I’ll be flexed on Friday, so I’ll be off work with pandemic pay or scrubbing toilets if they reassign me. Not my favorite past time, but hell you know what – toilets are just toilets and it won’t be the first time I scrubbed one. Might be nice to be able to not feel a fucking thing all day.

Anyway, today I went to see this person who needed to do a thing for health reasons and I was told this person didn’t want to do the thing and it was really not in this persons best interest to not do the thing. I’m being purposely vague here (it’s not the wine, I swear). So, they call me in because sometimes I’m lovely and convincing (and sometimes I’m a bitch, let’s be real). Before I go in, they have me completely convinced that this person doesn’t give a fuck about their health, is a complete asshat and all around dunce.

So, I go in an expect a fight. I expect to be yelled out. Maybe told off. Maybe bitched out or at. A million negative things. So I see some other folks before I see this person so that I can kind of get in the swing of things and not have my adrenaline pumping a thousand miles an hour and then I go in.

And I was reminded why I do what I do.
Why I chose social work.
Why I love what I do.
Why even on the shittiest fucking day, I pick back up and do it again.

It is a privilege to share space with folks.

I went in with some background information – mostly negative, some helpful. The most important thing was that this person didn’t feel heard.

So I went in and I gave this person space to share their story. Their perceptions, their version of things, what they wanted and needed.

And it turns out, this person wasn’t as asshat.

This person was lovely. This person didn’t feel like they understood what was happening to them. This person felt like people didn’t give a fuck. This person felt like they were lied to. This person was overwhelmed with life changes that they didn’t have a lot of control over. This person was lonely due to Covid restrictions. This person missed their family.

Literally the only thing I did was provide space for this person to say that what they needed and felt and wanted.

And it might work.

At the end of the day, I left them with – it’s up to you, if you have questions let me know and I will answer them tomorrow.

They were so, so fucking grateful. It’s amazing. It’s absolutely fucking amazing that people are so, so grateful for someone to share space with them without judgement. With empathy. I’m not a fucking saint. This isn’t tooting my own horn. There are a thousand people that I haven’t shared that space with – unintentionally mostly, I think.

It just makes me sad, and a little angry, to think that people think this person was so many things that they weren’t.

Tomorrow, they may not make the healthiest choices…but for today, they are my why.


Just shit.

I just want to stare at the wall until the sun comes up and these feelings fade. Funny how history repeats itself. Sometimes, the end of this feels like it’s right around the corner. But just when I think I’ve had all I can take, I’ll stand there groveling, begging for more. I realized the other day that it just took a few weeks for me to fall into survival mode. Hour by hour, day by day. I thought I was in the clear – that maybe I was getting my shit together and I could just roll on through the days high on happiness.
What a fucking crock of shit.
I could feel it coming. It starts like a shadow. Did I see that? Did I really feel that? Shake it off. But then it comes, like it always does. It starts as irritation. Annoyance. Then it escalates to shame and rage and fury. It’s like there’s me – and then It. And It takes hold and it won’t let go. I can hear myself in the background, trying to rationalize while It throws things and curses and shouts. It likes to destroy things. Destruction and then shame and exhaustion. Sometimes, I can be stronger than It. I can drown It. I can choke It down. I can walk It off. But not lately.
I just want to stare into space until I wake up.
I was married for 5 years. Technically 6.
And it feels like a fucking dream.

I just want to be loved. Unconditionally. I want flowers and to be thought of. I want to know that I’m important and that someone gives a shit. I want someone who notices my absence. I want someone who says “good morning, beautiful” and the fucking cliche things. I want someone who wants to marry me and never live a day without me and fucking means it. I don’t want a lot. I don’t need material things. I can get that shit for myself. I want pictures that I didn’t take. I want letters I didn’t write. I want someone who keeps It from coming back again and again. I want to be a priority.



I am almost 29 years old.

And I am still amazed at how things that happened 15 years ago, 19 years ago, fucking childhoods ago, still bring up feelings.

Like, what the fuck. WHY DO I STILL FEEL THIS SHIT.

FUCK YOU. And you. And you.

But not you Kat, bc you’re the only one who reads this shit and I love you.



soul. speak.

in my make believe world,
i like to pretend that veterans
live in two story homes
with white picket fences
with dogs and barbeques
and families that make them laugh;
fast cars and trucks,
farms and peace,
the kind Dick Winters spoke of.
in my make believe world,
i pretend they don’t sacrifice
their sanity for
xanax pills and vodka,
beer and smokes,
PTSD and walmart,
living on the fucking streets.
i pretend they come home
and it was just as they left it.
friends are still friends,
high fives, tailgate nights
such a world, where war
wasn’t fucking easier
than living and coming home.
i pretend they don’t come home
and blow their brains out
in the lobby of a va hospital.
i pretend 22 is just the number
that comes after 21,
not the number of lives ended.
for the ones not existing
in my perfect world,

View original post 9 more words


no title.

im afraid of goodbye

that it’s lurking around the corner

like a drifter on a dark night.

i know how it goes,

if you leave.

it’s me, looking at your picture

and wondering why i wasn’t

as good as the next girl in your bed.

it’s tears and long nights

sex with strangers,

and pretending that i’m

worth something, to someone

until the lie fades.







as is.

it’s the strangest thing,
how i find myself loving you.
i haven’t told you – yet
but the words stay on the tip of my tongue
dangerously close,
to spilling over and out
and through all the spaces
you’ve begun to fill.
i have no expectations,
i don’t need you to love me back,
i don’t need you to say the words,
to reciprocate –
of course, it’s beautiful if you do,
but i am strangely satisfied,
with loving you,
as is.
perhaps that is how love is meant to be.
i love you.
i’m still learning you,
but i love you all the same.


burn with me.

let me share this fire with you,

come taste the ash

that surrounds me like smoke.

flames licking fingertips,

just touch it.

it won’t hurt you.

just let it burn for awhile.

let the light consume the darkness in you.

you just don’t know,

just how much this will cleanse your soul.


burn with me.