Category: Uncategorized

letting the light in

As I stated in my last post, these past few days/weeks/however long its been has been really good to me. I’ve been allowing myself to take up space, both physically and figuratively, and letting myself feel joy and goodness and warmth so powerful it nearly overtakes me. Things that seem ever so simple, but have always been a struggle for me. I’ve been learning to stop second-guessing what makes me feel good. If I want a cookie, I eat a cookie. If I want to go out, I go out. If I want to stay in, I stay in. Choices that seem so obvious, but for whatever reason seem so hard to make. I’ve learned to ride the waves of life and just let it happen. Letting it all become easy, has been far from easy. Its a constant and conscious effort to stop myself from searching for a reason, an “oh I have more energy because I’ve been eating more of this and less of that,” or “Oh I must be happy because I’ve been spending more time with friend-x, -y, or -z, and based on our natal charts we are wicked compatible, so he/she/they must be the love of my life and we must get married so I absolutely cannot mess this up or say one wrong thing at all or else my life is ruined.” Basically, I jump to conclusions. Drastic conclusions. Rapidly. Don’t get me wrong, a healthy diet and time spent with good people could definitely be, and actually is most likely, contributing to this upward spiral I seem to be in. I acknowledge that. But I am learning that it is super unhealthy for me personally, to get so fixated on the why and how, and make it an obsession. Its a control thing really. Control is good when needed, but if things are good the way they just happen, maybe I should let them just happen. Good feelings won’t last forever, and I know that. But I have made a decision to not worry about the decline until it begins.

a wish

i wish i knew how to write about the beautiful things,
the days as of late,
where my heart feels like sunshine,
and i'm blinded by the light that glows,
outward from all of the beautiful people,
my friends of both new and old.
the days where my feet feel like clouds,
as i walk on air,
in a world so beautiful,
it just might be heaven.
but i only know so few words on these days,
like 'beautiful', and 'sunshine', and 'love'.
describing pain is easy.
but today,
the sweet nectar of life,
the essence of my existence,
is just too damn good.

sorry its been a minute! i’ve been busy moving into my new house, expect a lot more to come!!

love,

aud

mom

my relationship with my mother has never been good. it has never been easy. i’ve always found myself to do my best when she is kept afar, and i don’t have to speak to her often. as i’ve been spending more time around her again, i can feel things getting bad again. things are bad with me and her. things are bad with me and myself. things are bad with me and my dad. i’d go into detail, but quite frankly living with her, and living with my own sick mind, is beyond exhausting. last night i saw her for the first time in about a week. within minutes of her arrival, we were arguing about an avocado, about how i’m useless and can’t do anything right, about how i’ll never be anything more than a big disappointment and that she hates me and regrets giving birth to me. a normal interaction for us, but it reminded me of some of our worst exchanges, sending me into a dark spiral of reading old text messages to my friends where i disclosed some of the most outrageous things that she has said, some of the most outrageous things i have ever heard. sometimes its hard to tell where her craziness ends and mine begins. she denies being anything less than the best, most loving mother, and it has always been hard for me to accept that she is not fully to blame for my struggles, that i myself have to be held accountable, but its just as hard to not believe her when she tells me she hates me, that all of the bad things are my fault, etc. etc. the darkest, most confusing spiral.

we love our mothers,
and the earth
for giving us life,
for providing for us,
and giving us a home.

logically, i should love myself,
for making decisions to create
the future that I want.
for feeding and taking care of my body.

but instead, I beat myself up
over every bad decision,
every mistake,
regardless of how much I enjoyed it,
or what i got out of it.

i despise myself,
for every morsel i eat,
for anything i ever do
to benefit only myself.
i thank my mother
for the opportunity to walk this earth,
yet hate myself for walking it.

the habit of self-destruction

these past few days, this poem that I wrote has really been resonating with me. things have never really gotten easier, I just started doing them anyway. every day is still a struggle, which often leaves me wondering why. why is it so hard? why do I want to give up and do things that I know are no good for me?

I smoke cigarettes
I used to tear open my skin
I've detached myself from my body,
and sold it,
for money and for drugs.
Was I trying to get rid of it?
And give it up entirely to another?
We don't jump off the plane
on our way to vacation,
or dive out of our cars,
as we drive down the highway.
So why should I abort my vessel?

should i be writing?

another unorganized rambling, sort of an overthinking out loud part 2, if you will. enjoy!

If this is your first time reading my blog, welcome. My name’s Audrina and this is where, for only about the past week and a half or so, I have been spewing words in the forms of poetry, story times, and jumbled-up thoughts turned into even more jumbled-up words. What I’m trying to say is, I’m very new at this. I’ve toyed with the idea before, with sharing my thoughts, feelings, and ideas. I’d do this on a different platform for a short while, and then quit because it felt “wrong”. I’d start a food-centric Instagram page, and then delete it as soon as I realized it was making me focus even more than I already was on food, which was ultimately detrimental to my recovery (I’ve been struggling with an eating disorder for almost half my life, granted I’m only 20, but still). I’d write and write and write until I would discover that I’d been writing for all of the wrong reasons. Sometimes I would write so that others would perceive me a certain way, and post pictures that made my life look a certain way, and give the illusion of a perfect, dreamy aesthetic. A common reason was that I wanted to help others, and give hope and guidance and relief to the people who related to my words. Don’t get me wrong, helping others is lovely and great. We should all help others. The problem is that everything I’ve done with my life for the past almost 21 years was to serve others, never allowing anything at all in the universe to be of service to me and only me. This time around is different. I’m writing and sharing because it is therapeutic to me. If you’re reading this, thats cool, but please stop if you’re not thoroughly enjoying it. Frankly, I just don’t care. Its not that I don’t care about you, dear reader, I really do from the bottom of my heart. Although I don’t know you, I love and care for you from the bottom of my heart, and it greatly pains me to see anyone at all suffering, regardless of if they’re someone I get along with or care to be around. I’m not saying this because I want you to view me as a kind, caring, compassionate, whatever you personally might call it person. I really don’t care what you think of me, or even if you’re aware of my existence. I’m just saying it because its who I am as a person, and maybe someone out there wants to know that about me. I don’t care if anyone sees this, if anyone reads or follows my blog, or likes any of my posts. I recently decided to take a break from all social media, as my life was ruled by trying to live in a way that was beautiful to other people, and doing things to make them happy. Long story short, I’m a people-pleaser. Always have been, and perhaps always will be. Which I think is ok, as long as one of the people that I’m pleasing is myself. Anywho, writing this blog felt wrong, too much like the social media that I haven’t so much as looked at or scrolled through in several weeks. But I realized it was different, not only because, to my knowledge, no one here knows who I am. But also because my thoughts and attitude behind this platform are so separate and detached from my views on social media. I deserve to write, so I will.

another poem

as i was writing my last post, about feeling stuck in the past and fearing that i may be struggling more than i realize, i couldn’t help but to think of a couple pieces that i had written, one being an essay, and the other being this poem that i wrote, while i sat in a rather soft and cozy chair in a cold, rigid treatment center, where there were too many bright and stale fluorescent lights, but it felt like one of the darkest places on earth; a poem i wrote about the days of my life that were simply cold and dark, any way you tried to look at it.

buried in snow,
i reach out,
forcing my arm through the wall,
of frozen icy crystals,
for you.
others try to help,
but i insist on waiting for you.

on a mattress on the floor,
in a locked room,
of a dark,
unfurnished apartment,
my bare skin,
pressed against your warm, naked body.

seeking comfort from those
who cause me fear,
the more you hurt me,
the stronger i cling to you.

overthinking out loud

WARNING: this post won’t be at all organized and probably won’t make any sense. It won’t be beautiful or poetic. its just a spewing of my thoughts, as they are, in my mind.

I can’t write now. I’m doing too well. I’m not having any crazy thoughts that I need to get out. I’m existing. Happily. Existing. Its mundane but content. I always think I’m doing well. When I look back to what I can now see as some of my worst points, I thought I was doing well. So does that mean that I am hardcore struggling right now, and that I’m in denial? Maybe. What will it take for me to feel my pain? Will I know when I lose X amount of pounds again? Or when I find myself waking up in a hospital again? Maybe I have to put myself through some more trauma, spend time with people that I know are dangerous, put myself into situations that are just, well, bad. Maybe this is just how my life is meant to go, waves of feeling good about how good things are going, crashing and trying to fix things, thinking that I’m doing oh-so-well again, just to crash yet again and realize that my progress was all a lie. I often find myself reminiscing on previous phases of my life, innocent youthful audrina, hot-mess high school audrina, wild party girl audrina, soft and vulnerable in treatment audrina, and whatever other versions of me existed in the past. I wonder what I’ll call this part of my life in a few years. I think about these different pieces of me often, and all of them still exist, coming out in different ways every now and again. Some people might say that I live in the past, spending my morning showers thinking about who I was a year or two ago, falling asleep at night while reading journal entries from when I was in treatment for my eating disorder. I disagree. If we don’t remember the past, and think regularly about the ways we moved on from it, can we really keep it in the past? If I don’t reflect on the worst nights of my life, whats stopping me from reliving them? Or maybe they’re right. I do feel stuck right now, yet unsure what I’m stuck in. Maybe I am stuck in the past. Who knows.

bricks

i was never much of a poetry person. yeah i could appreciate a good poem. but a year and a half ago i never would’ve even imagined myself writing one. i found my love of poetry while i was in treatment for my eating disorder, when i was all of a sudden feeling all of the emotions i’d held back for so long, but was still just barely well enough to form a coherent thought or lift a pen. for whatever reason, a lot of my first poems referenced bricks, an object i’d never given much thought to. i hope that maybe by sharing two of my favorite poems about bricks, i can figure out their strange personal significance.

Who Gave Me This Body

who gave me this body?
my soul has always been,
drifting through this universe,
where God put me.
in the beginning of time,
with a purpose, with a plan.

a home was made haphazardly,
with bricks, and a glue stick,
and some feathers.
people saw beauty in this structure,
in the way they saw the leaning tower of pisa,
as they looked on with anticipation,
and awe,
wondering how it had yet to fall over.

i suffocated,
trying to squeeze through the cracks,
as i feared the tower would collapse,
inwardly on me.

but why not let it happen?
let the tower fall.
are bricks not beautiful?
why can't they be scattered,
and broken,
with crusty glue,
and the odd feather or two.
i knew a woman who collected bricks.
who ever dared to tell me
that my pile of bricks
had to be formed into a tower?

The Brick Pillow

every night,
she lay her head,
on her brick pillow.

and every morning,
she'd complain
of a headache

and every day,
her lover would offer
to buy her a new pillow.

and every time,
she'd refuse.

and every evening,
she'd lay back down,
on her brick pillow.

on moving on (part 1)

home.
i used to think i needed a someone or a somewhere
to be home.
at the end of the day,
we would come home to each other.
your smile shined, it radiated from my eyes
the warmth of your arms
burst out of the core of my very being.
we'd come home.
to our little apartment
on the sixth floor
of one of thousands of buildings
in a city so full of life,
in a city that didn't even know my name.
but i knew hers.
i knew her name and her love and her comfort.
that city,
that building,
that apartment was "home"
but why shouldn't i be my own home?
with no limits but the edge of my skin?
the universe within me
as much as i am within it?
i am free.
i can fly.
i am home.