My Scarlett Letter

This post is going to be a little different than anything I’ve written about previously. I don’t normally talk about these things. I think mainly because I don’t know how. I identify as gay. I’m attracted to women. I’m not ashamed of it and that’s not what we’re here to discuss. What we’re here to discuss is the rest of it. The part that I don’t tell anyone exists. The part I’m afraid of.

I’m 24 years old and I’ve slept with more people than I can count on both hands. That makes me feel ashamed. Does it make me feel like a slut? Like a whore? Not at all. I like sex. Who cares. But what I’m ashamed of is that I can’t remember all of their names. They blend together. I ran into a woman that I had ‘relations’ with and couldn’t remember her name. She told me I should be ashamed. She started to belittle and demean me but before she could finish, I agreed with her. I told her she did nothing to deserve what I did to her. She looked astonished like she never in million years thought she would hear me agree with her.

That was almost two years ago. Now I’m doing a bit better. I was in a successful ‘friends with benefits’ relationship until she got married. Which I’m so happy for her and so proud of her. Her boyfriend (now husband) at the time knew about us and there were no secrets. Every time I feel ever the need to do something ‘unhealthy’ I tend to go driving. I would honestly rather pay more for gas than hurt someone’s ego and mine.

My therapist and I have talked at length about how I separate sex and love. I use sex as band aid for problems. I’m not an addict. I don’t need it to fill some hole or void in my life/heart. The problems I have, my bipolar leaves me feeling I’m not wanted. So as you can guess what is it I do? Go find sex. I want someone to want me. I get I what I need then I leave. They’re left feeling alone and horrible about themselves.

I never stopped to think about the consequences of my actions until the day she ran into me. I’ve been thinking about her a lot recently and how I’ve been changing since then.


*Somewhat Edited.*


Blog coming soon. In process of typing it up.

Ehh, What’s Up, Doc?

Today I went to see my psychiatrist because on Wednesday I had a hour long pseudo-seizure. My grandmother, who I live with, went into full blown panic after it was over. Saying “this needs to stop, it’s been happening for two years, you can’t keep living like this.” Yes I know, she’s a parent, she worries. But the fact remains, I have been living with this. For two god forsaken years. My seizures come and go as they please destroying anything they see and taking what they can.

The only way I’m able to maintain a job is I have a boss who is the most understanding man about the whole thing, plus my other health issues.

Anyways my grandma drags into my doctor and starts to tell him about the seizure. He asks me a couple of questions to which I answer honestly. He thinks changing a medication I take called Topamax to a higher dosage will make a difference. My grandma both agree and just when I think the appointment is going to come to end that my whole world gets thrown up against the wall.

She tells my doctor she doesn’t my bipolar medication is working for me. (Depakote). I think it does. He takes a look at my blood levels and he said they looked good last time we ran them. If my medication wasn’t working ‘properly’ we wouldn’t be seeing the numbers I’m looking at. He then asked her to describe why she thinks my medication isn’t working. My grandma said, “we’ll be sitting there talking, laughing and the next minute and she’ll fly off in a rage.” She then looked at me and said, “Do you remember when said you went off on your friend for no reason?” I looked right back at her and I said, “Do you ever wonder if maybe it’s how you say things? How you address me?”

My doctor asked me of this if any of this was true and I just shrugged. All the questions that followed were ones he couldn’t answer. That no one can. He kept telling me if want my independence back and to move out I have to get a better job. Yes doc, I know. But you’re not answering my question. How can I get a better job knowing that I can barely smile? How can I get a better job know that I don’t at night? How can I get a better job know that my seizures will stop me from having it? He couldn’t answer my questions. He kept telling me (along with everyone else) to smile, to get better, okay, great. I will, as soon as someone tells me how. Because for the past two years I’ve been struggling to figure it out.

*Not Revised*


First, before I get into my post, I’d like to apologize for the lack of blogs I’ve had. It’s been really stressful and I essentially haven’t had time to process anything but thank you for being patient.

Lately I’ve been having strong feelings. About almost anything. Most of the time this only occurs when I’m under huge amounts of pressure or there’s something my body/mind isn’t telling me. I’ve been overreacting, becoming mad, paranoid and very anxious about little things. Then the very next day, I’ll my feelings out on the table and realize that none of them have any bearing.

For example, I think I’m losing my best friend. I think we’re drifting apart and I won’t be able to stop it. Now, is this my paranoia talking or is it actually happening? I laid all the “know” facts out on the table.

  1. I’m bipolar.
  2. Thinking people hate you is a part of it.
  3. She still talks to you.

Then after that I literally could not think of anything else. I sat there and I said, “You’re fucked.”

I don’t know what I’d do if we weren’t friend anymore. But I also don’t know what I’d do if I’m losing my mind. Some days, I hate this illness more than others.

You know how I mentioned, everything is basically elevated? I was in the shower just listening to my music like I usually do when a dance song comes on. At first I go to skip it but then some happy bone in my body decides it really wants to dance. For then next 45 minutes or so I had a solo dance party in my bedroom. Mind you, I had just finished crying over the fact that my best friend might hate me and the love my life doesn’t know I exist. But hey, all that matters is Usher got me to forget all about it.

Oh, mental illness how you make life a surprise.


(Not revised).

Enter Sandman, Bring Me A Dream

Much to your disappointment, no, this won’t be about the song. I do, however enjoy the song. All versions. But this, my dear friends is the tale of how that lovely monster under my bed keeps me up at night. (I also wish I was talking about real monsters but I’m not).

I know, I know. All I have to is relax my mind. Count sheep. Do some really small exercises before I go to bed. Believe you, me, everything you’re thinking of, I’ve tried. It doesn’t work. I always take my medications precisely one hour before I go to bed or I’ve realized the pressure release on the pills activates weird. Anyway, once I’ve done that it should be off to dreamland for me, right? Wrong. I lay there and lay there. Nothing on mind, my head drowsy as can be, (my medication is sleeping inducing remember), and I’m just watching my ceiling fan go around.

Many a nights I’ve forced myself to wake all the way up to do something productive but the next day my body feels like it wants to explode from pure exhaustion and that’s just day one. This can go on for weeks. My doctor once asked to prescribe me a sleeping pill and I said no. I know I’m probably crazy for denying it but I’d rather be tired than addicted to something. (I feel as though I’m all battling enough when it comes stuff like that).

(Trying to insert pictures on the mobile app, doesn’t work as planned by the way).

A friend of mine said if I light candles or make my room smell good if feel like home and comfortable then I’ll be able to sleep but that didn’t work either. I think my inner demons, the depths of soul are reaching out saying they don’t want me to sleep. I think this maybe karma for all the bad I’ve done in my past. (Yes, other ‘bad’ things happened to me, but that was to be expected). My sleeping pattern has been like this for nine months now and I have a gut feeling it’s not going to change anytime soon.


My First Entry

I have to admit, I’m not big on writing. I think I’m quite terrible at the act but I’m hoping is that blogging or at least writing down my stories will help me with my life a little better. I journal and the only difference between this and a journal is that other people can see this right?

I uh, I have bipolar disorder, which normally wouldn’t be hard for me to say; only the fact remains I don’t know who’s deciding to read my posts. Some people can very harsh, rude and judgmental. I know it only comes from a place where they don’t understand, and that’s okay. I’m okay with knowing there some things that are hard to understand unless you’re in the other persons shoes or watching someone go through it.

About a year and a half ago I had a complete mental breakdown. I took three full bottles of pills and laid in bed awaiting to die. However, I wake four days later in the hospital. I had survived what my doctor told me to be an “almost completed suicide”. I honestly didn’t know what to do with information. Do I try again? Do I get help? I had a mandatory stint a psych hospital but I was only there for three days and after that I didn’t know what to do/where to go.

Here I am later into my life, quit a job that I had loved so I could focus on my mental health progression and I’m starting to wonder again. No, not about whether to kill myself. I starting to wonder what I’m doing. I’m taking my medication, I’m going to therapy and I can feel my doubts. Why do I still have these? Why am I so scared to start a life again?

All of my friends left when I was diagnosed. It’s a scary disorder and most of my friends have children, and I guess some of them were worried? It just hurts that they could trust me before I was diagnosed but after… they couldn’t? I don’t know… I actually don’t understand a lot on that front. I haven’t asked why they left. I think I’m scared of what they’ll say.

Hopefully, something in life makes sense.


(Also, I apologize for forgotten or misspelled words. I don’t go back over what I wrote).