Because of course.

After spending the past couple of years building this blog and its followers, I unfortunately now need to take it down and burn it.

It finally happened that it was discovered by a person who has refused to take “no” for an answer for my entire adult life. She babysat me as a child, and that’s about it. And for some reason, she thinks this entitles her to having access to details about my life and will not stop tracking me down on every single social media platform to try to snoop on me, and it’s incredibly frustrating.

So I just got a message from WordPress saying she subscribed and will now get emails anytime I post.

I do not owe this woman anything. We were never in a relationship, we don’t have kids, she’s not family. Every single time I let her back into my life, she would end up having some kind of psychotic outburst on me, or just say and do really inappropriate things, like when my son was dying and she tried to say she knew exactly what I was going through because she’d miscarried, which is the equivalent of trying to sympathize with a rape victim by saying you completely understand what they’re going through because you got unsolicited dick pics before.

And after I said “Fuck this, I’ve got too much to deal with already, I’m not taking this,” she sent $100 to our GoFundMe with some passive aggressive note about how she wanted to get her hair done, but it’ll have to wait because of me. I refunded that shit so fast, and she had the gall to complain to my mom about it and demand to know what she did wrong, as if it wasn’t obvious.

That was the last time we had any sort of interaction, four years ago.

And yet, she continued to stalk my shit. I had to block her on Instagram, Facebook, etc. Take a goddamn hint.

Now, after all these years, she tracks down my fucking blog and subscribes to that, so now I have to delete it and start over, hopefully somewhere she can’t goddamn find me. So if you are a legitimate follower and have been following me for longer than the past few days, feel free to send me a message, and I’ll reach out to you whenever I find the time to get a new blog, preferably somewhere that has privacy settings.

I’m really sorry that it’s turned out this way, especially after I’ve spent so long growing this blog and sharing so much of myself with you. It’s difficult to terminate something that means so much to me, so for now, I think I’ll just make all my entries private.

But again, feel free to reach out if you are interested in continuing to follow my story.

And woman, if you send me some kind of fucked up, psychotic-ass, harassing message because of this post, take a moment and examine your actions. You sought this blog out because you can’t keep your nose out of my business. This entry wouldn’t have even been written if you hadn’t done that. It is a problem because you made it a problem by sticking your nose where it doesn’t belong. So if you dare to get pissed off at me for something you did, I will not hesitate to post your message here for everyone to see.

Good luck with your life.

I’m sorry.

I thought really long and hard before deciding to actually post this because I didn’t want it to seem like an off-handed decision with no weight behind it. And when I say long and hard, I mean that for months, I kept coming back to the thought on an almost (if not) daily basis.
The truth is that I don’t feel like I can pursue art and music anymore. I know I’ve said similar things in the past during struggles without really thinking it through, but this has been on my mind for months as my ability to adequately produce anything of value began to deteriorate more and more. Throughout my life, I’ve gone through periods of art/writer’s block, but it never seemed as permanent as this. At worst, it might have lasted a couple of months before breaking through to a streak of intense creativity.
This is not one of those times.
It has been nearly a year since the incident, and there have been very few happinesses for me in all that time. Generally, I tend to create my best work during my darkest times, but I’ve come to realize that this was mostly due to having people in my life whose presence enabled me to make it through and fight to create another day.
It’s not like that anymore. The three people who cared most about me and never failed to inspire, comfort, and support me have either died, deserted me, or are forbidden from being near me outside of 9 collective hours per week during heavy supervision. I’ve watched my talents crumble and rot within the last year, and it hasn’t been from lack of practice. It’s a pure lack of the ability to get my heart into it. I know I’ve let a lot of people down who were expecting me to help them out with collaborations and the like, and I can’t begin to express how disgusted I feel with myself for failing people who believed in me. Please believe me when I tell you that it’s not because I’m lazy or that I didn’t want to help you. There’s a hole in my soul that has grown much larger since this time last year, and it exists in the same part that my creativity stems from.
I learned recently that PTSD is a form of brain damage and come to find out, it’s not really terribly surprising. If there is damage to the part of my brain that allows me to think creatively and take pleasure in creating, then it makes perfect sense that all of my abilities would crumble and wither away the longer this drags on.
Because that is one of the major problems interfering with my ability to create: it is no longer pleasurable. It’s just work, and when I’m aware that my work is coming out like trash, it further hampers any possibility for finding pleasure in doing it. A job well done is a job worth doing. A job done poorly isn’t worth the time and effort it takes to do it. And I don’t just mean my time, I mean yours as well. You, the people viewing/listening to it. You, the people waiting on a contribution to your own work. All of you. My work is not worth anyone’s time anymore.
And so it is with a heavy heart that I must announce my resignation from anything at all artistic for the foreseeable future, if not permanently. I know that this is a huge let down for the few people who supported my comic book that I absolutely promised I’d never give up on. It was never my intention to stop working on it, but at this point it’s really not living up to its former glory, and has just been a really sad shell of its former self. I can’t justify continuing it in this way.
Finally, the other major factor in my decision is that I have literally no chance of ever getting released from this nightmarish chapter of my life unless I give up on who I am in order to pursue a more “normal” lifestyle that will be better accepted by people who, while mattering very little to me personally, matter a great deal when it comes to paying the ransom upon my life. It is a ransom that cannot be paid with money, only action, and they do not care who it affects and how, as long as they get what they want.
For what it’s worth, I truly am sorry. I honestly never wanted any of this, and I wish to god I could change the past. But that kind of thinking is only going to cast me in the wrong sort of light, so… I’ll just say what’s done is done, and it’s all my fault. I’m sincerely sorry to everyone for everything.
Take care, please, and always foster your own creativity, even if you feel like you have no talent, for creativity is a terrible thing to lose. Trust me on this.

On fixing it ’til it’s broke.

Looks like it’s time for another goddamn post about goddamn shit. And when I say that, I mean it as eloquently as possible, because at this point, there are no pretty little words that I can say to sugar coat the overwhelmingly unpalatable bullshit that is taking place before my eyes.
I’m not gonna bat my fucking eyelashes anymore. This is fucked up, and it’s getting worse, and I’m livid. And I have a RIGHT to be. Take. A. Fucking. Magnifying. Glass. And. Look. At. This. Shit.

Where do I even begin…?

I know, let’s start with a a fun bedtime story about a little 5-year-old girl named H̭͍̬̫͙̩͢a̪r̛̬͈̖̝͖̰͎m̭̘̫̯̞o̻͘n̙͍̥̞̙͚y̬̭̪͝ͅ. Fun fact: It’s a true story!

H̭͍̬̫͙̩͢a̪r̛̬͈̖̝͖̰͎m̭̘̫̯̞o̻͘n̙͍̥̞̙͚y̬̭̪͝ͅ was a very special little girl with very special needs that no one knew or understood. She was the sad result of a toxic relationship, or to put it in other terms, an accident. A mistake. An unwanted pregnancy.

However, the girl’s mother chose life, in spite of the father’s aversion to his little baby girl that he never got to meet. H̭͍̬̫͙̩͢a̪r̛̬͈̖̝͖̰͎m̭̘̫̯̞o̻͘n̙͍̥̞̙͚y̬̭̪͝ͅ’s mother was very much like her when she was born. They were both special little girls who were very sensitive and vulnerable, and they loved each other more than anything in the world. Mommy would do anything for baby, and baby felt that love and used it to blossom and grow into an innocent being of unconditional love and empathy. This is why, when her mother married a much older man who said that he would take care of them both, H̭͍̬̫͙̩͢a̪r̛̬͈̖̝͖̰͎m̭̘̫̯̞o̻͘n̙͍̥̞̙͚y̬̭̪͝ͅ lovingly accepted him as her new daddy. And she was happy. She liked it when mommy and daddy were happy because it made her happy to see them happy! But sometimes, H̭͍̬̫͙̩͢a̪r̛̬͈̖̝͖̰͎m̭̘̫̯̞o̻͘n̙͍̥̞̙͚y̬̭̪͝ͅ noticed that her mommy wasn’t happy. And that made her more sad than anything in her whole life before. She started noticing that sometimes at night, mommy and daddy would yell at each other and break dishes. Mommy would cry and call daddy mean names. Those sounds became the foundations of her deepest fears and sadness; it was a sadness so great that it made her little tummy hurt in a way that she couldn’t explain. Sometimes it hurt so much that she would throw up puddles of yellow bile that reminded her of peepee.

When H̭͍̬̫͙̩͢a̪r̛̬͈̖̝͖̰͎m̭̘̫̯̞o̻͘n̙͍̥̞̙͚y̬̭̪͝ͅ started going to school, she was a little scared because it was new and unfamiliar. But she thought her teacher, Mrs. Gabriel was very pretty and her school was a charming little round building with carousel horses on the outside, so it was okay. She was strong before she ever knew she was.
But daddy started having trouble with work and mommy had to juggle jobs to make ends meet, and so she was around less and less. Daddy had a CB radio that he hooked up into mommy’s car so that she could call home on her breaks (they had one at home, too, of course!). So while H̭͍̬̫͙̩͢a̪r̛̬͈̖̝͖̰͎m̭̘̫̯̞o̻͘n̙͍̥̞̙͚y̬̭̪͝ͅ was sad that she couldn’t see her mommy very much, she still got to talk to her sometimes, and as long as daddy was around, she wasn’t completely alone, and that made things easier for her. But daddy was emotionally unavailable, and it made her feel lonely anyway.

H̭͍̬̫͙̩͢a̪r̛̬͈̖̝͖̰͎m̭̘̫̯̞o̻͘n̙͍̥̞̙͚y̬̭̪͝ͅ tried many things to make mommy and daddy happy. One day, she spent all day drawing pictures to create what she didn’t know at the time was called a story board. And she presented them to mommy and daddy, explaining what was going on in the cartoon she created.

Mommy liked it very much, but daddy seemed very upset by it. Maybe he said something like… “I would rather spend my time watching real television!”

H̭͍̬̫͙̩͢a̪r̛̬͈̖̝͖̰͎m̭̘̫̯̞o̻͘n̙͍̥̞̙͚y̬̭̪͝ͅ felt sad, she guessed, but she didn’t quite understand her feelings.

One day at school, a band came to perform a song from her favorite movie, The Little Mermaid. The movie reminded her of her mommy because they watched it together a lot. So at first, H̭͍̬̫͙̩͢a̪r̛̬͈̖̝͖̰͎m̭̘̫̯̞o̻͘n̙͍̥̞̙͚y̬̭̪͝ͅ was happy and couldn’t wait to hear them play! They sounded so good, just like in the movie. But when they started playing the song “Kiss the girl,” something started to feel a little bit wrong. It was that icky butterflies on fire feeling in her belly again, and for some strange reason, she suddenly remembered how it sounded when mommy cried and she started to feel an overwhelming sadness rush over her as she realized mommy wasn’t there and maybe mommy was crying just then, and what could she possibly do from where she was? All she wanted, more than anything was to find her mommy and hug her and tell her everything was okay. But she didn’t know how to tell anyone this, and she couldn’t speak because her words were drowned out by strong, uncontrollable sobs that simply would not subside. She couldn’t catch her breath.

And she soon found out that mommy was going somewhere weird called boot camp, and daddy was going someplace else. But why? Why couldn’t they just stay together and be a family? She simply couldn’t understand.

Daddy’s mom (technically H̭͍̬̫͙̩͢a̪r̛̬͈̖̝͖̰͎m̭̘̫̯̞o̻͘n̙͍̥̞̙͚y̬̭̪͝ͅ’s step-grandmother) drove her all the way back to Nebraska to live with her Grandma and Grandpa and her two mean uncles. Nothing was the same and everything was sad and scary, and none of it made any sense. Grandma and grandpa were busy people, and the two stinky uncles only wanted to hang out with friends and do weird things that made her uncomfortable. Sometimes they had girlfriends, and those were always happy days because the girlfriends were always so nice to her when no one else was.

But the girlfriends came and went and for three years, H̭͍̬̫͙̩͢a̪r̛̬͈̖̝͖̰͎m̭̘̫̯̞o̻͘n̙͍̥̞̙͚y̬̭̪͝ͅ changed schools a lot and became homeless sometimes because her family just couldn’t seem to make enough money, no matter how hard they worked. Grandma and grandpa became just another mommy who was never around and a daddy that was quiet and busy. Poor little H̭͍̬̫͙̩͢a̪r̛̬͈̖̝͖̰͎m̭̘̫̯̞o̻͘n̙͍̥̞̙͚y̬̭̪͝ͅ was so lonely, and missed her mommy and daddy so much. During boot camp, mommy couldn’t make any contact with anyone outside the Barricks, or whatever. And so for a long time, H̭͍̬̫͙̩͢a̪r̛̬͈̖̝͖̰͎m̭̘̫̯̞o̻͘n̙͍̥̞̙͚y̬̭̪͝ͅ wondered if her mommy was even alive or if she would ever come home.

Well, eventually she did get to make weekend calls, and H̭͍̬̫͙̩͢a̪r̛̬͈̖̝͖̰͎m̭̘̫̯̞o̻͘n̙͍̥̞̙͚y̬̭̪͝ͅ looked forward to them every week, just to hear her mommy’s voice as she read her a bedtime story and sang her a lullaby. She loved hearing the stories and her mommy’s sweet voice singing her little songs. But when the song was over and she had to say goodnight. H̭͍̬̫͙̩͢a̪r̛̬͈̖̝͖̰͎m̭̘̫̯̞o̻͘n̙͍̥̞̙͚y̬̭̪͝ͅ’s tummy started hurting again and she would cry herself to sleep, missing her mommy so much.

To keep this story brief, I will abridge much of the details (which can actually be found here), and skip to the part where H̭͍̬̫͙̩͢a̪r̛̬͈̖̝͖̰͎m̭̘̫̯̞o̻͘n̙͍̥̞̙͚y̬̭̪͝ͅ learned for the first time about CPS. It was in a gas station some cold winter night. She must have done something upsetting, though she can’t ever seem to recall what the things were that warranted situations like the spanking in the gas station bathroom. All she remembered was being punished and losing her snow boot in the process. So as she stumbled out of the bathroom with her grandma, trying as hard as she could to get her snow boot back on, she over heard the ladies working the counter. They were angry at grandma. They were threatening her. They said they would call CPS. It was all very frightening both for grandma and for H̭͍̬̫͙̩͢a̪r̛̬͈̖̝͖̰͎m̭̘̫̯̞o̻͘n̙͍̥̞̙͚y̬̭̪͝ͅ, as they hastened to get into the car and drive away as quickly as possible. Once in the car, grandma took a long, strange route home as she explained what CPS was and what foster homes were and how if something like that happened again and they were to get involved, I could get taken away from grandma and placed into one of these homes, and then I would never see my mommy again.


Did I say me? Ehe…

Yeah. Story time is over.

That single incident and finding that stuff out really messed me up. It became my biggest fear. I didn’t want to leave the house ever again for a long time, because I was afraid that one of those ladies would see us, or the police would find me and take me, and it was so much more stress than a little five-year-old girl needed on top of everything she was already going through. I developed migraines in the second grade, sometimes so crippling that I couldn’t go to school.

And don’t even get me started on the separation anxiety. It’s all there in that other blog post. I don’t feel like talking about it anymore because it’s making my stomach hurt, and I can feel the burning butterflies swarming inside my belly again just like when I was little, and increasingly every day that I am away from my baby girl and her daddy with little contact.

But what makes things worse is just knowing that I fully intended to bring Ivy up in a life that wasn’t full of the same horrible traumatic things that mine had been filled with. But what happens? She loses her brother just weeks before her third birthday. Something I never had to deal with at that age. And then shortly thereafter, she loses her home. She’s forced to go live with her grandma and two uncles. Only, at least for her, she has a mommy that understands the feelings she’s feeling. And where I had no dad, then a step dad, and then no dad again, Ivy is lucky to have had two daddies and a mom. So it wasn’t so bad, especially because mommy knew and knows her better than anyone else in the world.

And mommy feels like she really knows daddy deep inside also, and so… now what do I say? I’ve reverted back into talking mommies and daddies again.

We just ran out of sugar coating. So I guess it’s back to here and now and real grown up words, here in the present.

I want to make some things perfectly clear.

There was supposed to have been a paternity hearing where test results would have concluded that Ben is, in fact, Ivy’s biological father, even though she has a birth certificate with his name on it, and even though she looks just like him, and even though Ivy was a very much planned pregnancy using ovulation trackers and contraceptives to ensure than when a baby was made, it was for sure Ben’s baby.

Sorry for the TMI Tuesday, but I mean. We all know without any sort of doubt that Ivy is Ben’s daughter. And if you needed any more proof, Matt’s father was one of seven boys and no girls. Faron, who was Matt’s biological son was also a boy, and further, Matt’s brother (who is a boy) also had a little boy. Girls don’t run very common in the Schreiner family.

But, whatever, evidence isn’t good enough unless you stab people with needles or pull out their hairs, or do other various things with their body tissues.


  1. I’m being forced to take a medication that I have found to be detrimental to me as opposed to beneficial, so that I can prove I am a fit parent for my daughter, while also stopping the perfectly legal over the counter medication that I was using to actually FUNCTION and BE a good mother to my daughter. So. Counter-intuitive?
  2. Two days ago I was served papers stating that Ben is suing me for custody of Ivy, and now suddenly she has been put into a foster home (so bonus points, you guys! Not only have you made her live my trauma, but you also got a special bonus of making my childhood nightmare a reality for her!). Since then as of now, I have not been given any physical proof that my daughter is alive or safe. I have been told that the foster parents’ comfortability with me is more important than my comfortability with having my child under the care of these strangers, who I have never met before in my life.
  3. There was a paternity hearing today (it’s gonna be yesterday by the time this gets posted) in which absolutely nothing was resolved, as no test results were acquired and the judge asked me if I felt I was under duress to take the plea bargain offered to me, which my public defender had advised was the better option. However, I could not truthfully say that I was under no duress when my daughter was suddenly removed from family custody and legally kidnapped into an undisclosed location with strangers that I have never met!
  4. Further, Ben has stopped communicating with me again, which I am sure has something to do with manipulation and pressure from the legal proceedings on his side. So now, my daughter is MIA, her father who I trust and rely on for moral support more than anyone in this world is back to ghosting me, and here I am once again, all alone with no support, struggling to keep going on fumes alone while my body shuts down from stress, AND my brain starts wasting away from the cracked out medication that I’m forced to take.



Listen to this. The incident that occurred involved missing several doses of Lamictal, possibly accidentally overdosing on it and losing three days of sleep.
Once in the hospital, they started me straight back up onto the same regimen of 100mg AM 200mg PM, instead of tapering up from a low dose.


So then they also took away my Ativan and replaced it with an antipsychotic which made things worse and was the original catalyst for me resorting to DXM in the first place last spring, when the ones I was tried on caused me very serious side effects, some of which (particularly the neurological bits) have still not gone away. After taking a few doses of that and feeling worse than ever, I finally looked it up and found out what it was and why it was making me feel all those same shitty ways again.

This entire thing was also going on during an extreme dental infection which was possibly and probably spreading infection to my brain. The MRI I was scheduled for might have shown that if I had not been unwillingly removed from my home by police and held prisoner in a psychiatric ward for days on end, despite my desperate pleas to understand that because of my conditions, the isolation was the opposite of what I needed and was only causing more trauma to me.

And then I’m sure you know the rest by now. Out of the frying pan, into the fire, family split up, I haven’t been able to see or hug my baby girl in some two months, been pressured into doing all kinds of overwhelming tasks all on my own while being promised therapy or some shit, and not being allowed to have the freedom to just talk to my daughter’s fucking father who is my only emotional support in this world.

This is heinous. This is out of control. Everything has just been made worse by this whole entire fiasco, and I am physically running on empty. My body is not well. I cannot fucking take this shit, and if you want Ivy to even have a mother to come back to, then you need to reevaluate the situation and realize that the people involved are all much, much worse off than they were before the incident.

In fact, I’ve said this before and I’ll say it again: Things were just starting to look up for me. I was interested in starting to try implementing daily routine into our lives, so that we could have better structure and better communication, and maybe start functioning better as a family.

But that didn’t end up going over because certain people were making me feel very emotionally abandoned while others were trying to force me to relax by playing really grueling games that I just didn’t find relaxing, and then of course, the lamictal had me on a downward trend, and then whatever happened happened, and yada yada yada, etc.

Lamictal never seemed to make me better. I always felt as though there were long periods of mania and long periods of depression, almost seasonal. And then messing around on the dosages, on again off again…

It’s not good for me. I don’t like it.

And I don’t like this situation. And I’m goddamned tired of it. And I’m goddamn tired!!!! It’s like 5:30 AM. I’ve been up ALL NIGHT struggling to write this entry because I can’t think straight. And here I am not sleeping again. Jfc.

I’m done with this. I have to go to bed. I have to try to get at least some sleep, if I can. So forgive any weird typos, hopefully you’re smart enough to figure it out. Cause I don’t have time to proof read this.

It just needed to be said.

Just when you think you’ve hit bottom there’s a….


I don’t have the words. I mean, there are words I could list, guess. But they don’t portray the feeling of being utterly dumbfounded and wounded.

Here’s some. The rest are… unspeakable.

Shock. Nausea. Bile duct. Wasted. Surprised. Flabbergasted. Betrayed. Vomit. Bamboozled. Used. Abused. Crushed. Punished. Jimmy. Arousal. Empty. Hollow. Despondent. Angry. Tired. Exhausted. Drained.

Sounds like violence again…

I keep hearing explosions. Every now and again. Not like fireworks. Like, randomly, an explosion. And I think I may have just heard gunshots again. I hate this place.

I did a lot of self searching today and thinking. And it tastes bad. I think back, and I think back, and I think further back, and I’m just like… you know what? Fuck. He did this. And I’m paying for it. Wtf.

All the times we were happiest were when his toxic friends weren’t around. That’s neither here nor there. They did things to him and let other people do things to him and pushed it under the rug. Convinced him to keep his mouth shut. And I said hell no. I took him in and let him heal. I tracked down the specific jackass who violated him and told him that I would turn him in unless he apologized for what he’d done. And he did. Ben got closure.

Pending that closure, I was there. Just as therapy. There was a time I even let him beat the shit out of me, just to get those horrible feelings out. It wasn’t an abuse thing. It was consensual. After my stepdad passed away, the family and I had a fun little fight club in the front yard just to blow off steam. It was fun, and it was a good way to blow off steam and also practice self defense. But I digress.

We were happy. When those people were out of his life, we were the happiest we could be. And I know that I did have some self worth issues, but I was getting help.

Things only got worse after Faron died and I decided maybe I shouldn’t keep him from his friends, maybe they’ve changed, maybe they’re supportive. I didn’t like it, but I felt like I shouldn’t try to control that. I don’t know. It just seemed at the time like a good idea. Because he didn’t want to do therapy, and he didn’t have any other support.

Big mistake.

A mistake that we thought we were finally past when we got evicted and things got even worse. I was incredibly stressed out. No support. Back in an environment that brought out the worst of me. Made me feel worthless. And instead of being there for me, both Matt and Ben went off the deep end and started having emotional affairs and shit like that. It was a lot for me.

I hadn’t taken cold pills in years until the eviction. And as Ben pushed me away, I started using them again. I continued to try to convince him to get help. He didn’t want to. So, I put myself on the back burner for him. Started taking cold pills so I could deal with how he was making me feel. And when I did, I started functioning better and actually made friends and things. Started to grow again. Make progress. I even started therapy, which was a big step for me. Brandon weaseled his way back into our lives by pretending to be someone else. And I said “okay, sure. If you can *not* be an ass, we can be friends.” And for a while we were.

But Ben started pushing me away again. More and more. Kept refusing therapy. Blew me off. Became emotionally neglectful. And I started to break.

And I had a break. And he did something that anyone who knows me knows that you don’t do if you really want to help me. He called the goddamn cops. But he didn’t just call them. He came in here and antagonized me into throwing things at him just so he could have an excuse to call the police to take me away.

That was not the way to do it. And it fucked me up. It was a traumatic experience. No one listened to my needs. I needed to go home. I needed to be with my loved ones. I needed their support. Not isolation. But they kept me there. They isolated me and treated me like shit, and before I even made it out the door, Ben calls up and says “Oh, by the way, Ivy’s going bye-bye.” 😐

Like I needed that.

So great homecoming! But it didn’t end there! Suddenly, he decided he wanted out of the relationship for a while. So I lost him and Ivy all in one day. And for two god damn fucking months, his ass ghosted the fuck out of me while letting his asshole friends harass and attack me. Two months of hell, when I needed support. Not only this, but he took all our mutual friends with him. I wasn’t myself when I spewed some shit into discord about them being fake-ass motherfuckers, but… considering how they all took his side and abandoned me in my time of need, I guess I was right.

Two months. I’ve been treated like goddamn fucking shit. By everyone. I’ve been thrown through hoops. Been forced to do all the legwork in this case. Even though what happened during my breakdown did, in fact, happen to me too, I’m the one paying for all of it, and I’m fucking fed up.

This asshole calls me out of the clear blue sky after two months of treating me like shit and starts making demands and expecting me to just fall at his feet and say “YES MY LOVE, ANYTHING FOR YOU!” Which I did. For a few days. But after he said he would unblock me so we would talk, and then blew me off completely until he needed something, I decided I’m really not interested in being fucked around anymore. So I gave him the chance to call me so I could decide for myself if I was ready to go do the storage unit thing with him.

This man said he’s too fucking busy at 4:00 in the afternoon to have a five minute phone call with me. So I told him it wasn’t going to work and we’d have to reschedule. Know what he did? He went whining to Matt (who he’s also blown off for the last two months) and threatened me behind my back. 😐

And you know what pisses me off? Everyone treating me like shit for growing a backbone. Matt came in and started being a dick, acting like I was being completely fucking unreasonable. So I went to my mom and said “what do you think?” And she did the same fucking thing!

Oh, I’m sorry! Were you too comfortable with me being a doormat? That’s on you. I’m not a doormat. I’m a human being with feelings that matter. And I am so. Fucking. Done. With putting everyone else’s feelings before mine and being used and abused and taken advantage of and punished and manipulated and gaslighted and everything other thing.


I’m done letting everyone be selfish with me. I am not a fucking vending machine.