In a perfect world, I wouldn’t be here.

So, this is it. My final goodbye (tuh, if only I were so brave). And here I am finding myself on a toilet, proving just how SHITTY life can be. I love my dogs, yet they are a source of guilt for me. Cookie is so cute, timid and damaged. I find myself in her and am glad I have been allowed a chapter in her life to help her see not everything is scary. Pebbles is so intuitive. She can always tell when something isn’t right. She uses herself as a weight, pressure to ease mine, as she sits on top of me. She also barks when she knows we’re arguing. She paws at me to pet her when she knows I need to feel texture, something soft to soothe this rash reality. She also brings me her ball, thinking that exercise will make anyone feel better. Hell, maybe she’s right. But the problem is that I just don’t have the energy to throw the ball anymore. I don’t have the energy to do anything anymore. Including live this wretched life that I was selected for. What did I do in the past to deserve this? I’m sorry, whatever it was. And here I am again, as it is almost 7 a.m., wondering how the day is stretching, running beyond me again. I am a mere hamster on the wheel, except for that I notice the mundane task of doing so and realize I have the option to step off. Everyone is too busy running, on autopilot, worried about the next step and I’m just worried about my last. I don’t care what you do with my body, but I want my story told when I am gone, okay (that and my dogs taken care of)? Tell everyone how I got here. And that is not to say I didn’t contribute my parts. I was a shit show from 19 to 25, hell with as much history as I had it had to manifest in myself somewhere, but now…now I am just a woman with a tendency for depression, with a history of trust issues who just wants to love and be loved in return. It’s still not easy, but that’s what I sought, simply.  I listen to the a/c fan whir in this room dimly lit by blue dragonfly lights at the twilight of 5 a.m. and feel as though I am either at a hospital or my grandma’s house (I went there when I was sick and she lit blue lights and blasted her fan). I like it because at least then I know I would be taken care of. I am ill, emotionally. Tell them all how I had no one to go to. Anonymous Reddit people provided more consolation (thank you). Tell them how you left me in my darkest hour (not to say that you had to be obligated to me, you stuck with me through a lot and I appreciate those times), and how my siblings just couldn’t read into me wanting to be invited to spend time too (it’s no one’s fault, please don’t take the guilt for this, I just want you two to live happy lives and although mom was horrible, she was young and she can’t help herself I want her to be happy too. I forgive you mom. I love you). Tell them how people who posed as friends hit me up, got my hopes up that someone could be genuinely interested in my soul, only to use me to get to you. Those people don’t matter that much, but then why does that shit hurt? People don’t know how much they can impact a fragile person. Tell them how Kay severed the cord; although, most people tend to do so with depressed people because it becomes too much. I tried to hide it from you, though —and it still happened. Which is why I don’t feel as though Julia could handle it. Why risk the last person I converse with? I’d rather keep it superficial (it’s not anyone’s fault, please don’t feel guilty). And then there will be the people who will criticize as usual and say I had those people to talk to, I just made excuses. No. Maybe you don’t get. Maybe someone who’s been here before will get it. Or maybe it’ll be like my fucking life and no one will get it. I had an inkling of a person I could expose my real raw self to without knowing they may expect some superficial “I’m okay though” response. I want to disclose that I’m not okay without the pressure of acting for anyone else’s comfort, or without being judged. No one can do that for me right now. No one. Hell, trying to get you all to understand is past the point of mattering anymore. Never mind. Tell them how I persevered, got my masters only to have my dreams ripped away from me like the dreams of immigrants (not that it’s the same, it’s not) finally reaching the U.S. border only to be met with harsh awakenings. Tell them of all the abuse. Every, last, bit. Tell them how every single mishap, underserving mishap —some of which has led to some that are deserving, has forced me to believe that I was meant to be life’s punching bag. Each jab taking something out of me. And now look at my life. It has dwindled down to nothing. Down to me being bedridden, without a job, single, broke, a bum, unwanted, fat, with nothing to contribute to society (or maybe something but I have been barred from offering what I have). I am nothing. My life is nothing. I want to close my eyes and finally feel nothing.


Tell them:

  1. Abusive relationships
  2. Cheating relationships
  3. Mom, oh mom
    1. Drug
    2. Gang
    3. Jail
    4. Domestic violence
    5. Psychotic breaks
    6. Physical and emotional abuse
  4. Castrating grandma
  5. Sectioned off as not one of my siblings
  6. Sexual abuse
    1. Grandpa
    2. Mom’s friends
    3. “friends”
  7. Public judgment
  8. Fake friends
  9. Harsh criminal system
  10. Everything, tell them everything!!!

I talk to you, cause I have no one to talk to:

Trying to contemplate, what yesterday was all about

I sat in my car for a half an hour because my gut kept whispering, “Don’t go out.”

But that’s not where it started, where it started was somewhere between a locked door and awkward vibes.

I get that you’re tired of my questioning; however, I didn’t think it would blow up like this.

You know, it’s never like I volunteered to feel this way. But what I did volunteer, in hopes, were my thoughts to you. Hopes, that never came true.

Like I said, I was working through it in my head and it only exacerbated things more to bring them to you.

I just find it hard to believe that was the basis for you being so pissed with me. I tried all of Debra’s communication techniques, and called your fouls -you say lets try, 100% all in, but you didn’t care.

Anyhow, fast forward to my night out. I was never up to anything, if I was why would I invite you out?

You ask me to give you the benefit of the doubt, and last night I asked the same. I shook her hand to send a message, and she took it a whole different way. I guess me frozen, from shock of her audacity, and moving to introduce her to you wasn’t enough.

Yeah, you got me there, I’d be mad too. But, see, you’re taking this and I have no clue what you’re going to do.

See, me? I love you, so I’d be mad but be there by you, true and true.

So surprised, you check everyone else, but this time you decided not to.

I also never flirted with the girl in line, she asked me a question and like you said, “I didn’t know I had to be an asshole.”

I’m screaming it at you from the top of my lungs, “I have not done anything to be disloyal to you.” I may have my moments with trust, but I would never do that to you -ever.

It hurts, I toss and turn in the night, feeling pulled to get you to look in my eyes and see that person who I was -bowing out when times get rough -that person’s no longer me.

I had visions with you, I got hung up on getting a house, having a child. Hoping you’d envision it too. But you dropped the anchor, weighing me down, you couldn’t see that with me.

I agree, what happened last night, was fucked up and for that I’m sorry.

I just wish you would see, I was with Leilani that night, hadn’t done anything near the direction of flirting or being shady.

I guess I’m just reiterating, something you would never believe.

I love you. I’m sorry. And I know for you these feelings will never be enough.

Not going to make it about me, I love you and I wish you good luck.

Rites of Passage for People with Passion


Brené Brown wasn’t lying when she said, “When you love something so much, you are willing to eat the shit sandwich that comes with it.”

Basically, she was saying that every profession has a shitty side. If you are truly passionate about whatever it is that you pursue, then you are more than willing to eat the shit sandwich that no one else will. They just aren’t as committed. It’s a dreadful thing for them, but an opportunity to jump at for you.

In lay terms, it’s being happy to be Paris Hilton’s rug that she walks all over –in hopes that Kim Kardashian will be a household name 10 years down the line.

My journey to my dream has been a 10-year shit sandwich in the making.  A triple-decker, overstuffed sandwich that I’ve been all too happy to eat.

They aren’t lying when they say it takes 10 years to master something, from being a celebrity to being a therapist.

This, is my passion.

I have a long way to go still, but I am just now beginning to see the light at the end of the tunnel. And even though it’s like a grain of salt in the night, being able to see my goals manifesting into reality is so, so rewarding.

I got my first taste of surreal-ness when I was sitting in a Starbucks using the Wi-Fi to apply for graduate school in social work.

I was like, “I’m here. Am I actually doing this?” The fact that I was even going to be seriously considered as a graduate candidate tasted so delicious to me.

And I’m having that same feeling right now. I’ve been so caught up with keeping up –mid-terms, finals, breathing –that I didn’t have a chance to sit back and see what I have become.

All this pressure and I haven’t combusted, so that must mean I’m making diamonds…right?

Today, I realize I am becoming the woman I aspired to be when I was 13-years-old. Today, I am manifesting into the passionate, strong, independent, justice-seeking leader that I looked up to so much.

I looked at my peers around me in my adolescence –Channing, LaRayia and others –and wondered why I was so infatuated with them. I mean, I love women, yes, and these people are beautiful, but there was something more entrancing than that going on. They were inspiring, they were the souls my soul aimed to elevate to (and beyond).

It just never felt right before. When is my time?

I would say to myself, “Amber, you want this so bad but you’re not acting on it, you’re still being shy.”

My body told me that when my time had come it would fall into place so easily.

Graduate school was the lubrication that transitioned me from contemplating to acting.

Now, in the busiest month of February, as I am writing scripts for LGBT awareness events that I’m hosting, pulling together vendors for Domestic Violence workshops and advocating for what I believe in –online, offline, in school, protesting in the streets –I realize…. I am my own inspiration now.

I’m not fully at my goal yet, but I look at me and I make me proud.

A letter to myself

You are not useless. You are not a bad person. You are dedicated to those you love and to growing yourself and you should still love yourself despite your mistakes, because you are still figuring out what’s “normal,” because you never knew what normal was. You are human and you will make mistakes but you will grow. As long as you know that your mistake was of pure heart and you are dedicated to learning from that then no malice was done.

 If someone who you showed all your scars to can walk away during your healing then they don’t deserve to have you when you are healed, nor were they willing to wait.

The most beautiful flower blossoms late.

30 day poetry challenge

I’ve fallen off the face of the literary earth, ceasing to pay attention to the one escape I use when I need it the most.

Life has gotten the best of me.

So, in a last ditch effort to get back to what I love, I will be completing a poetry challenge. ^_^

Lets see if anyone can figure out the poetry challenge of the day simply by reading my pieces, then at the end I will post the challenges so you can see if you guessed right.

Cheesy? I know.

So, this is how it ends.

So this is how I spend my days with you now


Only to find that you get home when we both have to go to bed because we have work in the morning


Because we can’t seem to get along when we do have time together


Your words feel real this time

I can feel each one pelt my heart

This kind of talking has awakened my irregular heartbeat

The kind of dance it does when it knows it’s almost over

You say that I’m special and that you would like to keep me as a friend if it had to come to that

That sleeping in the other room might help us both decide

That you don’t want me to leave just yet, but you want to separate while keeping me here

Holding me near…from a distance

Of all the oxymorons

If you let go, you let go

Who are you fooling?

I’ve been there love

It prolongs the pain

What kind of sadistic game are you running on me?

Keeping far enough to try and let me go, yet near enough to keep the last flame kindled

I won’t let you do that to me

But I want you to

Because, as always, we’re at the opposite end of the looking glass

Maybe it’s my experience in long relationships. Maybe not.

But I’d like to think that things aren’t as bad as they seem.

That couples have quarrels


The more I grow into comfort the more you grow out

What is all this about

And why are you doing this now

Dragging me across the line

We are separate and your phone is locked

But you ask who I talk to like we’re together

You finally said those words that were like suicide to your ears

The words you didn’t want to hear

It hurt, I saw your eyes tear

“Maybe we’re not supposed to be together. Maybe you’re meant to be in my life as a friend.”

Then we can all be happy in the end.


Let me tell you, those exes that you swear I maintain relationships with

Have all been cut off

I’ve been doing this for too long

I know how it goes

You want to gently back out of this thing

That way it doesn’t hurt as bad

And you fool yourself with this illusion of still keeping me in your life in the future

Not how it works

If we separate it will hurt. Bad.

We won’t talk and when we do it will drive us further

You can’t be friends with an ex you loved so deeply while trying to wade the waters of being single again

There’s too much jealousy, between me you and her

Eventually the next won’t want you talking to me and that’s that.

I know because I’ve seen you do it to girls for me.

It’s called karma

Breaking up and trying to be friends drives a deeper wedge than just breaking up

Just like all the rest, we will play with keeping contact until we realize it hurts

Someone will distract our attention and we’ll get over each other

Then one day one will reach out, in an attempt to not fully forget the other

Short words will be exchanged and that will be that

Or short words will be exchanged and that’ll be an argument with the next and that will be that

Our relationship will diminish into the likes of turn strangers passing each other in the streets.

So tell me what you want

Because despite all the fighting, it’s worth having you sleep next to me

I guess I’ll see you next lifetime love.

Sitting outside Albertson’s

I think that life affords us these opportunities in disguise as trials. We’re so stuck sitting up in front of the TV that anything else allows us discomfort. Here I am sitting, draining about my problems. Work, relationships, school, life… And up walks this homeless lady, with her plastic bag of cans and a sign. Automatically I am taken aback. I want to pull my backpack a little closer and I even contemplate walking away. I don’t because it’s too obvious, and I care enough about people that I don’t know, not to make her feel bad.

I look up as she moves coolly across the parking lot to receive a whole cigarette. I scoff, “Is that what you’re worried about?” My prejudice and I… That thought is followed by, “Maybe she would do the same for food. Maybe she’s taking anything she can get.”

I think about the dance my sister performed that told the story of how the public makes the homeless population invisible. As she returns to the bench with her retrieval, I wonder if she’s the stereotypical “territorial” homeless person, who doesn’t like people touching their things. “Have I invaded her bench?” Then I realize I’m being prejudice again –labeling people and putting them into categories.

We have minimal eye contact, but I can tell she’s troubled. And by the phone conversation that I’m having with my co-worker about a CPS case, she can tell I’m troubled too. Her random chuckle drew my eyes up to her and she moved me out of her peripheral vision. I wonder does she need someone to talk to? Or am I pre-judging that a homeless person doesn’t have conversation?

I continue my work on my laptop, as I wait for my ex to pull up and make up with me. She doesn’t. My phone runs dead and my tummy rumbles.

The lady with curly, shoulder-length hair picks up her plastic bag and leaves, but not before apologizing for bothering me. Being the people-pleaser that I am, I mechanically reply, “ Oh no, it’s okay.” But what did I just communicate? That I didn’t mind her bothering me, or that she wasn’t bothering me?

That’s when I reach my epiphany.

This is a public table; she has just as much right as anyone else to sit here –homeless or not. Who beat it into her head that she didn’t have that privilege?

My tummy rumbles again, and then I feel bad because who knows when’s the last time that she ate? I could be just like her. She’s young, white and half-decent looking for a homeless person. I bet she came from a well brought up family, with some issues that led her down the wrong path. A path that led two totally different people, like she and I, to the same place at the same point in time. Sitting here right now. How easy would it be for us to get our paths crossed and we end up in each other’s place?

I think about how everything hangs in the balance for me right now. Work, relationships, school, life…. and she has nowhere to go but up. We’re not so different. And it doesn’t take much for us to switch places.

All this learned, by reluctantly sitting at a concrete table outside of Albertsons because I got into an argument with my now ex-girlfriend and I really have no place of my own to go.Homeless sign