Today is a bad day and I think I write better when I’m drunk.

Last year was more like turning off my phone so I didn’t have to sit up waiting for the call that was probably never coming. Every morning was exhaustion and disappointment and heavy eyes until I turned it all off. I couldn’t feel sad about loneliness if loneliness was a choice.

And I chose it.

Everyday, I chose it – keeping my own hands empty so that no one could ever tell me how unholdable they were. Keeping my feet ungrounded so that no one could ever tell me how flighty I was.

This is not a triumph story.

This year, I hate that I have to write so much about violence.

My name is


as you lean out of your car and spit at my feet. It lands in a puddle in front of me and I am thirteen in a suburban neighborhood on the way home from school and I run with my backpack banging like the echo of your words against my back like you are chasing me all the way home.

My name is


and I am fifteen in the city with my friends for the first time and we get a little lost and you follow us for a full block.

You name us.

We are





Why the fuck won’t you talk to me.

My name is

Nice ass

and it’s two in the afternoon and I still feel my heart slam against my ribs because I am under the earth with weak lungs and even weaker fists and while you stumble down the steps with the crumbs of someone still in the corners of your mouth, swinging the beer bottle in your fist, my brother who is walking behind me shouts, “She’s seventeen, you dipshit!”.

I saw the error in humans that day.

My name is

Little lady.

My name is

Sugar baby.

My name is

Fuck you and fuck your friends.

My name is

Look me in the face!

My name is

Stop frowning.

My name is


My name is

This is a compliment.

This is not a compliment.

It’s the beginning of November and I feel like I’ve been cold long before the leaves started falling.

My name takes nice words and turns them into bullet wounds.

My name is

Damn girl.

My name is

Drunk girl.

My name is

Just let me finish.


I did not give you permission to “fuck the shit outta me.”


My name is

I will not listen to your no’s.

My name is

I will not listen to your no’s.

My name is

I will not listen to your no’s.


My name is

I cannot breathe.



I am

Lock the door once,

Lock the door twice.

Leave the lights on.


Stop shaking.


I am

Is there someone downstairs?

There’s definitely someone downstairs.

Where the fuck did the phone go?!


There’s no one downstairs.


I am

tight-chested mornings.

I am

take a quick shower so that just in case someone breaks in, you have time to get prepared.

I am

don’t forget to look over your shoulder.


My name is

I still remember the way the carpet tasted pressed against the side of my face as you crushed me with your one hundred and ninety pounds of booze and daddy issues.

My name is

I can’t even get high anymore without thinking about the way you so easily emptied me without any intentions of ever filling me back up.

My name is

I scrubbed my hands twenty six times the next morning in an attempt you to rid you from beneath my fingernails but sometimes, I swear, I still taste shreds of you when I’m throwing up dinner.


Fuck you.

I did not ask for this.


Today is a bad day.

30 Day Recovery Challenge!

Hey everyone! So I usually don’t do posts like these so this is kind of awkies but on this blog’s Facebook page, I will be doing a cool 30 Day Recovery Challenge. Although it mostly focuses on recovery, look for ways you can apply it to your life. I would love for every single one of you to participate alongside with me and help spread the word about the mental illness or addiction you are personally struggling with.

To participate, simply like the page and either send me your posts or post them directly to the wall.

Click here and see what it’s all about!

I hope to see you soon!

Dove Soap Beauty

Fifth grade stunner

Growing up, I was never preoccupied with the way that I looked. While most of my siblings spent their childhoods being relatively human, I, however, spent most of my childhood chasing Bigfoot and knights in shining tinfoil, analyzing life and the human race as a whole, and trying to explain to my mom that I wasn’t a lesbian and that army pants paired with socks and sandals was just a fad that season. Although I was aware of the fact that I had awkward knees that protruded at obscure angles, an extreme overbite, and an eye that sometimes, much like my common sense, wandered in high stress situations and Sunday sermons, thinking about it now, I can’t remember the first time I started hating myself; when I stopped feeling beautiful.

Scratch that. Sounds too Lifetime movie-ish.

I can’t remember when I stopped feeling pretty.

Shit. Too 90210.

Thankfully, to prevent me from growing up and becoming a completely jaded loser with low self-esteem and a need for artificial highs, society had always made sure that I, Alexis with the weird last name and botched haircut, knew exactly what beauty was from an early age.

Because second grade beauty was more than hand me downs and Dollar Store barrettes. Sixth grade beauty was more than Special K diets and Covergirl concealer. Eighth grade beauty was more than the people I associated myself with or, rather, the people I didn’t. It was more than D.A.R.E., more than family ties, more than Generation Facebook.

“Because beauty is more than the brand names and men we smother ourselves in; more than size nothing. More than the shoes we fill.”

I can’t remember when I first started losing myself in the calories. Maybe I was 14. Maybe I was 15 or 16. Maybe it was there all along, embedded deep in the particles of the atoms of the genes of my DNA, just waiting to be triggered and surface to my every plane. Either way, it happened and the moment that it did was the moment I lost sight of what true beauty meant.

Beauty is the way we seem to leave pieces of ourselves with memories we’ve traveled and people we’ve impacted. It’s the way we, as humans, refuse to think that anything is impossible, the way that even in our darkest of moments, we seem to taste like lemonade and Independence Day; how we use metaphors and sign language and exclamation points to translate ourselves as if words alone could do us justice. Beauty is the way we wear our stories so honestly and evidently in the cracks of our knuckles and the heels of our feet: in the deep lines at the corner of our eyes that seem to thrive in direct sunlight.

It’s how we are flawed, and imperfect, and too often seem to notice all things glorious only after they have dulled and settled, like dust, in the cracks of our lungs.

Beauty is how we’ll forever be in search of a word that rhymes with orange despite what we’ve been told our entire lives, how we Google search far too many topics like “hypothetically speaking, is it possible for pigs to fly?” or “how to solve my mid-life crisis”; it’s the way we wake up from our dreams,

you know,

those really good, intense dreams where we wake up scared but not entirely sure what of. All we know is that, whatever it was, it was good. And it was heavy. And it was fucking epic.

I guess I would be lying if I told you that today I feel beautiful; that the life I live is the epitome of the classic ugly duckling turned swan tale. The truth of the matter is most days I feel ugly and unworthy. Most days, Alexis with the weird last name and botched haircut who felt that extra small was her American dream still governs me, still radiates throughout me; still hinders me.

Beauty is complex. Beauty is perplexing. Beauty is contradiction. Sometimes I know that what I’m doing is harmful; that it is crippling and debilitating and quite possibly killing me and although that scares me, I can’t shake the idea that somehow it will save me. That somehow it will make me invincible.

However, with that being said, I know that I am imperfect and flawed. I wear my story like armor, laced in every filament of my being. I am complex and I am perplexing and I am contradiction.

We are complex and

We are perplexing and

We are contradiction.

And that is more beautiful than you will ever know.

Who Needs God When You Have Oprah?

It’s a serious question you know. For as long as I can remember, I’ve struggled with the whole concept of God.

Who is this god?

What is this god?

Why is this god?

Even as a young girl growing up in a Catholic home, I could never understand how so many people could come together and worship something so abstract and foreign yet, behind closed doors, turn around and worship

their bottles and Percocets,

their mommas and needles;

beasts of an entirely different nature. We sing our hymns and recite our Apostles’ Creeds but, shit, how can we believe in something so unknown when we can hardly believe in ourselves?

Crawl inside me, taste my hunger, smoke my energy; walk hand in hand with me into the depths of my madness and then tell me there is a God. Feel my heart beat, drown yourself in my 80 proof memories, lay beside me as I fold myself into one and then tell me there is a holy light. Get high off me, get buzzed from me, get trippy with me. Confess to me all your sins and then we’ll see which one of us gets saved.


What about the girls who look for their mother’s in the eyes of strangers hoping that one day- someday- they’ll find the addict who left them years ago. While I went missing you, you went Missing In Action. I swear I would save you if I could.

What about the girls who spend their childhoods hoping that their daddy’s would raise an angry hand so that they would have an excuse to run away and escape it all. Because words don’t leave proof. They never do. And you never did.

What about the girls who eat air. What about the girls who spend more time in the shower throwing up than they do actually getting clean; from their days worth of sweat, from their years worth of addiction. What about the girls who have contemplated selling themselves because they needed the money and they needed the love and they needed the rush. Or, at least, they thought they did. I thought I did.

What about the girls with old souls and heavy complexes. What about the girls whose bodies become their language. What about the girls who were born in the generation of “less is more”.

When do we get saved?

Holy Bible?

Holy Spirit?

Holy shit.

I think my problem with God is that, right now, I just don’t understand him- so many questions, so much skepticism. Where is the evidence? Where is the proof? I don’t get it.

With that being said, a few days ago, I came to the realization that in order for this whole recovery thing to work, I need to believe in something– something bigger than myself. I have to believe that there is something in the end for me- that my life has a purpose, right? I think we all do.

I may not believe in a man in the sky or the whole “life, liberty, and the pursuit of heaven-ness” concept, however,

I believe that I am made of nature and all things beautiful.

I believe in lights at the ends of all tunnels.

I believe in my abilities.

Today officially marks my fourth consecutive day eating disorder free- the longest streak thus far.

I will count the seconds and the minutes and the days- I will count the moments of freedom and the freedom in moments until I am better.

With or without God.