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.


A Letter To The Things in Which I Am Learning to Love

To my stomach, an anomaly of soft curves made from proudly eaten cupcakes and pizza,

To my feet, calloused with midnight adventures and every tree that I have ever climbed while trying to prove to my brothers that girls are strong too,

To my hair made of tangled forests and wild vines- the dominant trait from the blood of my ancestors comprised of beasts and lion-hearted girls- I hold my head high to balance this crown.

My hands can’t fix everything no matter how badly my soul wishes they would, my eyes are wide and naïve searching for a god- a beauty that scratches deeper and realer than any manicured hand ever could- and my skin is rough and weathered and tethered but it is made of earth and young civilizations so I will not apologize.

To my body, I will apologize for betraying you because American Apparel only makes size extra small and I thought that was better, I will apologize for making you believe that freedom comes only in the form of beauty that is silken and bears a straight nose, I will apologize for starving you and abusing you and shredding you into galaxies on nights it felt too dark and too lonely to be alive, however,

I will no longer apologize for

Owning you.

To my body, my body that no longer offers ribs in the sunlight but, instead, offers strength in all lights, you are not just my body;

You are potential.

Let’s grow old together,

My friend.

Selfies in a leather bodysuit after pizza. Yolo?


Relax, Relapse

I spent most of my day today in my room. And no, it wasn’t because I wanted some alone time to “find my inner self” or some bullshit like that. I spent most of my day today in my room, wallowing in self pity and day-old “stank”, listening to incredibly degrading Lil’ Wayne songs and sorting through junk mail from Rent 2 Own and Asian Dating partly because I had a sore throat and headache, partly because I wanted to feel thug, but mostly because I hate everyone.


I’ve been talking to my birth mom lately.

I haven’t spoken to her since fifth grade- an awkward time in my life when I had looked more like an underfed, prepubescent boy with daddy issues rather than a “budding young lady growing into the world of adulthood”. Quite frankly, I didn’t mind that our initial conversation mainly consisted of her lecturing me about birth control, marijuana, and other slightly awkward, extremely invasive topics. For the first time in my life, I was actually somewhat relieved to talk with her. I think.

I threw up yesterday.

And the day before that.

Fuck it.

I puked my guts out the day before that too.

Twenty-seven days of recovery and in a matter of about 15 minutes, it all went down the drain. Literally.

The weird part of it all was, as I was doing it, I wasn’t thinking about calories or ELLE magazine; 30 day goals or self-control.

Do you know the feeling of a relapse?

Maybe you know.

Tell me, have you ever shoved your fingers down your throat in hopes that for every pound of food purged, an ounce of alleviation would be gained? Have you ever lived off of an orange and diuretics for a day? No? How about two?  Because although you may be comprised of your father’s genes, you never wanted to be able to fit into them; those genes. Those jeans. Tell me, please, have you ever shot up a speedball?

For the first time in my life, as I stood over the bathroom toilet, upchucking my bean burrito as well as the majority of my organs, I couldn’t help but think about my birth mom.

Was this who she was?

Was this who I was?

Do you know the feeling of a relapse?

Maybe you know.

It’s looking at the difference between recovery and death right now; mostly because you hate right now. It’s the seemingly endless state of mourning when the only thing that seemed to has died was your pride. It’s giving up not because you want to but because you have to. Because although giving up is pathetic, at least you could say you gave something, right? Think of it as a sort of offering. It’s moving in slow motion because things feel better that way. It’s five Percocets, two Vicodins, and a knife’s edge to take the edge off. It’s losing yourself in

Every. Single. Tick.

of the clock; one by one, the seconds waste away along with your state of mind.

While my mom sat getting high off crack and other shit getting lost in baby mama drama and her crystal method, I sat getting high off aspartame and other artificial sweeteners; a method of my own kind.

Pretty dope, huh?

I am the life my mother has been living; a constant 7 on the scale from 1-10, on a constant yo-yo between “good” and “oh, shit!”. It took me a while but I think I finally understand her. I think I finally understand why disappearing felt like the better option at the time. Because addictions are heavy. Because addictions come with baggage.

I take pills but I’m not a pill popper.

I sing in the shower but I’m not Celine Dion.

I smoke an ocassional Newport but I’m not a smoker.

I starve myself but I’m not anorexic.

I throw up but I’m not a fucking bulimic.

I’m an addict but I’m not my mother.

But I understand her.

And that’s all that matters.

Of What I Am Made Of

As I sit here writing this post at nearly one o’clock in the morning asking myself why I’m writing this post at nearly one o’clock in the morning , I feel my stomach make folds in the blanket wrapped around me as I inhale and exhale; it swells slightly with each breath.

In and out. In and out.

Each motion of it’s soft cotton blend against the cool synthetic breeze my Lasko table top fan has so kindly provided, however, comes with a burden- a burden of knowing that the driving force behind each seemingly harmonious swell is pure fat.

Why do I feel the need to mourn this?

I want to be swallowed by my over-sized sweater and rot my brain with mediocre reality television. I want to shove my finger down my throat and purge away all my sins. I want to do a thousand crunches and a thousand more leg-lifts. But perhaps, more than anything I want to scream “Fuck You!” to the world. Why? Partly because my parents are gone; there is no one here to lecture me on why curse words are tacky and gateways to teen pregnancy and various STD’s, partly because I’m completely convinced that it will make me cool and one day bring me to stardom, and partly because I am 15 percent angry and 100 percent crazy.



Why does that word- those three inglorious letters- seem to dictate my life? Why do I seem to be mostly composed of self-criticism and hardly any self-love?

I remember when my brother and I were first adopted, my parents were quick to implement rules that would help get us “on track”; to help, I guess in a way, get us on one uniform schedule.  Oh, didn’t I tell you? We were “poor, troubled kids.” We “needed SOME sort of stability in our hectic lives.”

Psh. Whatever.

So anyways, my parents created a list that hung in the very center of the front of our fridge so that it was impossible to avoid. The harsh white of the refrigerator door against the smooth yellow notepad paper; the power each thickly bolded letter that each line possessed was inevitable.

-Take out the bathroom trash

-Take out the other bathroom trash

-Take out the kitchen trash

-Don’t watch trash

-Don’t listen to trash

-Don’t look like trash

-Don’t smell like trash

-Ask before eating

Ask before eating.

While it was a fairly reasonable rule implemented to, I’m sure, keep me and my siblings from becoming finger licking, plate scraping, binge eating, ignorant youths, I am now 99.9% sure that that was what ultimately led me to become a  finger licking, plate scraping, binge eating, ignorant youth. Plain and simple.

I can’t say I remember the exact time or date the rule was finally exonerated. In fact, I’m not entirely sure there even was a specific time or date-it was almost like one day the rule was there and the next, it wasn’t, vanishing into thin air like one might do during a magic show act or after a one night stand.  The rule change wasn’t intentional either. I mean, let’s face it, this is life. Whether or not we like to admit it, things change.  People change. My home was changing.  People were growing up, growing pubes, moving out, moving on, getting zits and getting laid. Needless to say, asking permission to eat before every Extra Chewy Chips Ahoy cookie or every bowl of Trix cereal was not exactly a top priority.

For the first time in my life, I got a taste of sweet freedom. Literally.  Every bite I took was like a hit of acid on a cold winter night; complete euphoria. I could eat whatever I wanted, whenever I wanted, and however I wanted without fear of the consequences.  So I did.

And, maybe I’m wrong. Maybe I am the way I am because I hardly ever turned my homework in on time or because my birth mom never called on Sunday’s like she had promised. Maybe I am the way I am because I watched PG-13 movies at the age of 12 or because  sometimes, when I got lonely, I’d plug in my old nightlight even though my parents told me I was far too old for it. Maybe I am the way I am because I too often found myself stuck in a world of wanting to grow up and staying young forever. A sort of Neverland.

I think it’s, oftentimes, easy to blame someone or something for one’s troubles and hardships but, as I begin my journey of recovery from my eating disorder, I can’t help but wonder, why?

Who am I?