Episode 21 - Supports Women

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Episode 20 - Loves Animals

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Is Tired of Being Miserable

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Episode 18 - Wants No Scrubs

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Episode 17 - Struggles to Stay Sober

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Episode 16 - Needs a Creative Outlet

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Episode 15 - Walked Away

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Episode 14 - Loves New Years

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Episode 13 - Loves Christmas

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Episode 12 - Hates Christmas

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Episode 11 - Is Thankful

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Episode 10 - Is Queer

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Is Queer

I'm queer. 

I'm pansexual, really. But above all else, I'm queer. I've always been queer. Before I knew what to call it, in a time when Rent was my identity, and television was extremely problematic. In a time when Matthew Shepard's murder showed us what society was capable of. 

I grew up in NY, surrounded by queer role models. My mom was queer, even though she later redacted and said it was a phase. Her best friends were queer. They always had me repeating back queer phrase when I was in my young parroting phase of life. "I read you like a trashy novel" is still my favorite of these phrases. Ballroom culture was part of me before I even knew what it was. Glitter, leather, gold lamé, feathers and rhinestones were at the center of my world. 

As I grew older I yearned for the dramatics, the theater, the color of life. I also really wanted to kiss girls as much as I wanted to kiss boys. When I was in the 10th grade, I had a friend over. She told me she was into girls, I admitted the same. And so she kissed me, in the laundry room of my mother's apartment complex. 

I came out. As best I could. Everyone I knew and trusted took it in stride. "You're queer? Yeah, so is everyone else", and we moved on with our lives. My mother accepted it but insisted it was a phase, continued to push that until my 20s. I never quite understood at what point she'd realize the "phase" had gone on too long to be a fucking "phase".

I held hands with girls at school, to which older, popular boys found issue. We got pushed into lockers, called dykes, threatened with head shaving, etc. The school was no better. I got kicked out of several dances for showing up with a female date. 

My senior year was easiest. Columbine happened and suddenly we didn't care to treat each other like shit anymore. We suddenly had common ground… we didn't want to die. We all hung out together, partied together and genuinely cared for one another. It was really nice.

Years passed and I became more confident in my queerness. Hanging out in the Village, going to gay clubs, attending pride parades (even marched once or twice), just living my best life. I found dating difficult as there is a stigma that bi/pansexuals are not dateable. That they are flighty and really want to kiss women to turn on their men. Infuriating. For a long ass time I felt like I didn't have a place in either the LGBT+ or hetero worlds. I was… something else. 

Luckily times have changed. While there are still stigmas, it's become more and more okay to be yourself, however you identify. We see things as spectrums now, as they've always been. Flowing, fluctuating, evolving with time. 

I'm queer. Maybe everyone is… a little bit at least.

Episode 9 - Has Been Attacked

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For The Girl Who has been assaulted...

Some days, I feel strong.
Some days I’m empowered and I know that I did the best I could.
Some days I take pride in the way I’ve reconstructed myself after the hardest moments I’ve experienced.
Some days, I’m weak.
Some days, I’m angry.
Some days I’m just plain fucking pissed off.
Some days, I’m happy.
Some days, I love myself.
Some days, I hate myself.
Some days, I hate you. All of you. Everyone who has ever made me feel like I didn’t own the rights to my body.

I’d love to tell you it only happened once. I’d love to tell you that I filed a police report, that we went to court and he went to jail. But it didn’t, and I didn’t, and we didn’t, and he didn’t.

None of those statements are what my reality looked like. Truthfully, that’s not what most of our realities look like. The truth is, most of the time we are too afraid/scared/paralyzed to ever report what happened to us. We see the stigma. We see the news reports of the people who spend no jail time, of the cases that get dropped, of the victim blaming. And we feel defeated. We think there’s no way we can ever feel whole again.

Those of us who have lived that life or walked in those shoes know the hopelessness of it all. We know the nightmares, we remember the trauma. We know what it’s like to wake up in a cold sweat, filled with so much fear that we think we’re back in that same moment again. We live with this, we do our best, and we carry on.

This one goes out to you.

Episode 8 - Is into Spooky Stuff

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Episode 7 - Lived in a Haunted House

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For The Girl Who lived in a haunted house

The light was barely shining in my room through the unlatched door. A heavy door, with a handle that looked like it was crafted by hand in the late 1800’s. There was a keyhole but no key as far as I ever knew, and a latch-lock mechanism on the inside. It wasn’t exactly the typical door you would see on the bedroom of a small child. It seemed ancient. Everything in that house did. 

My eyes were barely open when I caught a glimpse of a figure out of the corner of my eye. Had the door been fully closed, I don’t think I would have noticed. I tried my best to rationally reason where the figure was coming from. Laundry on my dresser, I thought. No, that wasn’t it. The shape didn’t add up. I sat still for what felt like hours and just stared. I blinked and tried to re-focus my eyes. The figure was getting clearer. Tall, thin, with a hat that looked like it belonged atop Zorro’s head. “I must be dreaming,” I thought. I blinked again, and then it started to move. Toward me. Quickly. I didn’t close my eyes, I didn’t look away, I just screamed. Before he could get to me, my door swung open. Mom. And poof: he was gone. Already knowing the deal, mom climbed in bed with me. “It’s okay, baby. Go back to sleep.” 

I was 5 or 6 or 7 or 8 and I can’t tell you which one because this was an almost nightly occurrence in my house. I don’t have any clear memories of a night I spent in that house that did not result in me waking up, at one point or another, screaming. My mom would crawl in my bed, dreary and half-asleep, and lay with me until I returned to slumber.  

For this experience, I was awake. But many of my terrors in that house happened while I slept. I began having nightmares at a very young age. I don’t remember exactly when they started, because it felt like it was just normal to have these experiences. I didn’t always wake up screaming in the beginning, or so I’ve been told. I remember as a small child telling my mom that I needed to wake up from the nightmares before they got too scary, and I couldn’t figure out how to wake myself up. She told me to scream. Close my eyes and scream at the top of my lungs in my dreams, and I’d wake up. 

It worked...for a while. Eventually my dreams figured out that this was my escape route, and they learned. They adjusted. I would close my eyes, wail as loud as I could muster, open my eyes and still be in the same hellish nightmare. I remember having dreams where I screamed for what felt like eternity before I finally woke up. 

I swore I was sick. Something had to be wrong with me. It wasn’t normal to have these nightmares every single night. Something was just...off. I never thought I'd get a restful nights’ sleep. That was, until we moved away. And the nightmares went away. And other members of my family admitted they, too, had seen the mysterious Zorro-looking man. It took several years of anxiety that they would someday return for me to realize that the nightmares weren’t because of me. There was no evil that resided in my soul, that spilled out through my subconscious and into my dreamland. I wasn't hallucinating. There was never anything wrong with me. 

It was the house. 

Episode 6- Is the Fat Friend

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For the Girl Who is the Fat Friend

You ever look around a table and realize you are different from everyone else in some obvious way? You realize the chairs hurt your ass and the waitress offers you, specifically, dessert. Do people go out of their way to tell you how beautiful you are...despite your size? Do your friends only ask to borrow your shoes?

You are probably the fat friend.

There is nothing wrong with being the fat friend. I'm the fat friend! I'm cute, I'm funny, I have great stories, I'm great at makeup, I'm artistic and I happen to be fat. 

My friends really don't make a big deal about this fact. They know my story. They know my weight is a very touchy point for me. However, it's a part of who I am, part of my day to day. It makes a difference to where I go, what I wear, how comfortable I'm going to be. 

Are there stairs? How many? I don't want to be the one winded bitch when we get to our destination. How is the seating? Am I going to feel like the chairs were designed for children? Will my ass be numb before the drinks arrive?

It can be exhausting hearing about other friends struggle with self image and weight, when you see them as skinny and gorgeous. Being insecure and struggling with yourself image seems to be given for the us.  But that's what I've learned as the fat friend, everyone has insecurities behind their smile. We all have our struggles. We are not alone, even when you're the fat friend.

Has Been Girl Hated

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For The Girl Who has been hated...

If you’ve attended high school, lived past 15 years old, or had any kind of relationship with anyone, you can probably relate. 

 

I think we’ve all been there at one point or another. Someone had something shitty to say about you, spread a rumor, and suddenly you’ve got a whole gang of people who think things about you that are not only likely untrue, but also hurtful and offensive.  

 

I’d like to tell you that we can avoid this problem by being the best version of ourselves that we can be, but honestly, I don’t believe that. In my experience, we can try as hard as possible, keep our heads up, be completely honest, and inevitably we will still end up in experiences where the finger is pointing at us. These situations feel more hopeless than I care to even relay to you. When you’ve been made to be the bad guy in a position where you’re only trying to protect yourself, or maybe you thought you were doing the best you could and somehow, you’re still blamed for the downfall of others.  

 

I've spent the better portion of my 26 years trying to be the one to make other people happy, and seldom has it gotten me to a place of contentment. More often than not, when you spend so much time trying to change yourself to fit the mold of others, they expect the change to be greater: bigger, broader, more consuming. Not only can you lose yourself in this process, but it hardly gets you to where you think you want to be. I’ve found that the more that people want me to change to suit their needs, the more they are lacking within themselves.  

 

Because I’ve made a career of being whoever people want me to be, this leaves a lot of room for error when it comes to my true personality. For many years, every person I interacted with saw a different version of myself, and that caused serious misconceptions about who I am as an individual. Not just in other people’s eyes, but in my own. In turn, I find myself getting called fake. Shady. Liar. I guess if you were to look at the situation objectively, I could see how all these things are true. My intentions were pure, but my actions couldn’t have possibly reflected that.

 

I have been hated for this. I have been exiled from friend groups. I have been drug through the mud, pushed in front of a car (literally), and persecuted. I won’t try and excuse it; there was a huge lack of honesty. But there was never malice.  

 

This is a very small example in the grand scheme of things. There have been many more reasons I have been hated. Some of them justified, some of them not. But here’s where we are today: 

 

Hate me if you will. It no longer affects me. 

 

I’ve finally reached a point in my life where I am no longer willing to change myself for the benefit of others. I’m unwilling to be the person you think you need of me. I have enough to offer as who I am today, and if that’s not enough for you, that’s fine. I’m not in the business of wearing different hats anymore. That life is over. 

 

Self-awareness and respect have led me here. I meet every situation with as much sincerity as possible, and I know I am an honest individual with pure intentions. You don’t have to believe that; I’m unconcerned. I will never intentionally hurt, but I certainly won’t beg you to believe me. And if you still want to hate me, you’re welcome to it.  

For The Girl Who has an emotional attachment to music...

Can you tell me the name of a song that gives you goosebumps? Do you remember the first album that you purchased? What about the first concert you attended? Are there tracks you can listen to that will invoke all different types of emotion in you? Anger, fear, sadness, relief? If so, you might be a little bit like me.

Ever since I was a little girl, I have had an obsession with music. I was much pickier and more judgemental about music in my younger years, but luckily as I’ve gotten older I have learned to appreciate most types of music for what they are. I can remember as a small child playing cassette tapes on my walkman, and walking around the yard trying to keep pace with the beat of the song. No wonder I took up drum lessons around 7 years old. 

Unfortunately, this didn’t last into my adult life, and I put the sticks down somewhere arond 14 when I discovered that boys were more important. I spent several years learning (but never getting very good) at guitar, and I sing every single day, no matter how awful it sounds. I’m no prodigy, I have very little musical talent, if any at all. But this goes deeper than that.

For me, music isn’t about being the one playing or writing or composing. No, I’m interested in being the end user of this experience. Music is my outlet, my therapy, my shoulder to cry on, and so much more.

If you aren’t crazy about music like I am, you’re probably reading this saying “dude, this bitch is nuts.” You’re probably right. I probably am. But that’s okay; this MEANS something to me.

Music brings about a spark in me that I cannot comprehend. I start my day with music, and most days I end it with music. There is almost always a tune playing, be it through my headphones or just in my head. Even now as an adult, seldom do I walk anywhere without trying to match the beat to what’s playing on the radio or what’s playing in my head.

The emotional response that I have to music is truly a thing that I appreciate about myself. I can relate myself, my life and my experiences to different types of music that I hear. Regardless of what I’m feeling, or going through, I’ve got a song for that. I’ve got a track that will make me smile if I’m feeling low, I’ve got one that I can rage to when I’m pissed off, and I’ve got one that will let me cry if that’s what I need to do.

(Let’s be honest, I’ve got a lot more than one of each.)

I will always believe that people connect through music. Going to shows, talking about our favorite artists, sharing songs with each other, new or old, the experiences are endless. Few things are more therapeutic to me than driving around with the windows rolled down and singing my heart out to songs I love with amazing people in the car with me. These are moments I truly cherish. I’ve made some great friendships based in the music scene, and continued to grow in existing ones once similar tastes were revealed. And there’s one undying common ground: we just fucking love it. 

Some days, music is the only thing that helps me feel better. And it’s always going to be there.

For the Girl Who wasn't believed about abuse...

Submitted by Amanda F


I don't know how to trust people. Hell even saying that much makes my chest tighten. My muscles in my shoulders, arms, legs; my entire body tightens. My stomach churns and snarls. I want to be able to just say #metoo and leave it at that, but silence doesn't make the trauma disappear.

I told my mother I was molested. My mother who is supposed to protect me. My mother who is supposed to love me. My mother who I should be able to trust and confide in. My mother who shouldn't be the poison in my life. She called me a liar. She called me dramatic. She used those same breathes to tell me not to tell anyone else my lies. Afterall, it would ruin the family.

I spent so much time not talking because I was a liar. Was I a liar? I spent so much time not talking because I was being dramatic. Was I dramatic? I spent so much time not talking to protect the very delicate image of my mother and her perfect little family where nothing wrong or nasty or perverse or terrible ever happened. I wish I could live with that fantasy family.

I was being gaslighted. It took me 20 years to figure that out; 7 year olds don't understand those kinds of words. Especially lying, dramatic, family ruiners. I stopped talking to people because I couldn't trust them. I didnt know how to make friends because I didnt trust their kindness, their loyalty, their compassion. I knew these things to be fake; I saw my mother fake them my whole life when we went outside the house.

I'm slowly starting to heal, mostly by talking about it. I'm starting to trust people and build relationships. This didn't happen over night. This happened over time. Afterall, once your in hell the only way out is through. It may not be easy, but every day that I try it gets easier and easier. I just keep trying and now look at me, here, writting this to you.

You should tell someone, they should believe you, and if they don't, find someone who will. You are not being dramatic. You are not going to ruin your family. You are NOT a liar.

For the Girl Who lives with mental disorders...

I live with bi-polar disorder, borderline personality disorder, anxiety and OCD. It took me a very long time to come to terms with this and be able to say it out loud. 

I was originally diagnosed in my teen years. Spent a short stint in a mental hospital. Went through a gross ton of meds and dosages trying to find the right combination. It made me tired, made me angry, made me want to give up hope of ever feeling better. Eventually I did give up. I stopped taking meds, going to therapy or even acknowledging that I had a mental illness at all. 

As I grew older, I assumed I got my shit together. I assumed I grew out of my childish "issues". I assumed I was a smarter, cuter and all around well rounded individual who didn't have problems. I assumed everyone else was the problem. 

I didn't have anger issues, you just didn't listen. I didn't need help, you did. I didn't need friends, they were all assholes anyway. I WASN'T MY MOTHER. She was the one with mental health issues my whole life, and I couldn't be like her. 

I was loud, I was obnoxious, I was full of pride. I didn't care who I hurt, I just had to say what was on my chest, and feelings be damned. I was a bitch, and my illness told me it was the only way to attract the right people who really "got me". This inevitably pushed people away and left me feeling alone. 

As time went on I became so clouded in my thinking I literally couldn't remember what I'd just said to you. It was so frustrating and disheartening I eventually shut down. I stopped sticking up for myself, I was incapable of self reflection, I was a shell. 

It all came to a head and I could deny it no longer. I saw a therapist who said "you're fighting for your life" and I was forced to face the fact that I was. I was fighting. I was fighting and I was losing. I had to let go of my stubborn thinking and allow myself to get help. It wasn't easy, it took a lot of work with therapy and medication. I had to tear down my old way of thinking and build back up something healthy. 

So here I am today, a medicated individual. Medicated and better equipped to deal with every day. 

For the Girl Who Struggles with Self-Esteem...

Let's face it, everyone in the world goes through this.
The constant ups and downs of self image like a current being forced back and forth from the tide by a storm.

Some days you feel incredible!
The flattering pants coupled with the new bodysuit, which seems to hide all of those imperfections flawlessly.
The day trip to Ulta where you spent more money than you made but couldn't wait to get home and give yourself a make over.
Or even when you're sitting at the bar, cafe, student union, class, work, where you just feel so on top of the world!
As if you are the absolute badass you watched in all those movies and somehow, today, you managed to embody her.

And some days you'll feel significantly less than incredible.
The days where you woke up late for work, grabbed those wrinkled jeans from the dirty clothes hamper and ran out the door.
The days you forgot to brush your hair and figured you could comb your fingers through it cause you know, no ones gonna notice.
Or better yet, when you THINK you look amazing and you genuinely start to embody it, but you walk past that store front and see all your imperfections gleaming back at you.
That mirror who shows you every reason why you are less today.

The constant battle.
The merry-go-round of do I actually look like the badass who lives in my head or is this another way I've deluded myself into getting through the day.

Self-esteem has always, and I mean, ALWAYS been my biggest struggle with myself.
Over indulging at Ulta, telling myself that I can look like those women who are most definitely photoshopped.
And here's the thing, sometimes I FEEL like the photoshopped women, the women who walk like they're floating on a cloud and refuse to take shit from anyone, who know their worth, who don't allow opinions of others to cloud their self-esteem... And some days, I just don't. And on those days, I carry on anyways.

For The Girl Who is finally okay with herself...

I hope that the people I love will always love me. I hope that the relationships that I’ve built: the friendships, the coworkers, the family, the acquaintances, I hope they thrive. I hope that everyone that I love is understanding of the fact that I love them, and doesn’t ever forget that I love them. I hope that I continue to do my best each and every day showing appreciation to the people I care about. I hope that I will nourish those relationships and put my best effort in them.

Now that I’ve gotten that out of the way, I can tell you what I really want to tell you.

If tomorrow morning, everyone that I know and love in the world wakes up and decides that they don’t love me anymore and no longer want me as a part of their lives, I am okay with that.

Would it hurt? God, yes. It would hurt so much. I would grieve the loss of those relationships. I would feel the ache, the dull pain in my chest, and I would cry and my body would feel weak. I would feel my feelings, and I would let them go. But I would be okay.

It’s a pretty intimidating feeling, if I’m being honest. My entire life has been based on the need of approval from others. It’s been based off the notion that I am not worthy if no one else is telling me so, that if I am told I’m wrong or unhelpful or ugly or shameful, that must be true. So I spent my life changing myself for the sake of others. I dressed a certain way, acted differently, pretended to be interested in things that bored me. I wanted the people I loved to love me, regardless of what that meant for my mental health. I would’ve done anything for the approval.

I have lived a pretty decent life. I had a two parent household growing up that was full of a lot of love. We didn’t live in the fanciest homes or drive the most luxurious cars. But there was never a lack of love, and I remember that feeling very well. When I gave birth to my daughter, I remember thinking to myself “she will always be surrounded in love, even if that’s all I can give her.” I set this goal and have maintained, as a result of the love I had from my parents.

I feel the need to mention my upbringing because I don’t want there to be a misconception about what led me to be this approval-seeking person I grew into. There were hardships, of course. There were outside circumstances that left me in shambles, experiences I had that I thought would break me. Some people have looked at the roads I’ve traveled and wondered how I made it along. All I can tell you is that I did, though sometimes in pretty bad shape. I trudged. We all did, in one way or another.

My mid twenties hit me like a ton of bricks. I am not here to claim that I know anything – I don’t know shit about shit. I can only imagine what hardships and healing I’ll undergo in my thirties. But my twenties have been a learning experience for me, and for the first time, I’m beginning to feel a sense of comfort I haven’t had before. My hopes are that this feeling will only grow as I age and become more comfortable with who I am.

I no longer live in fear of the ways that people will hurt me. I no longer live in fear that every person that I love will leave me, or hurt me, or break my trust. Not because they won’t; people will most assuredly hurt me for as long as I live. As humans we are going to hurt others, and hopefully we do our best to make the hurt as minimal as possible and take responsibility for it right away. I know that people will hurt me, and leave me, and break my trust. But I’m not afraid of that anymore.

I’m not afraid of it anymore because I no longer require your approval. I no longer need someone to tell me that I’m beautiful or worthy or smart or funny or whatevercomplimentyoucancomeupwith. I know that I am those things, and I know that if I’m not any of the things that I want to be, that I can be. I am capable of being the best possible version of myself. It’s taken me a little while to understand that the best possible version of myself doesn’t look like the version that other people want me to be, rather it looks like the girl who allows herself her own thoughts and feelings and interests. It looks like the girl who takes care of herself first, and still does what she can to help others. It looks like the girl who indulges in the nerdy things and still does her makeup, who likes to eat healthy dinners and cake for dessert, and who isn't afraid of letting people see all of the oppositions that live within her. I am finally 'okay' with who I am.  

People's actions are rarely a reflection of you, and most often a reflection of themselves. If you can honestly say that you are meeting every relationship in your life with honesty and compassion, if you are doing your part, if you are nourishing the relationship, and someone decides to hurt you anyways, that is not your fault, and is not a reflection of who you are as a person. Some people will do things that will make you feel as though you're responsible for them, and it's important to know that you are not now, and will never be responsible for the actions of others. Keep your side of the street clean, and sleep every night knowing you're doing your best. 

And for the girl who hasn't gotten there quite yet... 

The one who is still afraid, who isn't yet comfortable, who isn't quite okay with herself yet, that's fine, too. 

There's no timeline for your growth or your healing. There's no deadline you have to meet, no goal to be obtained in a certain frame of time. You're going to get there, even though it's going to suck along the way. I'm having a good day, a good week, a good month. But there will be days that I will need to come back and read this for myself. That I will need to remind myself that I am all of the things I wrote about today, that I have this strength, that I am not afraid. There will be days that I don't feel strong and I do feel scared. And those days are okay, too.