It’s funny how I always end up here, on Broadmor street.

Every time I feel more pain than I can handle I drive to my old house to end it, or maybe for a second to breath since I never end up doing it.

I’m afraid to say these things out loud, but then I remember that no one is listening.

I pour so much of myself into the people I love and well, wind up empty.

I’ve had to rebuild myself alone over and over it’s no wonder I feel scrambled.

Just when I think I’m okay, that all this shit is manageable, something hits me even harder.

Last night was a bad one. A musty dive bar and greedy company.

Apartment complexes are mazes in the dark.

I always understood that as a women you have to be very careful in this world, I see now why.

But life lessons are always hard, especially when you think, it won’t happen to me.

When you think your invincible.

When you think you’ve got it all figured out.

I finally understand how fragile I really am, how naive.

I know I’m the billionth women to have to feel this, and worse.

I wish I knew how long this feeling would stay with me, how long I have to feel so fucking empty, so helpless.

I’ve never had to run for fear of what would happen to me if I couldn’t run fast enough.

I’ve never heard my heart beating as fast as it did when I realized I was in way more danger than I could handle.

I understand now when they say, he just seemed so normal. And that there are people who don’t understand no.

I understand how hard it is to look in the mirror and not blame yourself for making stupid choices.

It could have been worse.

I’m staring at the overgrown bamboo, my moms staple everywhere she goes, right next to the window into my old room.

The blinds are drawn and I can almost imagine that I just got off my hosting shift and am coming home.

That I’ll smell the incense and the cigarettes that always bring me comfort of knowing I’m safe and sound.

The three distinctive meows of my cats greeting me in the garage.

The warm glow coming from the string lights that hung across the four walls in my room at the end of the hall.

But then I’m back, back to knowing that house is empty, or filled with new people’s smells and belongings.

That I’m alone.

Alone in a big city I used to feel fond of, and now I just feel sick in.

There’s always two options every time I come here, and it always seems to get harder and harder to leave and return to reality.

Maybe I don’t want to be dead, maybe I just want to be free. Free of pain, free of all this dirt and everything that makes my skin crawl.

I want free of the dark heavy things that weigh on my mind and give me migraines.

I just want to feel safe again.

This world is much bigger and much scarier than I realized and I want to go home.

Homesick for a home I don’t have, a home I’ve lost too many times.

Is there a word for that?

Is there a word for having no one you can say the ugly things to so you talk to yourself through writing.

It’s true though, people don’t like hearing things that aren’t pretty. Things that go bump in the night are shrugged off. And animals with no self control continue to prowl the streets.

And I understand, but it hurts to be alone when everything hurts so much and all you need is a safe embrace.

Someone to tell your story to who listens and understands.

I don’t want to be in the dark all alone. Fearing no matter how fast I run or which way I turn, I’ll never get out.

I’m tired of neverland, because it’s not everything I thought it would be.

I’ll leave Broadmor tonight.

Because what else are you gonna do, make a skeptical of yourself?

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