To continue swimming or to allow yourself to sink?

To continue swimming would mean a lot of different things in my life. A lot of different things that I would need to do and a lot of things that I am already attempting to do. But letting myself sink… The thought is so much more compelling then to keep up this shit and feeling like I’m getting no where. Like I’m swimming against the waves and not getting closer to shore.

It’s like swimming with weights tied to my ankles. I’ve been doing it for so long that I am starting to cramp. My muscles are tense and tightening and almost to the point where i cannot move them. It hurts to go through the motions. The every day motion, forcing myself to get up in the morning, get dressed, possibly eat when you have no appetite, Going to work, driving and trying to not just cut a semi off and let them hit you, getting to work and trying not to be the biggest cunt ever because your mood swings are so bad today that you even hate yourself. Dealing with bitching customers and suppressing the need to say “FUCK YOU” and deal with your father the next day with a what the fuck attitude. Driving home, get home, getting your nightly anxiety (every goddamn night, I shit you not), taking a Xanax or smoking some pot and thinking maybe I should just take rest of the bottle I mean why the fuck not.. Then remembering that trying to OD last time did not work and resulted in waking up in a pile of your own vomit and causing you to admit yourself into the hospital (which was NO help whatsoever) so that you can possibly get help from the doctors that had no idea what the fuck they were doing and the staff of the crazy ward who don’t know there mouth from their assholes.

Going to sleep and doing the same thing all over again. Sometimes it’s different. Sometimes I’m really good for a week, maybe even a few. I get back on my diet and I work out every day, I feel great. I feel like I’m almost to shore. Things are good again. My family can actually stand to be around me and so can my co-workers. Crazy idea here but why can’t this be all the time? But no. It can’t. I do not know why, nor do i have an explanation for this absurd cycle of my life.

But I can tell myself that no matter how dark it gets while I drown, eventually my body will float back up to the light and some air will some how find it’s way to my lungs and I will breath again and give my good days a hell of a ride. Because that’s all i have right now. That is my hope. That is why I have not  let the weights on my ankles pull me all the way down to the dark depths of the sea. Because I do get close to shore. I may never get there completely but I get to wade in the sand bar long enough to breath life into my dying and raged lungs. I get to be a human again and not some monster dragged up from the bottoms of the sea.

The ocean is so pretty, so alluring sometimes. Being so deep down there you have such off thoughts. I guess the lack of “oxygen” gets to you and makes you see things that aren’t there. Like the plus sides of dying, which i think there are many. But being back to the shore shows me the things I live for every day. I have three younger sisters and a younger brother. I am the oldest. I’ve changed all of their diapers. I’ve rocked them to sleep, showed them how to play soccer and volleyball. I’ve helped them get through school and I have so much more that I need to be there to see. I would never want my mom to have to bury me. My dad is another story. I wouldn’t want him to have to but at the same time I would want him to hurt so much more then I can imagine. To hurt like he has hurt me. To feel as low as he had me through the years. I know he loves me, I know he has done a lot for my family. But there is a sick part of me that wants him to know how he has made me feel. I’ll talk about that another day. I love my parents very much. I don’t want them to ever have to find my body and read my suicide notes, that yes I have written already. I don’t want them to have to make the decision on breaking my shoulders if I don’t fit in the coffin they bought because yes that is a question that is posed, we had to do that with my grampa and I studied mortuary science for a long time and came across that information. I wouldnt want them to have to cremate me either. But if they one day do, I want them to read these blog entries. To know that my death wasn’t in vain and that maybe I helped someone that is going through what I am. To know that it wasn’t all their fault.

The end of that got a little sappy, sorrrrrrry. I normally am not one to care that much but when it comes to my family I have a hard time not caring. There’s a lot of things that I have been through that my family does not know about. Maybe they will find out one day. Maybe not. Why make someone hurt more then they have to… Why let someone know all your dirty little secrets if it will tear them to pieces? Because sometimes you just have to. Sometimes knowing the reasons why someone is the way they are, it helps them cope. That seems to be a word I run into all too often. Fuck learning how to “cope”. What is coping? I don’t know.. Hopefully, maybe I’ll find out and tell you lol

But good night creepy strangers that read about my life. I hope my problems please your entertainment needs.


Murder You Say?

Don’t judge me based off  the fucked up things I write about. It’s better that I write about i then actually do it lol

Sometimes when you find stories about unsolved crimes, serial killings that were never solved. Dead bodies found mutilated, people tend to talk. Make up stories to go along with these Jane Doe’s. Can you blame them? It’s like a source of entertainment.

Occasionally I like to make up my own unsolved crimes and stories to go along with my dead victims, what happened to them and what got them into those positions in the first place. I’ve watched to many horror movies that I guess I’ve developed a sick interest of torture, gore, serial killings. The why’s and the how’s of everything. Every dirty detail.

That is what I’m gonna do today. I’ll describe my latest “victim” and describe their life and what may or may not have lead up to the point in time where they were ripped to shreds and left for dead. These were the things I would write about in my short stories class in high school and freak the fuck out of my teacher. But he always agreed that I had an eye for detail. Grotesque but pretty damn good.

The time is September 1946. The location is the City of Angels. Los Angeles, California.

The autopsy stated that the victim was 5 feet 8 inches tall and roughly 126 pounds. She had ligature marks around her neck, wrists and feet. There were lacerations to her face and arms. Slashes on the inside of her thighs with huge chunks of skin missing. Her teeth had been pulled from her mouth, leaving no dental records to go off of. Her nails pulled from their beds. The woman who found her found her body as she was walking her daughter down a street. The body was torn to piece, each being found in different areas of tall grass. Her arms were found separated from her torso, her head dismembered. Her lower half was found a quarter mile down. They found what was a placenta and the fetus of her unborn child ripped out and what looked like a botched abortion. The umbilical cord was strung up around one of her legs.

With each new finding about her body, the police began to noticed a pattern. These were the same things they found a year ago. It was another open case. No traces of DNA from another person. Nothing under the finger nails. The bodies seemed to be drained of blood and washed before they were staged in the grass along the sidewalk. Always some finding one body part before anything else. Always girls that could not be identified.

Three months later they found another one. And then another one three months after that. The murderer was getting more excited by all the media that was revolving around the open cases.

But they all had something in common. They were pregnant.

So what lead to this insane abundance of dead bodies, decaying along the city streets? It seemed that with the beauty of these girls, they were possibly aspiring young actresses or possibly prostitutes. But then they got pregnant. The only thing that ruined a career for those types more was a possible baby on the way. In that day and age abortions were hard to come by. But you could find some that would do them for a hefty fee. That someone had been twisted somehow. Taking these young girls under his or her wing and ending their body.

In the end they still got their fame, just not the fortune.

Who Put Bella Down the Wych Elm?

This was interesting, it’s funny how people can jump so far into their own conclusions. It’s also a fun way to take something such as an unsolved murder or death and put a story behind it. You’ll see a few of those things on my blog. I have a morbid sense of curiosity and writing stance. I also just have a morbid out look on life.


Let me tell you a little something that’s, not necessarily affected me because I do it to myself, been of use to me since high school. Self mutilation. Self harm as others would call it. And self harming comes in many different forms. It can be cutting, burning, over spending money (a way of royally fucking yourself when rent comes your way), sleeping around, doing drugs (no I do not count pot as a drug, it’s a plant that used to grow freely and should be smoked just as free) and drinking.

My self harm you ask? I slice and dice. Not stupid enough to slit my wrist because if I do live, on the wretched off chance, I have these big ugly scars that are hard to hide. Oh wait… I still have some scars that I hide. But I don’t look at them as ugly. Scars on a body are beautiful. For every scar I hold on the inside, I have on the outside. Cutting isn’t my only form of release, I use tattoos too. Because those are also beautiful forms of scaring the skin.. And piercings. (I’ll show those off later)

 So I don’t take this razor and drag it across my skin for no reason. I have many. I use my cutting as a displacement of the pain I go through every day. It is something that I not only keep for myself at home when I’m alone and have no way of controlling my emotions or anxiety but something I use at work. They say every person is “supposed to have ways to cope” with their emotions and anxiety and what not. So before you judge me for slicing open my skin and leaving behind delicious feeling scarlet lines, judge yourself for your fucking binge eating or wasting all your husbands money on those ugly Prada shoes that you really did not need, or your best friends boyfriend that you just slept with because it felt good for just a few minutes or a few hours to spend that money or to have sex or to shoot up or do a line or the hours of being drunk. Because we are all one in the same. Trying to get away from our pain. I wake up in the morning unable to drag myself out of bed. Why? Am i injured or sick, do I have some sort of life threatening disease.. Yea I kinda fucking do. You just cant see it. And it’t not what you expect it to be. So what you’re thinking in your head is that it really isn’t there because you cant see it.. Just like you can’t see the pain that people go through with Fibromyalgia, you don’t see it. It’s not like cancer where I would go through chemo and my hair falls out. So it must not be real, right? Doctors can’t always see it either, so they don’t mention it or don’t diagnose it.

I’m not saying what I do is necessarily a good thing but I’m also not saying it is a bad thing. There are always better ways to “help” yourself, this is just mine. Also, this message is brought to you by someone who is sick of being fucking judged by things you assholes cant see. Just because you cannot see my pain, does not mean it is not there. Just like shark attack victims after they get their arms or legs chomped off, they get phantom pains, you don’t see them but they are there.

You do not know what every day struggles someone is going through, so don’t be that person that judges them right off the bat.

Don’t judge a book by it’s cover.. No seriously, I thought 50 shades was gonna be good.. it sucked ball sack.

P.S. what also sucks is when you go all winter and spring and you can hide that shit and suddenly it’s 80 degrees out and you can’t wear long sleeves anymore.

Food for thought?

Have you ever stopped while eating and actually thought about what you are shoveling in to the hole in your face? No seriously.. Food is a powerful things. Really, it is. It can make you happy, like when a family member brings over your favorite desert to the party. It can make you sick, under cooked, eat too much of a good thing or what not. It can bring back memories from just the smell, texture or taste. But food has another component of how it can fuck with your noggin. It has chemicals, fillers, biproducts. Sugar… It’s a nasty thing. I mean its really fucking good and does great things to a lot of the good we love. But think about this: it is literally in everything you eat. Go to the store for some deli meat, not just the pre-packaged either, like the kind you pick up at jewel has butt loads of sugar and not just one kind. They say it’s so it lasts longer, preservatives. But that shit it so bad for you, does horrible things to your noggin, the thing you’re supposed to use on a daily bases.. ( we all know that one person that uses it like once a week though.. dumb dumbs. I work with many of those lovely people.) There have been scientific studies done on rats. They took one rat and gave it cocaine. They took another and just fed it sugar. The rat that was given the sugar had worst withdraws and addiction signs than the rat with with cocaine.. Sick right? They also have done brain scans on people that do Paleo diets compared to those who eat normal food. It a cray difference. It is said that food can also hinder people with mental disorders. The chemicals in our food can cause anxiety disorders and certain forms of depression (especially with those who tend to emotionally eat or binge eat)

The studies that have been done on what food does to ones brain is quite interesting. I will post more about this later.

I don’t normally eat out, at least I try not to. Normally I’m that  girl you see standing in the isles reading all the labels. I can’t kick every bad horrible chemical that they put in food out of my what i eat because with some things, it is nearly impossible. But i can eat clean, work out (sweat those toxins out) and drink lots and lots of water to detox my body. I drink around 130 ounces of water in a day. I pee almost every hour lol But it is one way that i can hep myself keep my brain healthy.

Checkin’ In.

Let’s do a little check in shall we?

I’m irritated as fuck. The landlord to my work office is having people work on the roof and I want to push them off it and watch them fall… Sounds like I’m in a peachy mood does it not? I woke up in a great mood. I woke up peachy as fuck. Seriously though, I was in a great mood when I woke up. Even called my mom and what not and was a pretty good little chit chat. Got to work, was online talking to a beautiful lady that I some how got to go on a date with me for this Sunday… But then the littlest thing happened.. a tiny argument with my dear old brother.

Now before you start thinking “oh it can’t be that bad, it’s just words, don’t be so sensitive.” Sensitive is in my nature. Being overly sensitive, feeling things too much or strongly is apart of this incredibly complex illness. So is everything changing on a dime.

I went from incredibly happy to overly defensive and angry as all hell. You could feel the vibes flowing off me. It’s interesting how things work up there in the brain. It also makes me want to scream. But now I feel chill again and am watching this beautiful video of an A Capella group called Voctronica, they are indian based. They have a very groovy, foot tapping kind of vibe, makes you just want to dance. They did a rendition of Ed Sheeran’s song “sing”. I was very impressed.

But see what I mean, fly on a dime I tell you!

“It is both a blessing and a curse to feel everything so deeply”

Oh little old me?

So this is me. My name is Amanda Marie. No I do not and will not share my last name. Not necessary for all the fame and fortune that this little blog probably won’t get. I have Borderline Personality Disorder, a hard case of resting bitch face, anxiety, Bipolar disorder. I listen to hard rock and alternative and sometimes a lot of stuff from the good ol’ 90’s. I mean can you really go wrong with some Blues Traveler and then maybe The Pretty Reckless or Halestorm, maybe Blink 182, sum 41.. I don’t know, I listen to weird shit. I’m 23, I work nights at my dad’s towing company as a dispatcher (I’d say I’m pretty damn good at my job and making money, most of the guys like me, the other ones just think I’m a bitch and I’m okay with that lol) I like to draw, paint, write, sing, attempting to learn piano, violin, and guitar (doing things and constantly keeping myself busy helps me keep my anxiety under control, if I cant think about anything but what i’m doing, I cant let my thoughts get to me. It also helps me manage my emotions because when I’m not over thinking, I’m not going cray cray) I am dyslexic, I like art museums, I love the planetarium, I adore going to the zoo even though they treat their animals like shit out here, I like the aquarium and this really big garden place they have out here. I like outdoorsy stuff. I love working out and lifting weights even though i’m a fatty. I enjoy boxing and soon hope to get into roller derby. Now here is my dilemma. These things I love, enjoy, some I couldn’t even live without doing. But then my disease kicks in and I’m wiped out. No energy, no appetite, no want to do anything but lay in bed and hide from the world. It literally pains me to drag my sorry ass out of bed. Somehow this thing in my brain that’s taken over my life makes my whole body feel like I was hit by a Mac truck. It’s like all the energy is drained out of my body, like waking up from a drug induced coma.

And that’s just the start my dear readers.