Thursday, April 12th

A Recap:

I am awoken at 6:51am by the pressure of my bladder and what felt like a possible bowel movement. 

My anxiety whispers “get up! you’re gonna shit yourself!”

I obey and stammer up the steps to the cool bathroom tile. 

I retreat back to bed, repeat my mantra of “you are light, you are love, you are perfect” for the 10th time of the morning trying to quiet the monkey that is my brain. 

I feel my heart rate slow down and my eyes blur to sleep. 

As soon as I feel the soft sleep take me, I am alerted by my alarm clock.

My heart races, anxiety nuzzles deep in my chest 

It’s as if my body is responding to the bear lurking behind me. 

I turn to look-

No bear, just the day ahead. 

I press snooze and begin to count objects I see in my bedroom to ease the panic that is bubbling up the sides of my body. 

I call my mom and put her on speaker.

Her voice is a warm blanket I wish I could lay over my fears

Tears begin to stream out of their ducts 

in an attempt to release the tension that’s been building over night. 

Mom tells me to breath, stay calm, and that I can conquer the day. 

It’s hard to believe her when I feel like I am being sliced and eaten alive. 

As I drive to work, my morning nausea  demands attention 

“Hello nausea” I say aloud,

It takes the welcome, and begins poking and prodding at the tension in my stomach.

Anxiety whispers “pull over loser, you’re going to vomit.” 

I obey and grab the plastic grocery bag I have waiting for me on the passenger seat. 

Blueberry protein shake finds itself in the bag as well as my sweater and pants. 

“shit, I’m a fucking mess!” 

Panic is ready to join the party, and I begin heaving over the bag again- with tears streaming I look around to see if anyone notices me. 

Thankful for the metal shield that is my car I collapse into myself and cry. 

I check the time, “shit, i’m late”

Wiping my face with my shaking wet hand I tie up the bile bag and start the ignition. 

“You are light, you are love, you are perfect” I repeat it until I hear nothing else. 




Lonely sits in my chest

begging to be fed.

I ask it to go away nicely-

it quivers, and looks back at me with sad eyes

so i hug it close,

trying to warm the empty

that permeates up to my head

and pulsates my temples.


I ask out loud,

“Will anyone truly love me?”

And not a parents love, which is hopefully undying.

That love is a whole other poem.


This love is the love my lonely wants to eat,

mouthfuls of companionship and fulfillment


How I yearn to taste what the opposite of lonely proves to be.

“Be full on your own”


Oh, if only I knew how.  pexels-photo-791300.jpeg

“Rough” Days

I’m so fucking tired of each day being a “rough” day.

That’s what I say when I don’t want to scare kind faces off.

That’s what I say when my body purges the nutrients I am so desperate to hold on to.

That what I say when it feels like I am constantly slipping on ice and there is no one there to catch my fall.

Thats what I say when it feels like I can longer carry on.

“What do you mean, Jessie? What does that mean?”

I promise to family, friends, co-workers that it doesn’t mean what they think-

That it’s just been a “rough” day.

And the promises I make to them I sow  to my heart with thick yarn

So when I want to break them I can’t.

The yarn tethers and gets thin with my pulls but it doesn’t rip, it can’t rip-

after all,

its only been a rough day.


Drawing– The Nude Nubian credit: @khleo_t


Standing small under the shower

full of pressure and warmth,

his scent and my dried tears wash away.

I scrub and scrub till the skin beneath begins to pray and whisper a tiny


I removed his smell but can’t rid his voice.


His voice was strong,

I fell over and he pushed, shoved

He did not listen to the words spoken from my lips.

“Lips” he cried, they’re beautiful,

“you’re beautiful, Take me in with you,let me be within you.”

“Okay”I mutter too weak to stand.



pexels-photo-349308.jpegWhat do you do when you’ve started to exhaust yourself?

Unable to step out of this skin that was gifted, I itch.

Itchy with the sadness and the anxiety I cannot hide from.

Perhaps, hiding is the problem.

I named my anxiety,


Harry is pathetic, he’s a mess, but harry is powerful.

Harry talks over me, injects my mind with thoughts that twirl around and dance together.

I find myself talking about Harry a lot.

when I explain how it feels like Harry trips me each time I take a step

I see eyes fill with confusion, and pity fueled by compassion

“Oh wow”… they say.

“Have you tried yoga? Meditation?”

I nod,

and repeat whatever todays mantra is

go slowly, breathe, smile

“they say it can really help quiet the mind”

There goes they again, running their mouths filling others tongues with the “right” answer

Maybe I need to stop telling people about Harry,

but each morning filled with panic and fear is getting a little old.

I am afraid to keep it to myself as the energy is too loud,

I need to scream to fight its containment.

so i scream, and harry cheers on my tears.

Friend or foe?

I itch my soft skin, scratching hard to peel away this layer,

hoping Harry won’t find me when I shed.

Having a hard time getting to work today…

Its crippling. The anxiety in my chest, which circulates throughout my entire body. It whispers in my ears, pokes the back of my neck, making sure I am paying attention. It tells me I can’t do it today, it, meaning anything. That today I am its slave. We will stay in bed and cry as the thoughts of panic release from their stockpile. “You’re going to be sick, you aren’t worthy, you are a loser” plays on repeat from my anxieties recorder. It orders me to stay still, feel small and incapable. For a moment, while in bed, my focus shifts on fighting back, I sit up and think it’s time to nourish myself- the anxiety laughs in my face. I can smell its sour breath and feel its bony ice fingers pushing me back to hopelessness. It weighs me down. My eyes are so tired from carrying the thoughts, and putting on a mask for others during the day. I sleep, I sleep deeply to escape, and desperately hope it won’t find me when I wake up.


We often speak of they—

the elusive they who we poke for answers and then quote as our own, sure that they is researched and well educated.

They’s opinion is coveted, trusted, and seemingly verified.

They, the ultimate collective of humans worries, concerns, and expectations.

They, always knows, and if they don’t, well, no, they always do.

We trust they as if they are in our best interest, but who the fuck are they?

Why are we so sure that they are right?

They is comforting. If I don’t know, well, they certainly will.

We are all they. 

Concealed behind a protectant film that we trust when we don’t trust ourselves.

Let us claim they, admit when we don’t know, and let us find the answers and affirm that they are ours. pexels-photo-325521.jpeg