Passing Thoughts: What’s Terrifying

When you find someone that understands you, it’s actually quite terrifying. It’s even worse when you weren’t looking for them. Now I don’t make much sense, do I?

What I mean to say is: you meet them and you open up to them and they find out everything about you. What you like, what you don’t, what you love, what you fear; everything. They discover your best moments, but all of your darkest secrets. What you think about, how you think, who you are not only as a human being, but in your soul.

You invest all of yourself into them, and they have the power to hold everything over your head. And you feel connected, and if they break that connection, you feel as if you’re more broken than before. That’s what makes it so terrifying.

I’ve only met two people in my life who I’ve connected with on that level, and I wasn’t looking for either of them, and they’ve both made an impact I would never be able to forget. That’s terrifying.  Especially because I’ve always been hard to understand, getting to really know me requires a great deal of patience few people are willing to give. I have a complicated mind, sometimes I don’t even understand. That’s what makes the connections that much more significant.

Only one of those people not only understand me, but understand my mind and relate to it more than I ever could imagine possible. That’s terrifying. What if I were to never find someone like that again? Terrifying.

I think a lot, as you can tell by the few posts I’ve made on here, and this is just one of my passing thoughts, I don’t let it consume me. And that also raises an interesting yet easy to answer question:

If you had to say everything you thought, could you keep up?



Something Euphoric About…

It’s sort of enchanting when they try to subtly get to know your body
They run their fingers or their lips over everything
Sometimes they come back to a spot to check if it’s really as you mentioned before, if that’s really how it feels
They get to know your bumps and curves and scars
How rough or soft your skin is in which places
Which parts protrude or cave in
Something euphoric in the sound of heavy breathing, and when the world disappears around you both
Anything you say is spoken in body language
Hands inching toward as some type of way to ask for permission
And no acknowledgment as a form of acceptance
Eye contanct that’s never uncomfortable
Somehow in the silence those gazes say everything you can’t at the moment
Feeling completely and undoubtedly safe and comfortable in their arms
And however you’re feeling, whatever you’re thinking, is shown on your face, in your eyes
There is no other thing on your mind, that is it
You’re in that moment and only that moment.

Venture into my crazy mind.


So I’ve been in a relationship with same guy for two years,  his name is Edward. Where to start. Edward and I met  at Beverly Park in Chicago when we twelve. I don’t think we really gave a damn about each other at the time. So Ed and his douche bag friends decided to give me the nik-name “Red headed cherry popping dick sucking cunt.” I never even said more than like five sentences to this kid. He was kind of a douchy jock. So we all (a group of a bunch of bad ass middle schoolers) hung out maybe 4 days, and then I went back to Southern Illinois. The years after that Edward would randomly talk to me on Myspace or Facebook, but it never went anywhere considering I lived 5 hours away. Then the summer of 2011 I went and visited my Mom in Evergreen Park (like five blocks from Chicago). I had posted it on Facebook and sure enough Edward kept trying to make plans to hang out.  I kept telling him I don’t make plans, so we never hung out until one day he called me and asked if we could hang out.  I was so bored so I said sure. He called when he was in front of my house so put my dogs on a leash and figured we could walk them. I walk out front and there is this tall buff guy wearing Hollister sweatpants  in the middle of freaking June (like a douche). We hung out a few times over that summer and started to like each other. Then school started. We just kind of faded apart. I started dating this asshole named Austin, and I don’t know what he was up to. Then in January of 2012 we started hanging out, and I mean all the time. Finally July 1, 2012 we made it official. After that there was no keeping us apart. Every day after school we would hang out until 8:30 and when the lights went out I was climbing out of my window just to run to his house and climb in his. Then November 2012 I moved into his house. These past few months we have hit some really rough patches, but somehow we never walked away. I am not sure how. Maybe our love is like a Nicholas Sparks novel. I mean why not.  I deserve a happy ending. I would love to share it with him. 

This Is Not Poetry

When life gets too overwhelming, I find the best release is to write. I recently came across something I wrote after recovering from an alcohol addiction that I want to discuss, this is not poetry:

“Sometimes I wish the bottles weren’t empty. Sitting there. Taunting me. But then I remember how I used to try to find myself at the bottom of one and then another and then another. And then I remember how I found nothing but impairment and clumsiness. And I just started to sink. Drowning. It didn’t help. It just became another problem. It wasn’t used as a mechanism to ‘forget,’ but it was a nice distraction…”

Along with:

“I’ve hit rock bottom many times, and let me tell you, the edges only get sharper.”

I wrote these months ago, and I will never forget how awful I felt, intoxicated AND sober.  Strange how I put “a nice distraction, ” but it was just a distraction,  nothing about it is nice. The idea of getting drunk or even drinking a little makes me sick. I spent my whole summer feeling like I was trapped in the bottle, drowning in the alcohol. I finally got the strength to swim back up, gasping for air, disheveled, checking my surroundings. That whole summer is a blur. I couldn’t sleep, too afraid of what I might dream, especially in the night. Terrified of my own thoughts. When I did sleep, it was 6am, sometimes 8am. As long as the sun was up. It was my only comfort. I slept all day, and when I’d wake up I’d feel disgusting, hungover, exhausted. I stayed at my father’s that summer, I woke up wishing I was somewhere else, but not my house either. It doesn’t feel like “home” to me, I don’t have a “home.” But it would get me away from alcohol access, which was more important.

I got back from my father’s in August, and I finished off a bottle of brandy I had stolen from my his liquor canbinet the day before school. Then I was sober for over 4 months. It felt like a year. Then New Year’s came and we all know where that led, and I’m not proud of it, it was hard to swallow but I wanted to play it off as normal. So I drank, and I felt terrible for it.

And then I truly realized I don’t care how “lame” sobriety is or what someone is going through, I refuse to drink with them, or anyone. It just brings on painful nostalgia.

It also goes to show that no matter someone’s age, they can be struggling with addiction(s). So if you are struggling, don’t give up on yourself, but do give up on the addiction. And if you feel like you must have a distraction, take up something healthy, in moderation of course. Don’t sit around feeling sorry for yourself and wasting your life, please. The world is full of beautiful things. You will have your ups and downs, but you get stronger with every time you push yourself back up.

You’re not alone.


I Guess It’s My Turn

Hey, it’s Megan. I don’t know where to go with this or who will even read it, but I guess I’ll start by taking a little time to share some personal things.

I was born 6 hours away from where I live now, my parents divorced when I was 7. Same old story, my father was a drunk piece of shit and my mother was the wife too afraid to leave. I don’t really remember my childhood, and I think that’s best. Not too fond of what I do remember. But what stays wrapped around my mind is the fact that I feel like I 

really began to open my eyes the day we left my father. I remember being woken up to, “wake up, we’re leaving,” and I didn’t question, I just went with it. One of the few times in my life I didn’t even use that millisecond to question 20 different things all at once. Since then, I’ve been more aware of everything, have more memories, not necessarily good either, but I remember. And after that my parents became textbook divorcees. Mother bashing father, father saying never trust mother. Textbook.

I’ve gone through some shit, so have most of us, and I’ve learned from it, so have most of us, but it doesn’t define me as a person, you know? I’m not that girl who moved a few times and put up with a lot of shit. I’m Megan.

Out of all my siblings I’ve taken the most shit, but I’ve also learned a lot more. I find it painful to judge people and I can see their stories written on their face. They wear it on their skin and carry it with them in their eyes, in the way they walk, the way they talk. Maybe it’s empathy, I don’t know. Guess it depends on if you believe those kinds of things.

I’m a beleiver in doing what makes you happy, if that means flipping burgers, flip those fucking burgers. Whatever you love to do, just do it with passion. This could be saved for another post, so I guessss I’ll hold back, I just really like writing. So I’ll stick with this for now, but I’ll sure be blogging much more.


Meeting Me (Sam)

Hello:) It is a pleasure to meet you, my name is Samantha. I am 18 years old.  I was born on February 16, 1995 to Marcia Hinman and Keith Harbison. My parents raised me and my siblings together for four years of my life before they decided to go their separate ways. A lot had happened to lead up to their separation, but there are some things better left unsaid. Luckily, I was young enough to not really remember or understand most of what had caused their decision for a divorce.  I do however remember every thing after they had separated. I remember all the confusion of not understanding why I couldn’t be with both of my parents at the same time. I remember the hate and frustration my parents had toward each other. I never saw that between them before. I remember my Dad had asked me one day when I was six  “Red, who do you want to live with, Mommy or Daddy?” Without hesitation I answered “Daddy.” He was so happy to know his baby girl wanted to be by his side through everything. That weekend my Mom had asked me the same question, “Sam do you want to live with me or your Dad?” Again without hesitation I answered, “You Mommy.” She was so excited, just like my Dad. It was like they felt they had accomplished something, or that they had something to rub in the others face. I’m sure they discussed it later on and had discovered that of course I had wanted to live with both of my parents. Both my Mom and Dad had moved on rather fast. Which was upsetting to me, but more upsetting to my sister. I really don’t know how my brother felt about anything. He hated me as a kid, so we didn’t really talk. My sister on the other hand was, and will always be my rock. She kept me going.  She made sure I was taken care of, and brushed my hair, didn’t pick out mismatched clothes for school, ate my breakfast, and helped with my homework. As much as I hated it as a kid, and would yell at her “You’re not my Mom, so stop trying to be her!” I am beyond gracious of her now. She knew I was too young to understand that I needed her. Through all the screaming and the fighting, she never once gave up. She kept spending her time taking care of me. She always put me before herself, and her social life. I feel like both of my parents should send my sister a thank you card or something.  “Thank you for raising Sam. It was greatly appreciated.” Don’t get me wrong it wasn’t like my parents were neglectful.  My father got custody of me and my sister, so my Mom didn’t exactly have the choice. My Dad and his girlfriend both left early for work, and got home late. I think their divorce finally went through when I was in the third grade. Nothing really changed. My Dad had custody of me and Cathrine,  and my Mom had my brother Chris. He is my half brother. Life went on. In 2006 my Dad and his girlfriend got into a horrible car accident.  They both almost lost their lives.  My Dad wasn’t able to work,  so he had us pack up and move 6 hours away to my Grandparent’s in a tiny town. Herod, Illinois. It was literally in the middle of no where.  My family did the best they could to help us,  but having to move 6 hours away from all of our family and our life,  took it’s toll on my family. My sister and I were unhappy.  We felt lost. We even started drifting away from each other.  My sister was never home.  She found solitude in boys,  friends,  parties,  drugs,  and alcohol. Anything to take away the pain.  By the time I was 14 my sister was moving out with a boyfriend.  She was 17. I had never felt so alone in my life.  She tried to see me,  but Dad didn’t want me around that life style. Little did anyone know I would eventually be doing the same exact thing. I soon had started high school, and it changed my life forever. Throughout high school I did every possible thing to try and be happy. I drank my self to sleep on countless occasions.  I took drugs I never knew existed.  Even though I wasn’t happy it masked the pain and loneliness I had. Around my family I was still the same girl, but at night when the lights went out in my house I was not the Sam my family knew.  To this day my family still doesn’t know the extent of things I had done, and they never will. No one will even know the person I was. When I was 16 I moved up north to live with my Mom. I was excited and nervous. I hadn’t lived with my Mom since I was five. I made a few friends dated a boy for a few months,  but still felt empty. The summer before my senior year my life changed.  For better or worse?  Not sure yet I’ll let you know. I met a boy.  He was unlike any boy I ever liked. He was good. He had these crystal blue eyes that when he smiled you couldn’t help, but smile too. His laugh was just like a little kids, he would giggle and his eyes would light up. When he gave you a hug after not seeing me for a few hours, I could feel that he missed me. We would lay in his bed for hours talking about our past, and the future we had together. He was the perfect guy. Tall, very attractive,  funny, smart, a football player, and the guy you are proud to introduce to your family. We were so happy, and so in love,  just like all good things. Somewhere things went wrong. I noticed we didn’t hold each other as much. When we hugged it was just a hug. We didn’t giggle as often.  And when he had his eyes were dull. I knew he was falling out of love. By this time I was living with him. Every day there was something we fought about. And since I was always there his frustrations were taken out on me. I am not making it out to be his fault or that he is the bad guy. Edward is an amazing man. We started to get into fights that led to break ups and make ups. On and on it was the same thing. I realized the way we used to feel about each other was gone. I knew we still loved each other, but we both had done things and said things that I’m not sure will ever be okay. Two years of my life with this boy. Which to some may not be long, but when you’re my age two years is forever. I gave him everything,  and now you’re supposed to walk away and move on. Figure out who you are without him.  How do people do that? How is it so easy to just pick someone new. Say I’m going to try and love someone the way I loved you. You share all your secrets all over. You get comfortable all over.  Then on top of that you have to imagine them doing the same thing as you. So when you start sharing your deepest secrets with someone else, it is safe to say so are they. No matter what the person you were once in love with is in the back of your mind.  The hardest part is knowing that moving on is possible. You say you can’t,  but everyone says that. If you really tried you probably could. You may have to force yourself, but it could happen.  All you want is someone to fight for you. Someone to beg you to stay, but that’s gone. You get to a point that even when you’re with them you’re just waiting for a goodbye. For the moment you’re forced to walk away. Maybe they both aren’t ready to walk away, but in the back of their minds they both feel like it is going to happen. Even when things are good you’re still feeling broken because you’re waiting for the next thing to go wrong.