All my life, I was told how I was like you. I saw little similarity, but suffered the speakers patiently, as one would children who believe their thoughts are original. My clothes are styled exactly like yours. Our mother brushes our hair into the same bouncing hairstyle. We even tie our shoes the same way.
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Sometimes, all it takes is one little hit to the head to screw up your whole day. I know some of you know bits and pieces of this story, and some of you think you know more than you really do. Some of you have no idea this was a thing. I’m writing about it
Why, with everything that exists out there, am I writing my blog? Why not let some other authors write, as I silently watch and hide in peaceful obscurity? I write because I need to touch on some things for myself. I write, because I need to grow, and to share. I write, because hiding, and
You know that point you reach, when you’ve thought yourself into a corner, and you can’t get out? Anxiety, re-play, flashbacks, paranoia; they all make us do it sometimes. I call this “thinking your way into a paper bag.” Yesterday, two of my friends thought themselves into tears, via flashbacks and anxiety. It left me
