Welcome to dark spectrum, a place where you will glimpse the darkest side of my writing… Writing that should never see the light of day. Writing that will never be published beyond this page. Writings that question a person’s value, self-worth, and the occasional traumatic experience. Some of these writings are dated from years ago, and some are more recent. They are entered in no particular order, except perhaps, when I found them in my old journals.

Leave your judgment behind you as you enter… Dark Spectrum.


Not for the faint heart or the weak mind.
If you’re under 18 please navigate from this page.
Thank you.

October 12, 2018

My Scars

Twisted, gnarled, hideous.
I hear their whispers.
They hiss and spit as they pass
my gruesome disfiguration.

I cringe as their words lash at me like whips,
I whimper as their words flay me like scalpels,
I cower in the corner consumed by darkness.

But I hear them, 
I feel them, I see them.
Their eyes, they penetrate the shadows that cloak me.

Spiteful words spring up like chains,
restraining, and suffocating.
Their cruelty controls me, 
forcing me into submission.

I cannot escape.

My gruesome disfiguration.
My wounds.

My scars,
are on the inside.
They can see me.

Beyond the facade.
They see me for what I am.


My scars are on the inside.

They can see me,
my scars.



Sunday, October 25, 2015

Who am I? What have I become?

When I hear certain songs, sometimes I tear up from the pain rushing over me, or from memories of my past. Usually, unhappy or disturbing memories that I would typically try to sweep under the rug. I never thought I was an emotional person until I became a sober person. And the harder I try to swallow my feelings, the worse it gets. The harder it becomes, the more emotional I become.

Sometimes I listen to depressing or meaningful songs so I can feel something. I wish I could stay consistently happy. I can’t stand how up and down my emotions are.

What’s wrong with me? Why do I feel this way? Why do I shut myself out and isolate myself from people that say they want to help me? Why don’t I trust anyone? Trying to figure out why I am the way I am. Is anyone else like me?

Recently, I was told that if I write out my thoughts and feelings, it will help me with how I feel, especially if something is bothering me. I usually keep it locked up inside until it drives me crazy. Up until recently, I was able to sweep things under the rug and ignore the problem. Or even run from it.  Now, I’m an emotional wreck because I bottled my feelings up for so long, and didn’t address the problems adequately.

I don’t know how to open up, but I want to. All my life, I’ve never been good enough. I was picked on and bullied from kindergarten until high school. I’ve always been called fat, ugly, or stupid. Any name in the book, I was called it. I was pushed around, beat up, spit on, food was thrown at me, burrs thrown in my hair. One boy used to hork in his hands, rub them together and then rub it all over my face and hair.  I was punched, kicked, slapped, sexually harassed, sexually assaulted, and raped.

Over the next couple weeks, I hope I can open up in these writings and become more comfortable in my own skin.

I want the feeling of being torn in two to disappear. I’m tired of feeling like two people, each one clawing their way to the surface. Fighting to take over. Sometimes I feel nice, sweet, happy, and energetic. Sometimes, I feel angry, dark, bitter, mysterious, sexual…

Sometimes I forget my name, age, and even the fact that I am a girl.

Sometimes, I’m confused by what I look like. I’m not sure why how I feel on the inside, doesn’t match how I look on the outside.

Every day is a learning experience. Every day is a struggle.

Unknown date


I always thought AA was enough. I never worked the program but thought to attend was enough. I never talked or socialized at meetings and thought that was enough. I always hid in the back, or off to one side and thought it was enough.

Meanwhile, I was doing what I had always done. I was and am still isolating myself from people who want to help me. I’ve built the wall back up that alcohol and drugs tore down. I’ve almost completely removed myself from the map, whereas before I would gallivant and show off my parties on social media.

For the last little while, I’ve been slipping under the radar. When I don’t want to be found, you will not find me. When I disappear, I’m gone. Those in my life know that every once in a while when I can’t take it anymore, I cease to exist.

Now I’m slowly realized that how I’ve been living is unhealthy. A man at the NA meeting said something to me about being socially awkward or something. Not directly, but saying he met a guy who had this issue as well.

Socially withdrawn?

It must be really obvious. I have such a difficult time opening up to people. Firstly, my list of drugs used is ridiculously long and gross. Secondly, I don’t know if I want to tell people that for most of my working life I was an adult entertainer. But maybe it would make me feel better if I told them something? I should work on the slogans. I should call someone from the meeting. After this long, being in AA and I’ve called one person. No wonder I’m not progressing. I need to call someone.

Unknown date

Patience and Suppression

Patience is a virtue they say. Patience is learned, and is an unnatural emotion?

I’m trying to work on my patience, but some people really piss me off. Some people rub me the wrong way so much so that I want to scream or break something.

Patience. I must have patience because I can’t physically harm someone or myself.

Suppression. The ability to swallow one’s feelings, OR sweep things under the rug. I vote for option number two, though on occasion, option one is a sweet treat.

The difference between suppression and patience must be noted. Patience is the ability to remain calm in a situation, think clearly, act reasonably, maturely, and not stress about outcomes or situations. Keywords, calm, relax, breathe, mellow.

Suppression: The most dangerous thing you can do to your mind, soul, spirit, etc.

When you are sad or upset, you need to talk about how you’re feeling, or take some kind of action, whether it’s an activity or reading, or even working out to make you feel better and help you deal with your ongoing situation.

When you suppress your feelings, it feels good for a while. You block your emotions and thought out, distract yourself from the situation, and go on living like it never happened like the problem doesn’t exist.

You can only go on this way for so long. Eventually, the thoughts creep back, whether in a dream, or flashback or even through conversation or a familiar song. It all catches up to you. It all comes back, with a vengeance. It haunts you. You feel overwhelmed by anxiety, shame, and guilt. The pain is 1000 times more than if you initially dealt with it.

The worse thing about suppression is that it stunts your recovery. You can never truly recover if you suppress your thoughts, feelings, and emotions. You are in the same position as you were while you were using, except now you’re sober and miserable. The moodiness and unhappiness sets in, driving you into depression or back to using.

Nothing has changed.

The difference between patience and suppression is that patience is required when dealing with ongoing situations, good or bad. Suppression prevents you from dealing with issues.

My conclusion is I must learn patience if I want to break the habit of suppression.

Unknown date

Today I realized, I have this trait called selective remembering… Or perhaps it’s a direct result of all the drugs I used.

Tuesday, October 27, 2015

Today, I am feeling frustrated, and angry. It bothers me that everything I complain about on here is simple and petty. I have no real problems such as no shelter, no food, no clothes, no money. I’m trying to figure out why I became so unhappy and caught up in the worse of it.

Something that upsets me from the Narcotics Anonymous pamphlet is this:
“We had to have drugs at all costs. We did many people great harm, but most of all we harmed ourselves.”

The number of people I fucked over, the number of people I disrespected, that I lied to, betrayed, hurt, embarrassed, treated like shit, that I took advantage of… Or even, that took advantage of me. I am disgusted by my former addict self. My relationships with so many people are destroyed or permanently damaged. If I see these people now, they would probably want to beat the fucking shit out of me, even though I’ve been sober for three years, and turned my life around.

Nothing excuses the things I did to them or how I acted in the past. Even if I apologized, I don’t think it would help. I’ve done too much. Hurt too many people. Fucked up too many lives. It’s something I regret more than anything, and I will have to live with for the rest of my life. I think about it every day. I am so disappointed by my actions. I hope I never go back to the way I was before.

Unknown date

Staying with them

When I stayed with them, I believe it affected my mental health and well-being negatively. I think it resurfaced memories I blocked out and distracted myself from with substance abuse. Being with them was hard for me in many ways. I didn’t feel welcome and felt like I wasn’t good enough. For example, I worked all day, and they couldn’t understand why I wouldn’t go out with them. I explained I was tired because I worked all day and they lost it on me. I don’t know why they were so… snappy. It made me feel like old times, back before, and they snapped at me then. I felt like they expected me to jump. They even threw in my face how they took care of my dogs one day.

Saturday, October 24, 2015

The Runner

It’s pretty sad when people in your life can take one good look at you and say, “Yep, she’s a runner.”
– The definition of runner doesn’t necessarily mean to run or to jog or to physically move at all even. It’s to emotionally run, to mentally run. When you’re stressed, afraid, overwhelmed, unsure of how to deal with issues, people, or conflict. To avoid confrontation at all costs and just be alone. In solitary.

In solitude, no one can bother you. You can do whatever you please, or how much of whatever you want, and there’s no one standing in your way. No one to interfere with your plans. No one to stop you and say, “you’ve had enough.” In solitude, you can have the freedom to take matters into your own hands, live your life the way you want, and do whatever the hell you want, as little or as much as you want. An addicts dream. But not necessarily a good thing. Probably a bad thing. Actually, I think that would be the worst thing for you.

It’s tough to not shut everyone out and to do my own thing. From experience I know, life becomes very lonely.

Addiction: My definition of addiction is when you do something in excess. A repeated act that is excessive or becoming uncontrolled, a habit.

Untitled 1 – July 30, 2018


“You’re fat,” I whisper. Staring into a pair of sad, pathetic eyes that emptily stare back. My eyes, my reflection. I step closer to the mirror until my breath fogs the glass. I can see my pupils. Looking dead into my own eyes, I whisper, “You are disgusting. You are a pig. Can’t you control yourself? Why did you eat so much?”

My eyes travel down my body’s reflection to my stomach. I lift my shirt and cringe at what I see. Fat. Fat. Fat. Why did I eat so much? I turn sideways, angry at my lack of self-control. It’s my fault I look like this, I did this to myself. I’m disgusting. Fucking cow.

My fingers grab skin, loose flabby skin. I suck in my stomach as hard as I can until my ribs jut out, and I can count them. Not skinny enough. Furious, I pinch at my skin, at my fat. Cursing myself for finishing my food.

“But you were hungry.”
“Shut up!”

I step back, my reflection submerging in shadows. I glare into the darkness, guilt eating at me. Pain and rage turned inward, fueling me for what I’m about to do next. I couldn’t control myself, and now I must pay.

Turning from the mirror, I stumble through the dark bathroom. I turn on the vanity light and begin rummaging through the drawer. I find my toothbrush then walk to the toilet. My heart flutters with excitement and dread as I kneel in front of the bowl and stare into it.  Is this a reward, or punishment? The hollow feeling I’ve grown accustomed to reminds me this is a punishment. It is always a punishment. I am unworthy of reward. Unworthy of praise. I’m disgusting. I’m fat. I’m – and I ram the toothbrush to the back of my throat, striking the thought down.

I gag silently, but nothing comes up. Fuck. I thrust it deeper, past my tonsils. It hurts but I swallow the pain as I gag again. My stomach clenches then heaves, but nothing comes again. Shit. I begin to ram the toothbrush as far as I can, desperately needing to empty my stomach.

Panic instills and labored breaths escape me. I need to throw up. I need to throw up. I need to. I have to. Oh God, please. My eyes burn as tears blur my vision. Please. I need to throw up. Fuck, please.

I push harder. Hanging over the seat, my face straining from the exertion. My stomach heaves again, and tears break, streaming down my cheeks. Please… I silently beg as I gag repeatedly – then sweat bliss captures me at last as nausea hits the bottom of my stomach.

I clutch the sides of the toilet and shake, the contents in my stomach emptying. Again and again. I gasp between each round, elation clouding my mind, but only for a moment.

I fall back onto my heels, my toothbrush clattering to the ground. My chest rises and falls as I stare blankly ahead. Was it enough? It was a struggle to get my food up tonight – I worry my toothbrush won’t be enough anymore. If it stops working, I’ll have to cut my portions to at least half the size… Or, I could try ipecac.

I ponder for a few more seconds then shakily climb to my feet. Returning to the vanity, I open the lower doors and pull out the digital scale I tucked away. I carefully set it on the ground, but before I weigh myself for the fifth time today, I strip off my clothes and stand in front of the mirror once again. Naked this time.

I can see every blemish, every imperfection. Every scar. I cringe with disgust, repulsed by the mess I see in front of me. My fingers trace stretch marks, traveling over my hip bone, then up to my stomach. Loose. Flabby. Wrinkly.

“You’re fucking ugly,” I tell my reflection. Turning left, I suck in my stomach and touch the dip under my ribs. It’s grown deeper after I threw up, more pronounced. A small smile tugs at the corners of my lips but quickly fades. I turn right, examining myself thoroughly. “Fat. Ugly. Bitch.” I whisper, tear tracks still glistening on my cheeks.

After several minutes of scrutiny and scolding myself for overeating, I step up to the scale. I take a deep breath. My heart races. It lights up, and I close my eyes as I position myself on it, then exhale all the air in my lungs with the hope that being clothless and airless, I will weigh less.

Beep. I open my eyes and look down. 112lbs. Not bad considering eight months ago, I was 220. But, I’m not happy about 112. I’m fucking furious because earlier today I weighed 111.8lbs.

My hands reach into my hair and devastated, I yank at it. You idiot. You fat idiot. My blood boils as I fight to suppress the urge to scream. It’s because of how much you ate at dinner… You dumb…

My mind races a mile a minute, and the world spins around me. I’m going to gain it all back. I going to go back to the way I was. I’m going to be over 200 again. Everyone is going to hate me. I’m going to hate me. God. No. No. No.

I pace the bathroom, panic strangling me. No… I can’t… I can’t do it… I can’t gain it back. Then it hits me. No dinner tomorrow, and no dinner on Wednesday. Thursday if I have to, Friday even. No dinner for the rest of the week just to be on the safe side…Perfect.










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