trapped on the fringes?

Last night, I dreamed of a fiery dragon. He was my last hope and for puzzling reasons, I woke up confounded about the dichotomy of predestination and free will. Since I lost Molly, my spirituality has become contingent on neurotic superstitions and a terrifying loss of any illusion of power over my future, a future that is bound to be much, much harder than I ever anticipated. I am impotent against a Universe that deals me damaging blow after blow — I have been fighting fate, and I have lost.

“It wasn’t meant to be,” my mother told me, referring to my ability to have children.

And I am spiraling, and I have no control, not even over the basic biological processes that are created in my own body and that most woman have the luxury of taking for granted. My eggs are but dusty vestiges of a reproductive process I imagine was once robust with all my youthful folly. I wasted so much time, jumping from one dead end relationship to another before marrying my soulmate at 34 and it was already too late for hoping.

I had a relaxing Thanksgiving; it was just the two of us. Geoff made a delicious traditional meal, we listened to one of Leonard Cohen’s more mellow and melodic albums all day, had obligatory phone calls with our geographically distant families and it was so insanely good to just feel a little okay for once. The days that followed, however, were full of desperate anxiety and panic attacks that came over and over in relentless waves as for the first time since our tfmr, I saw old friends.

I sense it may be possible to slip back into my old life like nothing had ever happened, but the fact remains that a huge chunk of the woman I used to be is gone. All my hope, optimism, faith in humanity, and easy empathy — those once vital attributes have atrophied and become necrotic. I may have waited too long; I may never get that part of myself back and I’m not sure if I can fake it. Recurrent pregnancy loss has changed me and not for the better.

And these friends, who despite everything I love dearly, have really hurt me. Their disappearance at a time we needed the support so badly…well, it has been a sting from which I’ve not fully recovered and their sudden renewed presence in our lives seems reliant on our being “back to normal”.

So I lie here wondering if I’ll manage to get out of bed today, momentarily relieved of the social obligations of another hell-ish holiday season without my babies and I’m fairly relaxed compared to the way I felt this past weekend and I have no idea how I’ve managed to keep going but no matter how hard I try I can’t just let it go…


jersey barrier

The sun doesn’t come up anymore; it is winter in Western Washington and I’ve increased my dose of vitamin D as per doctor’s suggestion. She didn’t check my levels, just said practically everyone she sees in our rainy climate is deficient so I should go ahead and take more. Maybe it will help with my depression, which is crushing and inescapable and I believe is at least partially artificial, an unfortunate fact of my body’s response to Femara — another issue is, of course, my grappling with giving up hope for a family of my own. I don’t feel like my moods are doing their bipolar cycling thing; I don’t think med adjustments will save me from the gravity of my feelings about childlessness.

I’m tired of fighting, of waking up and abruptly finding myself in a state of vigilance against possible heartache, my nerve endings already singing battle hymns as I descend into hypersensitivity. I check the news and am frustrated with those in power, but mostly I don’t understand why under an insightful analysis of ethnic cleansing in Myanmar there has to be an announcement that Chrissy Teigan is pregnant — like, does anyone care? I understand she has struggled with infertility but I don’t really know the specifics, or, indeed, who she actually is and what she’s contributed to the arts (I don’t own a TV and am largely indifferent to pop culture in my old age). I hate pregnancy announcements and find they are the most triggery thing I am regularly exposed to, and maybe she’s dabbled with assisted reproductive technology…all I know is she’s on number two and my broke ass is still on zero.

Oh god, I’ve witnessed so many miracles and I’m just left wondering, “Where’s mine?”. Ugh, enough of the self-pity. Once I get started, it never ends. And I’m 7dpo, I know it’s early but I already know in my bones that I’m, once again, not pregnant. 

In December of 2014, I found out I was pregnant with Molly. I remember so clearly. I had sent Geoff to our favorite restaurant, a Mongolian grill where you assemble a meal and then they cook it, for takeout. He knew what ingredients I liked, I had the same thing every time…shrimp, scallops, broccoli, the sauce designated “sweet”, etc….unfortunately, the restaurant owner had decided to offer more exotic options that day, and my dear husband who refuses to invest in prescription eyeglasses and instead buys reading glasses from the dollar store mistook octopus for my scallops and attempted to feed it to me (I am not an adventurous eater). I didn’t even eat any, but I threw up for about a week from disgust before wondering if my distressed response was perhaps some sort of biological overreaction. Sure enough, it was morning sickness. We got our first BFP.

I was so fucking happy. We had only tried once. I honestly thought we were having a baby, that I must be pretty fucking fertile. Eighteen wonderful weeks, ending in despair like I’d never imagined, having to have a fucking second trimester abortion for fatal chromosomal defects. She would be two by now but instead my arms are empty and I’m ready to quit . It’s just a fluke, said the perinatologist, said the genetic counselor. It’s very unlikely it will ever happen again. Uh huh, right.

I remember how happy my dad was when I told him we were expecting. How he was already making plans to come out and see me And Geoff and baby, who was due in September. And I remember my mom not being happy at all, and me not even caring. And now I think nothing good will ever happen again. What will I do? Next summer at 40 years old, then at 50, at 60? What will I do?

Infertility stories are supposed to have happy endings, or, at least, they seem to have them for most of the people I’ve communicated with over the years. They are supposed to tell of perseverance and determination, of overcoming all odds, of blessings from above. My story ends in pain and suffering that will never go away. My head throbs and I find myself reluctant to eat and take my meds, shivering with anxiety as panic grips me by the shoulders. I pull my little cat close — I am very very sick today. I reach for some candy, and for the Restoril. I just want to feel better. Maybe tomorrow I will.

trick or treat 

I wouldn’t talk to my mother for about a month after I terminated our first pregnancy. She wanted me to have an abortion right off the bat, and hadn’t been supportive of the pregnancy in the first place. I don’t want you to get too excited, she said carefully after I announced I was expecting, at twelve weeks. She didn’t elaborate, and I suppose I should be grateful she didn’t go into the details of whatever the fuck her problem was at the time. I mean, I guess she was right. Although I was blissfully unaware, Molly was doomed from the start.

She called me today. It’s Halloween, and I’m sure she forgot that it marked one year since my first miscarriage. It was the second baby I really thought I’d get to hold one day–I suppose it was naive of me to think that since I’d gone through the indescribable pain of ending a wanted pregnancy in the second trimester, and subsequently suffered 14 cycles of infertility (but they told me Molly’s chromosomal abnormalities were just a fluke!), that I was finally going to catch a break. So I spent the day swinging from the depths of protracted grief to the obsessive distraction of watching for new headlines about political happenings. Halloween used to mean something else to me, my family…thirty-nine years ago, I was adopted and delivered to my patient new family, arriving stateside at JFK International and being delivered by courier to the expectant arms of my forever mother and father, my ecstatic and wonderful maternal grandparents, me, at three months old. So, I let fat tears slide down my cheeks as my mom described her first few moments with her first child. Even though she was talking about me, I felt the sting of bitterness hearing of a joy I’ll never experience.

The nuances of the suffering of infertile couples are lost on my mother, my mother that has breathed a very audible sigh of relief every time I’ve lost a baby. You don’t need a baby. Just worry about you, she tells me, in harsh tones I find completely inexplicable. Only they’re not inexplicable at all; my mom thinks I am too sick to raise a child. She’s seen me at my worst — I must have been, what, 24 years old? when we had our last of the horrible visits before antipsychotics saved my life. They had given me some new med, Serzone (I don’t think it’s on the market anymore, was an antidepressant), and I, true to form, had a weird reaction to it. In short, it made me walk over and over in small circles, endless tortured circles, and I could not on my own volition stop walking in circles–pretty crazy, huh? I think she finally accepted my illness at that visit, and now in her mind, I’m nothing but a mental patient. 

So I didn’t mention the miscarriage anniversary, I didn’t let on I was shaking and crying my eyes out all day, I didn’t mention that despite getting a full night’s sleep, I feel hypomanic AF. I let my mom have her happy memory, told my oblivious father for yet another year that yes, I’m grateful that I did not grow up eating trash on the streets of Seoul, blind as a bat with teeth growing out my ears (my extreme nearsightedness and orthodontic misery have cost him a pretty penny over the years–ah, the narrative of the great white savior that plagues interracial/ international adoptees through their lifetime!) I indulge him; he honestly doesn’t know any better. I let my loving but neurotic parents relive a blessing I’ll never have with my own husband.

It occurs to me that I should take my meds. Three years ago, I was in pretty good shape to accept the challenges of new motherhood, but I have to restate: now, I am fucking damaged. I hung the sign the apartment management thoughtfully provided requesting trick or treaters to move on to the next unit on the front door. I cannot look at children and their proud parents tonight, maybe not any night, maybe not any night for the rest of my life. I crawled into my bed, which has pretty much become my world, swallowed my pills and turned on my heating pad. I pulled the blankets up to my chin and closed my eyes. Bring on the nightmares, I said to myself. They can’t be as bad as this.

part one.

I am dimly aware that it is Sunday and I can’t find the people I love. I kind of think my mind is cracking, I kind of think it’s finally happened, that my worst fears have come to pass and I am flailing as I remember distant scenes from a distant life, times that just had to be better than now but somehow weren’t, a tapestry of tragedy that I wear like a cloak and let shine out my eyes…

  1. A child with wild black hair, sitting bolt upright and alert in bed. It is 4am, she’s already cleaned every surface, the room is sweet with lemon Pledge. She’s rearranged the furniture, small body straining to switch the desk around with the bed, it scraped across the hard wood floor and swished across the carpet and now that it’s done the room is full of people. In the afternoon, the girl’s parents will stuff her into the back of a rickety 1970s Mercedes as she screams and carries on; helpless against their superior strength, she will watch the asphalt rush by below through the holes in the car’s floor and the doctor will explain again that the girl’s whole problem is that she hates her mother for not being her “real mother” and her mother will cry and the girl will hear a hundred voices raised with laughter, and they will go home, the girl will sleep through the night, eight hours, ten hours, she never wants to be awake again…
  2. A teenage girl holding tight to her grandmother who is swaying unsteadily, the girl thin and insubstantial herself, wearing a vintage black and white sweater dress in the heat of June, frantically glancing around a familiar church filled with familiar people, some sitting hushed in pews, some standing at the back fanning themselves with printed programs, some sniffling and teary-eyed; the girl is in a panic, not knowing quite what is going on as the minister and various speakers drone on and her mother weeps openly, and suddenly the girl is remembering the final beep beep beep of machines as her sister’s last death rattle echoed through nightmares she’s yet to dream, and the organ plays, the girl finally gets out to smoke a cigarette and she’s not sure if she’ll make it back in or back anywhere and as she looks around confused again she realizes as her family gathers around that despite what they are telling her now she will be on her own for a long long while …
  3. A young girl gasping for air and dying on an ambulance to Cleveland as the medic calls her “stupid” and wonders aloud how she could have done it, swallowed a bottle of Tylenol and then gone about her day, her next day, her third day until she became so ill she had to tell them all just how stupid she was, and now she is leaving her fancy-schmancy private college behind forever, like she ever belonged there, like she was ever one of them..

    The scenes flit through my brain, 11dpo, bfn, and these are the worst days I’ve lived through but somehow the memories of entering adulthood challenge that assertion and I am sad and miserable and I’m not sure I can even do one more cycle. All I see stretched out before me is a lifetime of just a continuing lonely existing, no goals, no lights, nothing to look forward to, and last night I cried to my husband that I didn’t think I could take any more Femara ever again and through the fog I thought of everyone that has left me behind; I can never be happy for them and bitterness is a heavy weight in the daytime. I’m aware, as my uterus tingles in its definitive way that signals the onset of AF, that I am suddenly sick again…I will make appointments and change medications around again and again and cross my fingers that I will again find equilibrium, the most ambitious thing I dare hope for, and as the sun brightens the sky my husband tells me to take my anxiety pill and rest, rest, all I do is rest, but the cobwebs are gathering again so I listen. Tuesday marks one year since my first miscarriage, two days later is the EDD of miscarriage number two so I focus on getting through the week.

    lunchtime blues

    I am tired, so tired. The sun gets through the spaces in the blinds, through the gaping holes between the slats that my little cat has graciously provided by crashing through them the minute we brought him home from the rescue. Outside I hear children laughing, oh, why aren’t they at school? I put my head down on the pillows flattened by too much time but it’s noon and I can’t block out the hustle of ordinary people doing regular daytime things; my eyes keep flying open and my body starts humming humming, my limbs are too unwieldy and straight ahead is that inexorable clock…

    Panic has woven itself into the tapestry of my everydays. Sometimes I ride it out but sometimes I cannot bear it and I have pills to help it recede. Still, I am never really calm and I’ve given up on that meditation class for the mentally ill because I usually spend the hour gripping my upper legs until red welts form, fighting the urgent impulse to bolt out the door. Walking helps as long as I never stop. I walk until my legs are weak but that often takes hours and lately I am too fearful to even step out onto the patio to put out squirrel feed…oftentimes I see them when I’m preparing lunch, standing upright and maintaining eye contact as they silently beg for nuts. I crack the sliding door, toss them their treats and take comfort in their trust of me. I have a moment of dull remembrance — I could take a pregnancy test, but I’d rather not spoil the afternoon, not while I’m already feeling pretty jacked up. People tell me about hope like it’s a good thing; I’ve stopped listening to their lies.


    I can’t even remember what my days were like before my first pregnancy loss and subsequent journey into infertility, but I know I was happy. Geoff and I were newlyweds, broke but all smiles and living in a tiny, scrappy apartment with our beloved and sedate cat Bandit (R.I.P)…

    I was 36, so AMA already, but barely…that’s what they told me, at least.

    I had been working with my psychiatrist over the past year to adjust my psychotropic medications to levels that were safe for pregnancy. It was a tough experience — most notably, withdrawing from a large dose of my central medication (for the mental health warriors out there, I’ll specify that the med I’m referring to is the atypical antipsychotic Geodon) unmasked a serious side effect called tardive dyskinesia, where you cannot volitionally control movements of whatever muscles it affects. In my case, I came to realize that I could not stop my toes from wiggling ever, and that simple repetitive movement led to intense muscle pain so it became very hard for me to walk without limping. Still, I was sunnily optimistic about our future, even declining treatment for my aching feet because I knew the suffering would be worth every second.. We were getting our finances together, Geoff had a secure job he enjoyed, and I spent time…doing what?

    It was a lifetime ago. I cannot remember what I did all day before my descent into grief and infertility. I probably wrote a lot, I remember feeling my motivation levels go up with the reduction of my medication dosages. I’m pretty sure I had friends, I know I went to recovery events and meetings. I’d pop on Facebook now and then but I certainly didn’t let hours fall into the black hole of Internet support forums. I believe I did a lot of shopping; perhaps I was experiencing a touch of hypomania or maybe I just cared about clothing and shoes to a degree I now find puzzling, seeing as I now have little concern about my appearance and usually only get dressed for my weekly psychotherapy and our weekend trip to the Goodwill, during which I feel dull and not present and intimidated by other shoppers. I simply purchase things I imagine I would have liked in my former life and end up throwing the stuff into piles in the room I still think of as Molly’s room.

    I wrack my brain for more memories. What was important to me back then? How did I fill my days? And, most importantly…is it possible to get back to that sort of life?

    I don’t think it’ll happen. I see the damage in my own eyes when I look in the mirror, the furrows around my lips and eyes. I tacked a sign up in my room that said, “Un-fuck yourself!” but I took it down immediately because I realized it was too late. I’ve been operating under this delusion that in order to heal, I have to have a healthy baby, that’s what everybody else does…and now I have to accept that that particular path is not an option for a woman in my position. I have to blaze a different trail, and I feel like this has to be done alone.

    Sometimes I’m not even sure how to reach out to Geoff anymore, although I’ll still assert he is the one I love best. The good days I remember through layers of dense fog…I will never get them back, and I have to prepare to mourn the loss of my innocence. 

    I really thought I would have a baby. I really and truly thought that, and I hate myself a little for that.

    the moments count even if they’re lonely 

    It’s my second day of feeling rather okay. I still have moments where I cannot suppress that creeping anxiety that has plagued me since I lost my first baby; I still have the occasional five minute spell of sorrow and grief. Yet optimism has returned, no, not optimism about the outcome of this old-fashioned way disaster of this cycle or the outcome of any cycle to come, but I have stumbled upon this sort of faith that someday, I may actually feel better. 

    I’ve spoken to a few women over the past year who have abandoned hope of a healthy baby and moved on…most of whom are still, to be frank, absolutely miserable and isolated. I know that as I move on to grieve the loss of my fertility, the loss of three babies and accept the soul-crushing unfairness that bad things happen to okay people…well, it will be a rough road and through the next few years I will most likely experience the magnified bitterness, the paralyzing anger, and the profound sadness of repeated loss. I will have to steel myself for heartache and a lifetime of seeing happy mamas and their children (I hate when people dismiss my grief and anger at the Universe as jealousy — jealousy is the thing I feel when my friends brag about their Proenza Schuler handbags or smile their way into an upgrade from coach to first-class, a talent that I used to have in spades before I transformed into a middle aged lady). But I am strong enough to survive, even as I lie in bed disabled from psychiatric symptoms that most of the world never has to feel. 

    I did just pop my rescue med, a tiny green and white capsule to take the edge off my panic attacks. So I may be feeling more magnanimous towards the world than I would naturally, and I could wake up tomorrow full of rage and terror and self-pity. I’ll take the brief reprieve, for now. Moments of “feeling okay” are really all I have, but maybe someday the moments will become hours, and hours could stretch out into days, and maybe I’ll never be able to reverse the damage that’s been inflicted on me over the last three years but I can learn to live with it and find, dare I say, a place of healing and peace.

    I’m trying to reach out in unlikely places. I don’t really have friends anymore and only feel safe with my husband. I make people too uncomfortable…no, nobody wants to hear about life with a psychotic disorder, no one knows how to respond when I mention my dead babies, and no one gets my jokes about how crazy I was when I was addicted to cocaine. I’ve become too intense and steely-eyed and have lost my flair for basic niceties. Honestly, I think I make people feel guilty about any good fortune they may have stumbled upon. I torture myself looking on Facebook at pictures of who? My childhood best friend who I ignored completely when she informed me she was living in Portland years ago, a mere two hour jaunt down the freeway. She’s got two beautiful boys now and recently won, I shit you not, $15 million on a scratch ticket so wtf am I supposed to say to her?? I see my old next door neighbor, who messaged me after I publicized my former blog about the second tri abortion of a very wanted pregnancy, confessing she’d had an early miscarriage in between her two living children and is now blissfully knocked up with #3 at 39. And me, where am I, with all my wasted potential, having come off the rails after my sister died right before my high school graduation which culminated in my psychotic break my freshman year of college? Yeah, I pulled it together, but I did a lot of damage to my body and friendships, and now it just seems irreparable. I want new people…

    But my social skills are crap.

    on a precipice over what?

    I need so desperately to get out of my head. Sometimes I wake up scared and panicked already, breathing hard and fast with my heart pounding like a drum; I wake up and everything hits me and on mornings like that I don’t stand a chance, the day is shot, and I wake my husband because he’s the only person I’ve ever met who can calm me down.

    Having resolved in my last deleted post  (sorry for the drama) to avoid infertility forums, oh, all those women and all that hope…I find it difficult to lock others away from me. All the friends I’ve made have receded into dull memories, perhaps our friendships served their purpose and faded away as I became angrier and less able to hide it. I wish them healthy successful pregnancies but I cannot travel that path with them any longer, as their bfps hit me like a sucker punch to the gut. I miss some of them, have grown to loathe others. I know I cannot form anymore attachments, whether I love or despise the women because I am out of hope and their endless parade of pregnancy announcements creep into my consciousness despite my efforts to avoid being blindsided by pictures of double pink lines…they show up when I am careless about protecting my heart. Sometimes I wonder if I’ve evolved into a girl without empathy and as someone who has only managed to survive by abandoning my own selfish motives — oh, help me, I’m in an especially bad place.

    Its Monday, and I start getting nervous on Monday about my weekly Tuesday morning psychotherapy session. My therapist has made some truly insensitive comments that have haunted me for weeks. I’m never sure if I can sleep the night before therapy and I know something’s gotta give and fear I’m not tough enough.

    No attachments. I can’t afford a single one. Sever all ties, stand proud and alone. I’m still a survivor. 

    Again, I stand before you damaged. I think I’m 5 dpo, but our timing this month was lacking so I’ll ride out this cycle and wait for the usual unrelenting blood. One more Femara cycle with a dose increase to 5 mg…if I survive that, I think I’m done.

    the baddest days

    These days, I am extremely fragile. Free from madness for over a decade, I’ve somehow failed to find new trust in my unstable mind. Memories of the Bad Years haunt me, a tiny voice whispers at me, “Remember who you are.” A skinny beauty, weak and occasionally violent towards myself, arms dripping blood as reality swirled around me, dizzy from the pictures and screaming that I would be the one to rescue the latest band of medics from the end of days. A filthy-faced girl huddled in a cupboard as disembodied voices screamed at me that my mom would kill me if she had a chance, unrelenting paranoia and hallucinations, emerging only occasionally to see my caseworker, who sat my psychotic ass down in a ramshackle building downtown and grew impatient as she tried for the hundredth time to explain what a Medicaid spenddown was to a girl not even aware she was on a different plane …

    Besides being a broke(n) infertile woman, I also have a psychotic disorder. I am bipolar I, and I hear voices whether I’m in the grips of a mood episode or not, making me schizoaffective, bipolar type. Does that frighten you? I’ve heard them all my life; I can’t imagine what it feels like to live in quiet like most of you. I function despite the noise, although within gentle parameters. I cannot hold a job without the madness creeping in, I have to avoid stress whenever possible. But now, with medication and unending talk therapy (which I am fortunate to have access too, and am fortunate that medication works for me because it doesn’t always help everybody), you’d probably not peg me a a psychotic woman. High strung, fuck yeah. You may see I lack basic social skills, I have a difficult time making meaningful friendships or maintaining them–I often disappear for years. But today, at thirty-nine, you’d see my anxiety and maybe witness a panic attack and see me cry, but you would not see a girl who used to get handcuffed by police and dragged off to the Crisis Unit in the ER of our local charity hospital…

    She’s still in there but for now is quiet. I remember the perinatologist explaining Molly’s defects to us as I tearfully clutched my stomach. I thought it would break me, that maybe my brain would need a vacation from the incredible pain and the people that weren’t real would come back and whisk me off to madness again. I imagined my frantic husband waking to find me gone, getting in the car only to find me on a street corner shouting that I was chosen to save all of you from eternal damnation and then I’d maybe black out and find myself in four point restraints in some hospital and I’d be sick, really sick, and Geoff would go away forever. 

    None of that happened. I’m not sleeping, leaving my house, or answering my phone but reality is intact even if it’s not good enough right now…mostly, I am very sad and angry, but I am right here.

    And I am okay.

    randomness and existential crisis

    The rain is back and resolve stiffens my spine — I will not let another summer fall into the sucking hole in my life that is infertility, not when summer days in the PNW are so few and precious. I still dream of life elsewhere, somewhere sunny and warm and closer to family, but I lack confidence as I face the looming threat of slashes to Medicare funding. We continue on here, broken and isolated and desperate for healing.

    What is healing, what does it look like when you’re as sick as I am? 

    I remember seeing my first therapist; I must’ve been in the third grade or something. My mom arranged to have my best friend’s older sister watch my younger sister, so the whole school ended up knowing there was something wrong with me — I was crazy under my mask of timidity and fearfulness. My moods and tantrums baffled my parents and I never slept, and I had an overactive imagination to explain the fact that sometimes I heard and saw things that no one else could see or hear. I was only vaguely aware that there was something different about me, I was doing well in school.  It was the eighties and childhood onset mental illness wasn’t a thing that was recognized by mental health professionals. They said I had abandonment issues because I was adopted. Even I believed them. My poor mother was permanently traumatized, to this day convinced that this is all her fault.

    There was a lot stacked against me, and things got worse after my sister died. I struggled with addiction, I went on meds. Therapists paraded through my life, both caring providers and toxic wannabe do-gooders that should have never been allowed to practice, until finally I found someone that could help me. I was so unhinged but I fought like hell, found people to connect with in a meaningful fashion, and got my disease into remission in my late twenties. I thought I, too, could have a normal life, the sort of life I believe most people deserve. Then I met Geoff, who is amazing, and we lost Molly and spiralled into grief. And then the sickness came back. And I don’t know what to do.

    It’s different now. My brain isn’t cycling through moods, my psychosis is as controlled as it can be. But here I am, shellshocked not just from my pregnancy termination, miscarriages, and infertility but from life and its infinite randomness, by the knowledge that lightning can strike arbitrarily and there’s nothing you can do to prepare for it. Children can be stricken with severe mental illness or they can die of cancer, babies can have their chromosomes put together all wrong, and the ones they leave as living witnesses will suffer. So I live my days in terror. I pray to no one that I’m wrong about the nonexistence of God. I do anything I can to ward off bad luck. And I never leave my house.



    me right now and I’m adorable.

    CD 16, so not in the mood. Overslept, missed my chance with Geoff. UGH.