Long distance means nothing to me. 

When I was a child, I had a friend who lived in China.  I am not exactly sure what made us start being friends. I just know that nearly everyday I would try my hardest to stay up so that we could talk. With me being in America and 15, this was not always an easy feat. Still I considered this young man to be my brother. 

He was the kindest person I knew at the time. Even though we could only talk maybe 30 mins or so I still looked forward to our talks. 

Eventually I lost contact with him. I do not know the reason or even when we stopped talking, just that we did. 

I still think of him. He helped me through so much in life. 

I can only hope that he knows I still love him. He was the brother I did not get to keep. 

I love him so much. 

And miss him all the more.

Life as a Poster Child

Ever pay attention to those posters in your doctor’s office and say, “Glad that person isn’t me!”, Or , “Wow that’s sad, I should Facebook that”.

You never really stop to think if that person is truly like you. They could be talking about starving children in Africa, and all of a sudden you forget you are in that office due to an eating disorder, brought on from constant malnutrition as a child.

You forget it all because they seem worse off . You suddenly have your crap together, despite dying inside, because someone on that poster is suffering.

You will never see yourself as that child. Never see yourself hunched over in pain with overly watered eyes. Will never see yourself covered in bruises, crying in a dark corner as someone yells at you…again…

You will never see your scars as you stare at the poster of the child with scars on Their wrist.

You won’t see it because they are suffering more.

You will strive to get better, sure, but there is always someone out there that has it worse than you do.

It is like you invalidate what to have been through. Because you are…

It is easy to care about those poster kids. So why can’t we care about ourselves?

See, I am a poster child for mental health. Not the good kind but the one where the homeless kid in a beany (why are they always wearing beanies) is sitting on a bus stop (again why always a bus stop) looking at the people around them with vacant eyes. I am that girl ( cause it’s nearly always a female in these posters) who is homeless and clutching the hand of child. A child who may or may not be crying (usually not crying because that defeats the purpose of the unhappy mother. Always put lost mother next to somewhat better dressed and vacant eyed child. There lies the money-maker). 

Always surrounded by those who are better off.

In some shots she is smiling with her child and others they stand as if they are drones.

I am that poster child who is holding out a broken bowl for food

I am that child who covers their bandaged wrist.

I am that mother whom begs on the street corner for help.

I am them and I still believe that their suffering matter more than mine ever will.

I am a poster child who can’t help but view the posters of others and try to figure out the best ways to help them.

I know what my picture means, I will not ignore it, but at times I find myself forgetting all about it.
My suffering is no where equal to that of others.

My favorite poster to ignore is that of a single mom. Mainly cause there are not a lot of posters on the subject. At least not many attempting to seek help. 

Just success stories of those who rose up from the life given to them and raised children who is turn where successful. 

The “Thanks mom, Thanks dad” posters.

The ones littered around some community colleges.

They are there though, go, take a look. You are bound to find at least one or two posters, maybe just a pamphlet, stating something about single parents support-group. If you don’t find one I will make you a special gold star made of real gold and the tears of a very hangry dragon. A very hungry…very angry…dragon.

It is my favorite to ignore because I tell people that being a single parent isn’t that bad all the time. I tell them that I enjoy the solitude. That I am perfectly fine being single and alone. I like eating pizza with just a toddler. I hate going on dates anyways. That it eventually gets easier to tune out the most basic cartoon noises.

It is not that bad.

But it is.

It is that bad.

But I won’t tell anyone why. I won’t tell them that some days I go into my room and cry. How there are days when I washing the dishes and have to fight the urge to “accidentally” slice open my arm. I will never tell them of the days I resent my child. Of those times when I want to run away. See I can’t tell them that I go days without adult interaction and the reason I am so silent is because I forgot how to talk to people my age. I can’t tell them how my daughter is my best friend. They would think I was strange but she is the one person who has never left me. She has never abandoned me to the wolves and instead tells that I am the best person ever.

I talk to people online. They keep me insane more than they know.

If I died do you know how long my child would sit here alone? Days…maybe even weeks before someone started to worry about us. Even then it would be because I haven’t posted a video or picture of her.

I am the Poster child of a single mom.

But it is one I will greatly ignore. I will share pictures to the world about how single parenting can be fun. Every once in a while I will reach out for help.  Only rarely though.

I will lie to the best of them but am also willing to help others in the end. Other single mothers that is. The posters always meant more to me then my very own. I will seek help, I will not ignore, but I will invalidate my own poster for the better of others.

Cause I am the perfect poster child of a broken home.

Torch me 2017

First of all sorry for any and all errors you are about to see. It wasn’t my attention to offend. Truly, blame my middle and high school teachers. They are the ones who passed me with honors.

Hi, my name is Jessi. I am a 23-year-old single mom to one. My favorite all time hobbies are reading and writing. You wouldn’t know that though. Cause while I read peoples blogs I have the bad habit of not doing it faithfully. You may go weeks without hearing a thing from me only for one day get on and see a crap ton of likes and comments I have sent you.

Not really my fault, as my teachers used to say, I have the attention span of a dying flea. Something I probably shouldn’t be proud of but I am due to the fact that it was the only thing I remember him saying that year.

I can prove to you that I was well hated by him.

I am a mom. Not one of “those” moms, not see I am just a mom. I am the type who floats around knowing full well that I am making all the mistakes.

I hover and I smother. I cried over silly things and get mad over broken crayons. I am a mom. I do not write nom blogs pretending to be perfect. Not like there is anything wrong with that but it isn’t me. My daughter is my heart, soul, and reason to live. My she is not the reason I live.

I am religious though it doesn’t seem so. I guess I would identify as Christian even though I spent most of my life as Pagan.

I don’t follow a set path, I just love to learn. I like knowing trivial stuff. I wouldn’t say I am smart though, no, just more inclined to remember the stupid things in life.

I love music and to sing. But I can’t sing and my ability to remember lyrics is extremely lacking. Yet I passed every music class I have ever taken.

I was the kind of teen who took all the random classes and yet failed pretty much every required course there was. Mainly cause I was bored and rarely cause I just didn’t understand. Useless trivia remember?!

I am 23 years old. Not much to say about that. I mean I managed to accomplish the one thing everyone else reading this was…being born.
I am writing this because this past year has been eventful.
A full year of me sticking to with this blog. An actual year even though I made this nearly three years ago. I did it.
My goal was to reach 200 followers. I failed in that goal but came to find that the number of followers doesn’t matter if no one is willing to commit to say if they liked or disliked something. If they are not willing to review then what is the point to it all? Basically preaching to an empty classroom.

So followers no longer matter. I still love it when I get one though. I love it even more when they stop by to tell me how they feel. It makes me happy when people express their reactions to me.
So that goal wasn’t met but that’s ok. Live and let learn right!

My newest goal is to keep writing. To live for me. To write what I want to write and not what others feel is best. I write trauma. I make people sad and I break their hearts. I force them to think. Sure it hurts but it opens minds and lets eyes see.
This year I will be me.

Bless me

I say words I don’t mean

I hold on to things that no longer bring me joy

I try to taste the past out of reach




Better days.

Bless me cause I can’t breathe

Keep striving for different things

But matter will never change

Bless me and hope for better days.

I love to write but it doesn’t mean that it is always going to sound good.

Not everything I write will win a reward. Some things will be damn near cringe worthy. Still…I write.

I write because it brings me joy. I write because it is the one gift I have to pass on to my baby girl.

I write to make you think and feel.

I write because it is the only way to show I am here.

Forgive me, don’t forget me


Photo from the Video Winter Song by Sarah and Ingrid.

I had a friend, a wonderful friend. One who I did so much with. We lived together for awhile. But I got sick..mentally sick. I tried to kill myself. I tried to make her hate me by having her save me. I put to much pressure on her. I expected her to heal me when she had her on stuff going on.

I just wanted to die so bad.

I was never in the right state of mind. When we met I was contemplating the best way to do “IT”
After a few years she stopped talking to me suddenly.

It was random. I remember that last message I sent her was asking for her to forgive me. I had funny done it. I had finally cut my wrist. It wasn’t deep  enough though. It was to shallow. I survived. To much of a coward to try again once I was free from the hospital. The damage was done though.
She was gone.
I have spoken to her twice since then. Went to visit her. So much had changed when I had not.
I talked to her one more time before she decided enough was enough.
She hates me now.
Not as much as I hate myself.

I can’t forgive myself for what happened.
In the end I am not mad at her anymore. I have forgiven her for not being strong enough to tell me to stop. That I was going to far. I forgive her for ignoring me. I haven’t forgiven myself for hurting her. I wish she would forgive me as well.

She probably never will.
I will probably never have my best friend back.


image*****Warning please be advised this post deals with some heavy stuff. Please read no further if you are unable to handle different forms of abuse…*****












I have tried so hard to forget. To move past everything that has happened in my life.
I was born unhappy it seems, born into a world I never felt ready for. I lived with my mother for the first few years of my life. Going from place to place once I turned five. Sometimes with my mother and sometimes without. We where always running from something.  Running from being homeless and poor. Always one step away from losing it all. My mother was good at hiding the fact that we didn’t have much of anything. I don’t remember the struggle. Even now with looking back I don’t see anything but happiness growing up with her. As a child I did go through a lot of hardships. At the age of four I was forced to witness my mother be hurt by a man for the first time. That was when my lack of faith started. I remember it as much as a four-year old can. My mother was sexually abused as me and my sister were forced to sit there. Years would past and my memories of what happen would morph to were I felt I was to blame. That I was weak because I could not protect my mother or sister. Even when I am my sister were hurt ourselves I blamed myself. I was the one who should have been strong enough to defeat the darkness. By this time I was 8 years old. My sister had confided in me what happened to her and I had let her know that it had happened to me as well. I told her I would deal with it. It would be months before I would even tell my mother what had happened. I never had faith in adults or God. While I pretended to have faith in those around me and my church. I mainly did it because it was required of me. I said what needed to be said and I did what needed to be done to appease everyone. All the while hiding my true self. That I was suffering, that I was taking on more than an 8 year old should.

I was molested twice before I said anything.

At the age of 9 I was taken away from my mother. I had my 10 birthday in a children home. It was then that I told everyone what happened to me and my sister. Not many people believed us though.