Family: By Meth

To tell this story, it will help to know the basic background of my family history. We are all well-to-do people with humbling jobs: my mother is a business owner, my father a body man for the city, my brother is a journeyman within the ironworks business, and I am a teacher. As the family branches out on my mother’s side, the humbleness varies from person to person, but we remain a family.

This is not a story demeaning those who use, shaming those with addiction, or even a story that paints an unrealistic dramatized version of the truth. This is real.

This story is about a family torn apart by meth.

No one is born addicted to drugs. Through a series of choices, a possible genetic predisposition to addiction, trauma both emotional and physical, and struggles with mental health, some look to state-altering substances to ease the pain or just enjoy the high. And ever since my uncle was young, he engaged in high-risk behaviors. By the time he was thirty, he had his license revoked after a near-fatal drunk driving accident, served jail time on multiple occasions, and eventually found himself on the path to meth addiction.

Years later, we are still seeing the effects of this, but it wasn’t until recently that things spun out of control, leaving his three sisters–one of which is my mother–, nieces and nephews, and other loved ones scrambling to find a way to help him.



Winsome….is not me this morning

If you have ever seen any movie ever, people wake up on a Saturday with beautiful curled hair and a full face of “natural makeup” so they can leave their viewers with the impression that they are just as aesthetically pleasing as they were when they went to bed. However, we all know this isn’t true.

I woke up this morning with hair stuck to the side of my face, some in my mouth even–apparently, I have a cold, so I am now a mouthbreather. I didn’t take off my makeup last night, so I’m lookin a little raccoon-like, but for some reason, I’m strangely confident in my appearance this morning. Despite the fact that I know I look a little rough, there is still a spark in my that says I can kick this day’s ass.

I know this might seem off topic of “winsome”, as it is mainly about things that are attractive in appearance, but my goal is to let people know that just because you might not wake up with a winsome glow and rosy red cheeks, doesn’t mean that you still can’t bask in the glory of a good night’s sleep.

No one looks good in the morning, unless you didn’t go to sleep. The absence of winsomeness=good sleep, or I least I hope so.


Here’s proof: You winsome, or you lose some (had to do it.)image

Go and live winsome lives, take pictures, and document even the unattractive moments, because in those moments, you gain something beautiful


via Daily Prompt: Winsome

Educational Philosophies-Retired Skills

Access to relevant resources changes everything. Some people may hold onto the idea that everyone should have the skill to find information using the resources team B was given, but the less relevant those materials become, the less we need to know how to use them. The skill itself doesn’t go away, it just changes in appearance. Research is research regardless of the medium presented. Research is the skill, an encyclopedia is the object in which that skill is applied. If anything, researching as a skill has become more complex than it ever has been before, requiring more in-depth teaching and equal access to aid in the opportunity to learn it well.


What would they say?

I just finished watching a Buzzfeed video, Reading a Stranger’s Diary, and I couldn’t help but be intrigued. This woman purchased a stranger’s diary and read through her life. While the words written seemed nothing more than mundane, the woman blogging the diary and her reactions to it became connected to the woman through the diary itself. She went on this journey with her, shared moments with her, and went on this emotional rollercoaster. It made me wonder about my own diaries. If someone got a hold of them, what would they say?

Truthfully, my diaries don’t ever talk about positive things. When I’m happy, I don’t usually write because I either don’t want to ruin a good thing, as my superstition has proved that once bragging about the good, the good goes away; or I was just so happy to be happy that I had to dwell in the moment of joy, which is something that for the longest time, I never felt.

Having this conversation with my boyfriend, he claims that he wants to read my diaries, but I assure you, if he actually did, he wouldn’t like it. It’s grossly personal, but it’s not what every guy imagines a girl’s diary to be. It was more of a place for me to lament and on my state of emotion. It’s really just sad. I’ve been experiencing nothing but change within the last 6 months, changes that have taken me on an emotional uphill, but to a hill with a 90 degree drop that immediately follows. And with the New Year just over 24 hours away, more changes will be coming, but I would like to make sure I actually do one thing: challenge the superstition and document the positives at least once a week.

What would they say about your diary?



I have never really gone public with my writing. I don’t believe it deserves the nobel peace prize, or even the smallest of awards. It’s always been something that is rather personal; I talk about my personal life, but more in the discoveries I make based on the things I go through. It’s reflective, and not much more.

Now, I know what I have gone through is nothing short of a relatively normal life. I haven’t had much distress, misfortune, or “hard knocks”. I’m 26 working toward my masters degree, still living with my parents because my teacher salary minus what I pay in student loans makes it impossible to live alone and attempt to save for anything. But in that sense, I can save more money to pay off my student loans. I haven’t really had to sacrifice anything.

I have always wanted to make a difference, make a startling connection that no one else has, write when I don’t feel like writing, workout when I don’t have the energy, and expend my assets when I don’t actually have them. I am the dreamer and the doer, but slower at the latter. People who say you don’t need money to travel can suck it because I don’t have the money to travel.

Here within the next 6 months, I will be starting “Writer’s Bootcamp” by Rachel Federman. My goal is to write a book someday equivalent to Harry Potter status. While I know it takes work. It would ease the loans I think (lol). Be the dreamer and the doer, even if the “do” part does take time, don’t let it be an obstacle forever.


All Stories End. Including this one.

Growth begins when anger stops. That’s all that I know now. I spent a lot of time being angry, and in some ways, I still am. It doesn’t heal overnight, and a lot of people would argue that it doesn’t heal when another party is involved, but all I know is something happened the night I met him, and I haven’t been the same since. I’ve been a better version of myself, not hiding and feeling ashamed of who I was and who I could never be.

It shouldn’t take another person to allow you to be yourself, but it doesn’t hurt. He hasn’t judged me for my flaws, he’s only embraced them. Of course, he won’t see all of them until there’s a ring…kidding…mostly. Anyway, when one door closes, really another one does open, and it doesn’t matter if you’re ready for it or not, when it happens, you have to take the risk. I could have missed so much if I had said no.

I love him with all my heart, and I’ve never known what it is to physically crave the love of a single person every single second of every single day. Which is why that story had to end. I simply couldn’t write it anymore. Even with someone new someone made for me, I’m still healing and learning something about embracing him every day. This story may be over, but my new story has just begun, and I’m SO excited.


Chapter: I’ve been busy

Happy Thanksgiving, everyone! Needless to say, I’ve been ignoring my blog for the past several months…I have mostly good reasons, but then some that are just more so superstitious, because apparently, that’s what I am. Over the last four months, I have started my school year, started a full-time graduate program (online), but no less difficult, gone through a family tragedy, and maintained a relationship with the love of my life, and also had time to practice not being irritated at the happiness of my ex. Not because I miss him, but because in my head, he doesn’t deserve it yet. Welcome to the ass end of 2017.

Sometimes it’s difficult to write because I literally have too many things to discuss that I can’t pick the appropriate amount of words to describe what’s going on to an audience. The audience, albeit small in number, is the reason I write. I’m grateful for the readers I have!

Anyway, I digress, mostly because I don’t know where to start, so I’ll just pick a point.

It’s a day to be thankful, and I can tell you that I am, above all things, just that. If you had asked me six months ago if this is where I thought I would be, I would have said no. Not a fat chance would I have imagined loving another person and being loved the way that I am. Nor would I have imagined that I would feel supported, cared for, and appreciated the way I do because truthfully, in the last three years, I haven’t known what that felt like.

I was constantly being criticized for the way I am, and being molded into a different version of myself to meet Wes’s standard. There were countless fights, mostly me defending myself, this constant fight to hold on to who I was and not let it change, but also the constant defeat when it did. The never feeling good enough because I didn’t paint my nails, or do my hair differently, or wear clothes that he liked, I didn’t “show off my figure”. When I did wear something that he liked–and in my mind, I was always dressing to impress him. I never wore anything comfortable–it was always, “why don’t you dress like this more often?” or “You should paint your nails more often”, or anything I did simply was not to his standard no matter how hard I tried to fight for his affection, which I never received, but always gave, and believe me, I tried so much that I could have killed myself to do it, never eating a full meal around him out of fear I’d get fat or look like a pig, back straight, mouth poised, seductive look. All the time. Never comfortable.

I remember that night actually. It was the worst of our fights. You see, in all two years of our being together, I never received one genuine compliment of my appearance or the things I did for him. I never heard the word “beautiful” to describe my appearance, or for that matter even an “I love you”. He never said it to me. And at that point, I was sick of being criticized. I was so done. I’m stronger than that, and I am more than he made me to be.

He used to buy me the things he liked for me, rather than the things I liked for myself. I remember the year his parents bought me leather boots and he had told me that he wanted me to have something nice….”I shouldn’t be walking around on plastic boots”. Actually, I believe it was his mother who asked in disdain, “Why does she wear those plastic things?” At first I was grateful for the gift, until the gift became more of a symbol of charity and pity from his parents. I had never complained about the things I owned. They may not have been 400.00 leather boots, but I worked for the things I owned, and they never looked old, worn, or dirty. They looked great to me. He was prepping me for a world I didn’t want to be in, or fit in to.

Despite the fact that these things happened, and there’s far more. I could write a book, but that would just make people pity me. While I never called it emotionally abusive and controlling, the words of my diary are filled with evidence on the contrary. But six months ago, I had no idea that I would be here, reflecting on things I didn’t see while I was in a relationship with him, that everything I was fighting against was something I shouldn’t have had to fight for. Ever.

Despite the fact that for the last three years, I’ve been fighting for affection that I would never get, I’m in a place now that I never thought I would see. I met Tyson during our “break”, just expecting a fun date or two, and that was all it took to realize that he was everything I have been looking for. He’s kind, he’s gentle and strong, thoughtful, and funny…AND LAWD…is he handsome. I’ve never really known what it means to be loved for who I am, and not feel the need to change.

It shouldn’t take hell to make me grateful, but I am grateful for the struggle because without it, I wouldn’t know what it feels like to appreciate the love I have been given and hope to never stop getting. It feels good to have someone believe in you as much as you believe in them. Someone who wants to make you know how much you are loved and how beautiful you are. I only hope that I am able to give him the same love.

(I also feel that writing about my love is a jinx, so I keep it to a minimum haha)