Hotel Sheets

The lights were dim, 
Our friends asleep. 
We were under the covers, 
Buried down deep. 

I can still smell the bleach, 
In the hotel sheets. 
And I can still remember the pounding, 
Of both of our heartbeats. 

Our feet met for a moment, 
With a curious spark, 
So we moved them back together, 
And that was only the start. 

Together we slid our hands, 
Until they touched. 
My hand was holding yours, 
But it just wasn't enough. 


I am always smiling, because I’m good at hiding my secrets.

I am always smiling. Always looking happy. I make people laugh. I am wanted to be around. I have so many friends and people that love me. I am seen as a pretty girl with a great sense of humor.

Although, I am damaged. I hide my pains, my anxieties, my fears. I am an actress. My life is like a stage. Sometimes I don’t even recognize myself.

There’s few that truly know me. Few who really fucking get me.

I have secrets. I have a past. I have a darkness in me that has escaped when I’m most vulnerable.

However, I have learned to adapt and cope. I cope by smiling. I cope by making my loved ones laugh. I cope by caring for and healing others. I cope by trying to make a difference in the lives of others.

I am damaged. I am fucked up. I feel pain, anxiety, and fear.

But I keep on smiling.

I’m Still Here

I fell asleep. I felt safe.

I was drinking. Fell asleep. On my couch. In my home. My husband went to bed. You were there. My husband’s coworker. Fucking watching. Fucking waiting.

I woke up. My pants pushed down. You were behind me. One arm around my neck. One arm around my chest. You were inside me. Thrusting. Sweating. Cussing.

Paralyzed in fear and pain. I knew what was wrong. I knew I should shout, scream, cry for help. But there was fear. And then it was over. You finished yourself off into me. Like a dirty rag. A tear rolled down my face.

Shock. Disbelief. I trusted you.

I was bleeding. I was hurting. I felt disgusting. I had become another statistic. You said it was fine. But it wasn’t fine.

For six months. I lived in silence. In fear. In guilt and embarrassment. Then I told you off. You told me you thought I wanted it. You told me you didn’t remember doing it. You said “sorry”.

You fucking lying bastard.

So I cut you out of my life. I picked up the pieces. I moved on. I learned. I grew. I became stronger. I spoke up. Now it’s been a year.

And I’m still fucking here.


Are we truly born to meet one person to share our life with?

Switching it up tonight by talking about something not completely depressing and fucked up. Tonight I’m here thinking…

Maybe in this world we have more than one person we are supposed to connect deeply with. Maybe it’s a past life thing, like two people have known each other before in a previous life. Maybe this is just how the spirit works. Everyone out there has met someone, felt a deep connection, and thought, “I feel like I’ve known them for fucking forever”. Maybe in life we have many people that we are supposed to find, like magnets being drawn to each other though piles of rubble and trash. These people are our soulmates (not always romantic) that are there to help us grow and learn.

And fuck… I’m finding people to help me learn and grow.

Sometimes I Drive

Some days I wake up feeling okay. I am productive and genuinely fucking happy. Then out of nowhere… it hits. Depression.

Depression is like standing alone in a gray fog of nothingness, in the middle of nowhere, and suddenly being hit by a semi.

I can go from feeling on top of the world to complete emptiness in a blink of an eye. When this happens I drive. Sometimes I drive for fifteen minutes, sometimes for an hour. Driving nowhere. Driving in circles around the lake down the road from my house. Driving past fields of cows and happy little white houses. Driving down roads shadowed by the old oak trees I love. Then I blast my fucking stereo and I sing as loud as I can. I hold my hand out the window as I drive, feeling the air between my fingers, pushing my hands up into the sky. And then…

Then I feel a shitload better. For a little bit anyways. It always comes back though and I have a feeling it always will. However, I am coming to terms with these feelings and figuring out how not to fucking want to die. The feelings of utter sadness gnawing in the back of my head trying to make their way through. I will never be completely “okay”, but in these moments I know I have to push through because I am loved. I have people that count on me and want me to be on this planet. Even when death seems like the best option, I know that I can not let my loved ones down.

Suicide is truly a selfish act when you have people around you that care about you. I think… your death is like a pebble hitting water. The pebble hits and sinks down underneath the surface, never to come back up, and makes little ripples that effect all the water around it. The pebble isn’t just sinking like it hopes to, it’s moving and disturbing everything around it.

I refuse to be that selfish stupid fucking pebble.

Those reading my words right now, who understand, who are pushed to the edge on a damn near regular basis… I want you to read these words. You are fucking loved by someone and you will fucking prevail. Everyday might not be great, or even good, possibly even really really shitty… but you are worth it.

We are so fucking worth it.

Friday the Fucking Thirteenth

Maybe it’s because of the trifecta today (Full moon, harvest moon, & Friday the thirteenth) that I feel extreme anxiety. Or maybe it’s just me.

No… it’s definitely just me. Although, I do believe that the fucking moon cycles do not help and damn I’m feeling it tonight. Maybe you’re reading this on your screen right now thinking the same thing. Maybe not.

I figured I’d start out this special day with explaining one of my biggest downfalls. That darn mother fucking anxiety.

Maybe you’re reading this, same issue, being able to relate to me. If not, I’ll describe what I feel. When I feel anxious I feel as if a fucking clamp is around my head, my stomach is fluttering, my heart rate speeds up, my palms get so damn sweaty, I’m terrified for no reason, and my mind isn’t stopping. My thoughts spiral. I’m thinking about everything and nothing all at the same time. “Why I’m I anxious?” “What do I do?” “I can’t handle this.” “Maybe it’s about “fill in the blank”.” Anything, everything, and nothing triggers it. It’s just always there, in the back of my head, trying to prevent me from living my life, trying to stop me from living. So, I want you, my reader, to imagine this… you’re standing in the middle of a beach. It’s beautiful. The sky is so blue and the water foams as it hits the sand. Melodic waves kissing your ears. The birds are chatting together in the grass-covered dune behind you. Peace. You feel at peace. You look up. Gazing at the clouds, you’re listening to the sounds of boaters in the sea. You look forward to look upon the happiness of the people in the motorboat and you see a FUCKING BOAT SPIRALING RIGHT TOWARD YOU! Yeah. Imagine that feeling of complete fear and anxiety for more than the 3 seconds it takes for a goddamn boat run up on shore and plow you down.

And guess what usually is the cause for my anxiety. Just guess. Absolutely. Fucking. Nothing. No reason. Nada. Zip.

Well fuck that. I’ve lived with this shit my whole life. Yes I do have panic attacks. Yes it definitely is a reason for some of my depression/unhealthy habits. Yes I hate it. I hate that the majority of the time when someone asks me “what’s wrong?” I don’t even fucking know. So… I say “I’m fine”. Classic right? Then I bury my anxiety and feelings down, so deep, for so long that one day they explode.

So I’m here, still working on controlling my shitlicious (yeah you like that new word) anxiety and learning how to deal with it when it happens. You, that person behind the pixels of that computer screen, either get this or don’t. If you are that person, the one that feels me, I fucking understand you. You are not fucking crazy. You are not fucking alone.

From the Beginning

So, here you are again. Reading my writing and personal thoughts. Now that I somehow turned you onto this… I’ll start from the beginning.

It’s a bit depressing, growing up fat. Well… obese. There. Fucking said it. I had always been the fat kid. Never the first picked for anything. Always the odd one out. Self-conscious and hating every bit of myself. Bullying and my anxiety/depression gave me reasons to eat my feelings. But, you don’t want to hear this sob story and honestly… I don’t necessarily want to explain it. So long story short, by the time I was eighteen I weighed a shit -load (280 lbs of shit).

I remember realizing one day, looking in my mirror, staring at my rolls, that I was much fatter than I thought I was. I was disgusted with what I had become and slowly decided to change my fucked up habits. Eventually, those new less fucked up habits led to the scale dropping. Fast forward a couple years >> 140 lbs of shit lost. Yup. I am literally now half of what I was.

You’re reading this and probably thinking the same bullshit as everyone else. It usually goes like this… “Wow. You’re an inspiration.” OR “I can’t imagine you ever being that big.” OR “You look so beautiful now.” You know what though? I’m sitting here… another night… listening to these crickets outside… thinking to myself… thinking about you reading these words. I want you to know that there’s more than meets the eye.

Yes. I am more confident (even with this loose skin that is a daily reminder of the fucked up position I put my body in). I do get noticed by horny fuckers now. I do get told I’m beautiful by someone on a daily basis. However, I am not perfect. I have secrets. You will learn these secrets. You will be sitting behind you’re computer screen, drinking your coffee, pushing your glasses farther up your nose to find out these secrets. And… I will let you.

Who is Hal?

Hal… what a person she is. But who the fuck is she? Well… here is the list. The list of all the great, good, and shitty things that make her… Me.

Artistic. A cheater. A good liar (not great). Compassionate. Loving. Organized. Bulimic. Anxiety-ridden. Funny. Outgoing. Depressed. Rebellious. Desperate. Smart. A wife. Athletic. Singer (also not that great). Dancer (probably worse). Confused. Lost. Outspoken. Over-thinker. Mildy-thin. Adventurous. Flirty. Weird. Creative. Deceiving. Lost. Hopeful.

Maybe I’ll edit this later? Seems legit at this point. I am a lot. I have a lot to offer and a lot I need to work on. Half of these labels I give myself I am not proud of and honestly embarrassed to type. However, they make me… who I am (as fucky as they are). I know I am fucked up. I know this.

But… you. You are reading this. You are now learning a little bit more about the shitty and great things about Hal.

You can call me Hal

Who am I? What makes me… fucked up… yet seemingly perfect. How do others see me? More importantly, how do I see myself?

Today, I start this fucked up biography, diary, and documentation of this life. Sitting behind this computer, currently listening to the crickets joyfully chirping outside my window, I am thinking how to start this. Am I going to start with an inspirational quote? A reason why I’m doing this? A list of all the great things I’ve done so far in this life to help motivate the fuckers like me? Nope. Whoever you are. Yes you. Sitting behind another bright screen, probably alone, probably looking for inspiration in between keeping up on social media. You found Hal. You found a real person that is going to break down her reality and give everything (shitty or not) straight to you.

Maybe you’ll be inspired. Maybe you’re reading this already disgusted by the foul mouthed title. Maybe your’re just curious, because hell… I’m curious of what the shit I’m doing on here.

Now… if you’re already turned off then you can gladly fuck off. But… if I just somehow turned you on…

Welcome aboard.