"Let Talk About Trauma and PTSD, It'll Be Fun" - Said No One Ever.

For the sake of simplifying this post when speaking of PTSD I'm specifically talking about C-PTSD or Complex Trauma Disorder

Complex Post Traumatic Stress Disorder (C-PTSD) is a condition that results from chronic or long-term exposure to emotional trauma over which a victim has little or no control and from which there is little or no hope of escape, such as in cases of: domestic emotional, physical or sexual abuse.

I’m not even sure how to start on this topic. I don’t even know where to begin to talk about my trauma. I don’t know how to describe what it’s like to live with PTSD. I’ve been sitting on this topic for awhile now for a few reasons. I feel like it’s such an abstract concept. It’s just something I have to live with. It’s not an event or a fact that I can pin down and break apart and analyze for the general population. How do I explain to someone who doesn’t have my trauma what it’s like to carry that weight. How do I explain what having PTSD is like to someone who doesn’t have it? I don’t know how to write about this without sounding like I’m crazy. Writing about this also scares me because for the most part everyone who knows me thinks I have my shit together.

To be fair, for the most part I do.

I’ve been working through the creative process to get to the point of sitting down and writing. Here I am and I’m still struggling. I can’t begin to tell you about the tears I’ve shed just writing down my notes and thoughts on this topic. I feel embarrassed and ashamed. Which seems to be the common concept on my feelings surrounding foster care. Right now I also feel more publicly vulnerable than I’ve ever felt before. It’s also forcing me to relive some of the things I try hard to shut out and move past.

Trauma is weird to say the least. Sometimes you don’t even realize the shit you’re repressing. It’s buried so deep you don’t even know what you’re hiding from yourself. Until one day you’re driving down the freeway just like any other day on your way to work. Then all of a sudden the sound of your blinker clicking brings you back to that time when you were scared for your life. There is absolutely nothing you can do to stop the memory from flooding back to you.

I’m 11 years old again and it’s 3 in the morning and I’m dead asleep until I hear the creak of the stairs leading up to my bedroom. My heart starts to race and I immediately jump out of bed to lock the deadbolt on my bedroom door. There is a pounding on the door and it’s loud and angry and matches up perfectly with the sound of my blinker. My door handle is turning and the door is shaking as someone is trying to break in. His voice comes through the other side. Screaming at me to let him in. He’s calling me every dirty name under the rainbow and threatening to kill me if I don’t let him in. It’s one of my parents friends who was living with us at the time. I know he’s either high or drunk out of his mind and probably won’t even remember this in the morning. I go sit in my closet and close the door and fold myself up as small as possible and cry. Praying to God that the door holds and that he goes away and leaves me alone. The pounding and screaming go on for what feels like an hour and eventually he admits defeat and leaves. I’m thankful in that moment that I have a deadbolt on my door and that I’m safe and unharmed.

Then I’m back in my car and my blinker is off and I've pull into a random parking lot  and turned my car off. I’m hyperventilating and quietly sobbing. I try to compose myself enough to drive the rest of the way to work. Once I calm down enough, I fix my makeup and resume life as normal. Like it never happened. I walk into work and say good morning to everyone, pour my coffee, and turn on my computer. Calm and collected like it’s just another day.

PTSD is like a switch that once it’s turned on I can’t just turn it off. I have to ride the wave until it hits shore and it can happen at any moment.

I can be doing the same thing I do day in and day out. When I was around 15 I was hanging out my my adoptive brother while he was was playing this zombie game. I wasn’t much of a video game person but I enjoyed spending time with him so I’d sit in the basement for hours watching him play. I’m not sure what it was about this particular day but the sound of the guns going off and the temperature of the basement sent me straight back in time.

I was living at home with my parents and the house felt more hectic than normal. The air felt heavy and had the sickly sweet smell of cooked meth. My back and shoulders were tense like they would always get right before someone was about to yell at me or a fight was about to break out. I was standing in front of the fridge with the door open blanking staring in past the jugs of yellow liquid. I was questioning why this had to be my life. Did normal people keep jars of pee in their fridge? One of my parents friends came stomping up the stairs from the basement. His eyes looked wild and it felt like he was trying to see through me. His face was beat red and I could tell he was mad about something. He grabbed my arm and pulled me down to the basement and brought me over to a closet where my two cats were locked in. He was screaming incoherently in my ear and pulled a gun out. I was convinced I had done something to piss him off and I was going to die. I knew I should be scared but I was numb and auto pilot had kicked in. I open my mouth to ask what was going on but before I could get the words out he opened fire and shot my cats right before my eyes. I couldn’t process what happened. He let go of my arm like he was throwing my own dead weight at me. I turned around and walked up the stairs and out the back door of the house.

Abruptly I’m back in my new home walking up the stairs to my bedroom. I lay down in bed in complete numbness. I don’t tell my adoptive mom what I just remembered for weeks. Until it’s to the point of eating me alive.

I can nail down my triggers for what will make my anxiety flare up. I have tons of skills to cope with anxiety too. PTSD episodes are like something from a whole other world. I have no idea what will cause a flash back and I haven’t a single clue how to bring myself out of it once I’m in the depths of reliving it.

I’ve come to accept that it’s just the way my life it going to be living with trauma. Its creeps up out of nowhere and slams into me so hard I have no way to prevent it from completely taking over. How do I work through the shit that I can’t even remember happening? Before that day in my car I never even knew that night happened. Before that day in the basement with my brother I always thought my cats ran away or one of the randoms that lived with us stole them.

Sometimes I question if these memories that come flooding back are even real. How is it possible to completely block out memories like that? Is there just so much bad shit that I only remember the worst of it? Or is it possible that there is worse shit that I’m not remembering at all?  How can I recover and process through things I don’t remember happening to me until I’m in a full blown panic.

Dylan has come home to find me curled up in a ball in our bedroom closet crying. We joke about it now because looking back on it, it seems silly. I couldn’t even tell you what set me off that time. I honestly don’t remember. Sometimes the memories come back and before I can come back to my senses they are gone again.

I can’t help but wonder what the heck is wrong with me? I’m always the biggest advocate for everyone to seek out the help they need. I just can’t help but treat my trauma and PTSD like this individual war that I have to fight by myself. It’s not really something I talk about and I can’t even believe I’m sharing any of this with internet right now.

I don’t want anyone to treat me any different or look at me different. I don’t want people to feel like they have to walk on eggshells around me. I don’t want to be looked at like I’m crazy.

I’m hoping that by sharing my experience I can help other people see that you really aren’t crazy. You can have PTSD and trauma and still be a normal person.

I’m hoping that professionals will look at this and realize that kids who’ve lived through trauma need to be treated for PTSD. It shouldn’t be dismissed so quickly as depression and acting out.

If you have a loved one dealing with PTSD just be there for them. Be patient and be willing to listen. Sometimes a hand to hold is enough.

If you are struggling with any kind of trauma just know you’re not alone.

It’s okay to break down and have moments of weakness. We just need to remind ourselves that we are survivors and we can move past it.

To read more about PTSD in alumni of foster care visit the links below:

http://www.fosterfocusmag.com/articles/post-traumatic-stress-disorder-not-just-soldiers-problem

http://www.thecrimson.com/article/2005/4/11/study-finds-foster-kids-suffer-ptsd/

Until next time

-PronouncedLeah

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Chosen Family

Have you ever stopped to take a second and think about why people do the things they do? Why do they dress a certain way? Why do they listen to the music they listen to? Why do they act the way they do? Why do people naturally gravitate towards people who are similar to them?

I know it sounds like a pretty obscure and philosophical question but in my opinion the answer is quite simple.

The reason people do anything is to fit in.

Everyone wants to feel like they belong. We all have an uncontrollable need to conform and merge with a group that makes us feel welcomed, comfortable, and connected. No one wants to be the odd one out. Unfortunately, fitting in isn’t always something we can control. 

Growing up while being a foster kid makes it incredibly difficult to find “your people” and fit in. I personally can attest to this. We all know how cruel kids can be. Scratch that… People in general can be cruel even if you’re a “regular” person. Whatever that means. Anyways, throw in being a second class citizen in today’s society and you might as well have a target painted on your back.

All my life I felt like I grew up with a giant neon sign plastered on my forehead that flashed “FOSTER KID” over and over. No matter how hard I tried to fit in it always seemed like I was different and didn’t quite blend in as well as I would have liked. Walking down the hallways in school it was almost as if I carried a stench on me. Hanging heavy like a cloud of noxious gas that surrounded me, acting as a warning sign to the other kids – this kid is nothing but trouble. I’ve mentioned in previous blog posts that foster care was the single most isolating thing that I’ve ever experienced. I’ll stand by that for the rest of my life. Being a foster kid didn’t allow for me to “click” with other kids. I didn’t get to have sleep overs with the other girls in my class – unless their parents would agree to undergoing a background check through the county. Believe me, not a lot of parents jumped at that. Shocking. I didn’t get to go on family vacations. I didn’t have a family and none of my numerous foster families took us on vacations. Christmas break was more just a week of sitting in the foster parent of that month’s house and feeling my heart ache for my real family while I watched their biological kids open their gifts. Those are just a couple example but I could go on forever. Just the act of existing in foster care in itself is an act of being a social outcast. Missing out on all that normalcy was heartbreaking.

I’ll be honest for a minute here… Going through years of being a social reject and missing out on normal kid and teenage things eventually made me a little jaded. Even now after lots of therapy and trying to make up for lost time I can’t help but feel a little salty. However, one of the most therapeutic things I have experience as a survivor of foster care is connecting with my alumni family. The first time I was in a room surrounded by other people who grew up how I grew up I went home and cried – that’s a pretty big deal! I’m not typically an emotional person. Now that I think about it that’s probably a side effect of foster care. After I let it sink in I had an epiphany. That day was the first time I had ever truly experience normalcy. Not the normalcy that society has always told us is the norm. My own very real and true normalcy. Normalcy for me has never been the princess tea party with family and friends. My normalcy was my parents being so strung out and high that they forgot me at the grocery store for over an hour. Normalcy for me was never growing up with the same friends since we were kids. My normalcy was 15 different schools over the course of 8 years. After I met other alumni of foster care it felt like something in me finally clicked into place and healed. I have spent so much time and energy trying to fit into a mold of normal that I could never squeeze into. All this time the normal I needed was the normal I grew up with. Just knowing that I really wasn’t alone and that there is a solid group of people out there who have the same dark and sick sense of humor that I do because of the circumstances we grew up in. Believe me, foster kid jokes are enough to make most people cringe.

After meeting this group of foster alumni I realized I wanted more. Connecting with people who have had a similar past, after living for so long feeling isolated, was one of the most validating and moving things I’ve ever experienced. For once I felt like I didn’t need to fit into societies box of what normal is. Having an alumni network is an opportunity to create our own definition of normalcy. When you’re with a group of people who deeply and truly understand you with all the ugly of your past… THAT feels normal.

Sometime has passed now since that initial meeting and aside from the normalcy and connected-ness there have been other lasting side effect. Connecting with this family of alumni has been the most overwhelming wave of support I have ever received. There has been more than one occasion where I have been going through a tough time or needed some advice and one of my alumni brothers and sisters has called me to be there for me. I don’t think I can emphasize how deep my gratitude goes for my foster alumni. This past year I have leaned on my network for job leads, references, emotional support, socializing, and inspiration. Meeting other alumni has been like meeting family I didn’t even know that I had but that I desperately needed. The more alum I meet the more I want to reach out to and connect.

A big reason I keep writing and sharing my story is because of my foster alumni. I share my stories because they make me feel like it needs to be heard. I’ve been able to see the way my stories have touched and moved others and it motivates me to keep posting. Being a part of a network of foster alumni has inspired me heavily in many of the things I do.

I’d like to highlight and name some of my foster alumni that have greatly touch my life they also happen to be the other co-founders and board members of Foster Alum Minnesota.

First I’d like to mention Joanne. 

She has inspired me to handle shit like a boss. Over the time I’ve gotten to know her I’ve watched her juggle working, volunteering, advocating, and being a mom. Might I add she does it all with such grace.

Next is Rashad. 

He has inspired me to stand up for myself and speak what’s on my mind. This man holds nothing back and sometimes I’m taken back by it but I also listen in awe. He has taught me to speak up because people will listen and they do want my input.

Then there is Jessica. 

Jess has inspired me to practice self-care and how to say no. I am constantly amazed by how easily she can prioritize her life and business. She is always making sure she is carving out good quality time to spend with her son and taking time out of a never stopping work to recharge her battery. She inspires me to slow down and make sure I’m okay before I agree to more.

Next up is Hank. 

Hank has inspired me to keep going, always. Honestly, I don’t think this man every stops. He is the king of getting back up. I’m definitely the type of person to dwell if things aren't going my way. He has shown me true perseverance and in my opinion the energizer bunny needs to be his personal mascot.

Lastly, all my other alumni. 

Please know if you’re reading this that you inspire me. Every day that you exist you inspire me. Life has given you the short end of the stick yet here you are. There are countless times that you could have given up and let it be the end but you pushed on. I’m inspired by your strength, resilience, and determination.

Alumni family (and friends) – I will leave you with this. I encourage you to reach out and join an alumni network and experience firsthand the profound connections, support, and inspiration your alumni family has to offer.

If you’re in Minnesota, I encourage you to click the link below and join Foster Alum Minnesota.

FOSTER ALUM MN

JOIN! BECOME A MEMBER! IT'S FREE!

Until Next Time

-          - PronouncedLeah

Identity Crisis & Birth Certificates

I’ve been recently dwelling hard on an issue that I always seem to come back to time and time again. Sometimes the questions swimming around in my head won’t stop and the just lead me to ask more questions. What actually makes us real and exist? Have you ever really thought about it before? I swear I’m not stoned! I just can’t stop thinking about it.

Is it our family and friends who know us? Surely that is pretty concrete evidence that we are here. Could it be the energy you take up and put back out into the world? Arguably that would make someone real. Or, is it a slew of legal documents that legally tells us who we are, where we are from, and who we come from? I suppose if you don’t have a birth certificate, social security number, or an ID then you never were or never will be.

Part of the reason I tear myself apart with these questions is because on some level I’m always struggling with my identity. Not in the way that all these desperate 20 somethings are just “trying to find themselves”. It’s a lot more complicated than that. It’s not a questions that can be answered by life experiences or partying or going to school. At least not for me. I always want it put down in permanent writing. If you commit something to paper then it makes it real. So many things in my life were so wishy-washy that I only trust what has been recorded. In my mind paper = permanence.  

I set myself up for failure with that mindset but let's be honest - I’m stubborn as hell and have no intention of changing. However, this has caused me to struggle more with who I am.

Incase you're unaware - let me give you a little nugget of information. When you’re adopted in the state of Minnesota they change your birth certificate. The person who you were born as and born to be is gone once the state has declared your adoption as final. Your history is then stripped away. Who your parents were and where you came from is completely erased. Unless you have a copy or have requested one before the adoption - your original birth certificate is gone forever. Your biological parents names are then replaced with your adoptive parents and the state deems your new birth certificate the only one that is valid.

When this was brought to my attention before my adoption when I was 13 I almost called off the whole thing. We were there at the courthouse and I overheard someone say something about a new birth certificate and I flipped my shit. I was already taken away from my family time and time again. I’d already switched schools time and time again. I’d already given up so much. I’d given up family, friends, security, my education, my pride. NOW you want me to give up my history and my identity?

My adoptive mom knew me well enough to know how sensitive I would feel about it and made sure to request multiple copies of my original birth certificate. Bless her heart! Basically it was the only piece of reasoning I listened to. Otherwise, I’m sure I would have thrown out the entire adoption all together. Like I said, I'm stubborn.  

I’m still appalled by the entire concept. When you get married you don’t change your entire identity. You get a marriage license. Sure, you might be changing your name but your maiden name is still a form of identification. Sure, you’re joining another family but your family isn’t going away forever - it’s an addition not a trade. Even dead people have the respect and dignity to have an official record of the who, when, where, and how.

I always try to say how grateful I am that I was adopted but ever since my birth certificate, my real life real world birth parents, and my origins were stripped from me it’s left a hole. I know I’m one for the dramatics but this is an honest to God issue that I will never stop talking about. My argument is that there should be an entirely separate document for adoption. I see no reason why the state wouldn’t want to issue adoption certificates. I doubt it’s anymore work that what they are already doing.

I believe that if a separate document was created it would help foster and adoptive alumni sort through their issues of identity. It would help with medical records and being able to look into what you could potentially be passing on in your genes. For people like me it would be a real life road map of the journey life has taken you through,  being able to lay it all out and make sense of it all. Nothing would be more therapeutic than to feel like one whole person instead of the 15 different people I have become divided into.

If an adoption certificate was created there would be concrete real evidence that you are the person you used to be but you’re also the person you’re becoming and you’re also all of that at once.

Until Next Time

-ProunouncedLeah

High School Sweethearts

 

 

Dylan and I were 16 years old when we started dating. He always told me from the beginning how he knew that “this is it” and that he had always planned on his first girlfriend to be his last and ultimately his wife. You would think that would be every 16 year old girl's dream to hear that from the boy who she is going steady with. Partially it’s true, I was over the moon happy to have a boyfriend that loved me so much and wanted to stay committed. On the other hand it scared the crap out of me. I was only 16! What I knew from my life so far was that I could barely get a parent or guardian to commit to me for more than a few months - how the hell did this sweet and caring boy think he could last the test of time? Either he was completely nuts or he was some type of masochist.

I was completely head over heels about him immediately that the logical side of my brain that typically filters out such things seemed to have dissolved and leaked out my ears. I was never a commitment type girl. I had a slew of relationships but they were more like impulses and trends. I changed relationships like I changed the color of my hair - which was often in those days. My longest relationship was no longer than 3 months. But here I had this guy promising me marriage and forever and wanting to dream and talk about our future. It definitely must have been love because typically that kind of talk sent me running for the door.
Bye Felicia.

However, here we are 5 years later and we’ve made the ultimate commitment of forever - till death do us part. But marriage isn’t easy. Hell, navigating a relationship with me isn’t easy. It took me a long time to learn how to be a good partner and I know for a fact it took a lot of patience from Dylan to work through it with me. My life was full of disconnected relationships with family, friends, schools, and everything else. It left me with a bunch of broken pieces that didn’t fit together but somehow I was supposed to figure out what love should look like.

With a lot of time, patience, and communication I feel like I’ve finally put together a somewhat normal looking puzzle. I have to give Dylan a lot of props. He’ll be the first to tell you I’m difficult and I’m also not afraid to admit it. I’m short tempered, sarcastic, and a bit of a diva. I have to say that Dylan’s peace keeper mentality, light hearted attitude, and down to earth personality helps keep me grounded constantly. Sometimes I come up with these terrible and impulsive ideas but with super powers of reasoning Dylan talks me into a more logical and less extreme course of action.

It probably sounds like I’m talking Dylan up and putting him on this pedestal (although he honestly deserves a medal for putting up with me sometimes). He does have faults of his own and isn’t perfect. In a lot of ways Dylan is the exact opposite of me. He is patient and level headed and I’m just not.  I think the fact that we are so different is the glue that holds us together. People will tell you that you should change for your partner or your partner should change for you but I don’t really agree.

Going into our relationship Dylan and I both knew who we were. Faults and all. I knew that he holds people to unfair and unusually high/impossible standards. I also knew that he has to eat all of one thing on his plate before moving on to the next. But he also knew that I'm sensitive to other people's feelings and "catch" their moods. He also knew that I don’t have an inside voice and I need to be reminded that I’m yelling. There is constant give and take. There are also periods of time where it is all take and you need to learn how to work around it.

Our relationship isn’t perfect but I know that it’s what I need and it’s what Dylan needs. Even though we are on opposite sides of the color wheel we somehow have found a middle ground to get to where we compliment each other's weaknesses. Being married is a learning curve. I think at first everyone probably sucks at it but it gets better with time. You just need to be patient and put in the time and effort to wait for it to sweeten. 

Until Next Time

- PronouncedLeah

Stick Around Long Enough to Find Out

There was a point in my life when I literally wore my heart on my sleeve for the world to see. The pain and hurt I was carrying with me from the misfortunes of my life were expressed as vivid and angry red cuts along the lengths of my arms. Now that I have distance and perspective since that time in my life I can very clearly see that it was an intense need to be in control, a severe lack of healthy coping mechanisms and a desperate cry for help. I'm much older now and in a much better place but I'm left with the scars and the reminder that comes with them from the dark place I once was in.

I know I'm not alone in the feeling of liking to have a sense of control. I remember growing up feeling like I didn't have control over anything. Everyone around me was making decisions about my life for me without my input. I developed habits and routines to control what I could. Some things were harmless such as dying my hair whenever I got the itch. Others, not so much. I was roughly around the age of 9 when I started self harming. I don't remember what triggered it or why I even started. What I do remember is the panic that seemed to constantly surround my life. The only thing that seemed to make it all slow down and not hurt as much for awhile was cutting. The not so funny thing about cutting was it made me feel like I was in control. When everything else was out of my hands - this was my way to take back the power. The thing that no one talks about self harm is that it's addicting. It gives you a rush of adrenaline with a numb calming effect afterwards. For me it seemed like it started to spiral out of control. Almost like a drug addiction, I would self harm for the high it gave me. Eventually it was the cutting that started to control me. It's sad how ironic that feels putting it so plainly. The rush it gave me wasn't the only thing to keep my habit strong for years. Just like any other addict - you turn to your drug of choice for other reasons then before you know it you're in too deep.

Thankfully I was adopted and my mom was the first person to really work with my through my issues. I'd done therapy for what seemed like my entire life but it never seemed to help. Until I found the right therapist. Then having the right therapist lead to me other things that helped me recover. We concentrated on working on healthy coping skills, putting together lists and action plans, and she referred me to other resources (DBT Therapy) that ultimately made me quit the blade for life. If I would have had these coping skills and opportunities earlier maybe it could have saved me from a lot of gauze and antiseptic wash. Part of it was being receptive to getting better. You could have spewed coping skills and solutions at me all day. Listening is a totally different story.

Often times when you're young it feels like no one listens to you. In my old poetry I frequently described the feeling as being in a room full of people and screaming but it felt like no sound was coming out. Everyone knows the saying of actions speak louder than words. No one heard what I was trying to say so I had to act. If you would have asked me while I was in the worst throes of it I would have completely denied it being a cry for help. Being taken from my family and shuffled around from placement to placement, not only was ripping me apart mentally it was forcing my hand to physically tear myself apart. My outsides were starting to match my insides. I wish someone would have noticed sooner that I was struggling. I wish someone would have realized what was happening and tried to help me before it got as bad as it did. It wasn't until a few suicide attempts later and after being adopted that someone finally heard me. If it wasn't for my adoptive mom I honestly don't think I would be alive today. I remember the very last time I cut myself. It was deeper and worse than any other time before. My mom tried to convince me to go in to the hospital because I needed stitches. The grief and worry she wore on her face like a mask still haunts my memories to this day. I remember thinking that if I was gone my mom would be more sad than she was in that moment. I never self harmed again after that. When I was still self harming though my mom never made me feel ashamed. She never put me down because of it. She simply listened, wrapped my arms in bandages, and let me know how deeply she cared about me. If there is one piece of advice I could give parents who's children are harming - it would be to listen. REALLY LISTEN. Actions speak louder than words.

I've provided a link down below and a link to more info about DBT. Please, if you're struggling - seek help! People honestly do care about you! If you would have told me when I was suicidal and self harming that some day I would have made it to 22 and be happy and married, I would have laughed in your face.
It does get better. I promise.
 You just have to stick around long enough to find out.

National Suicide Prevention Lifeline

Call 1-800-273-8255

Until Next Time

- PronouncedLeah

Girl Don't Like Boys And Girls Can't Tolerate Me

      

 I’m just going to come right our and say it. Women do not like me. Most of my friendships with women have had an expiration date of about one year. Some of them have ended in a huge fight with words exchanged that just can’t be taken back while others have simply fizzled out and died.  I’m not entirely sure what the exact reason is that could send all my female friends running but I have a few guesses as to what they could be. Part of it could perhaps be that I just get along better with guys. It could also be that I’m entirely to honest and don’t hold anything back. Or it could also be that I don’t take the time to keep up or invest the energy required to maintain a friendship with the women I have been friends with. Maybe you understand where I’m coming from. Are all of your female friends fleeing from you and you can’t figure out why? Or maybe you’re reading this and already thinking “Man, this lady is a real bitch.” I can only speculate as to why so many of my friendships have fallen apart and I’m prepared to lay it all out for you. 

       First of all, let me address something and be clear about it. It’s true that all of my friends are guys with the exception of my best friend Abbie (BLESS HER SOUL). I’d like to consider myself as “one of the guys” but not in the “I’m annoying and trying to hard” kind of way. AND unlike the dynamic of so many other friend groups – I know for a fact the none of my friends want to sleep with me. Being friends with guys is just all around a lot more simple. You can just shoot it straight and no one gets bent out of shape over anything you do or say. In fact, if you insult or say something offensive to a guy friend they are either going to shrug it off or laugh it off. At least in my experience none of my male friends hold grudges. In the off chance that I have managed to piss one of them off I’m almost instantly forgiven. Being friends with mostly guys is less work and 100% less effort. Guys are content to just hang out and do a whole lot of nothing. In my experience girls are restless and always want to be doing something or have something planned. I like a plan as much as the next person but when I’m relaxing and hanging out with friends, I want to do just that. I don’t want to get caught up in the drama and stress.

     Part of avoiding drama and stress is never withholding the truth. I’ve said it before and I’m sure you’ll hear me say it a thousand more times but lying makes my stomach turn. I’m terrible at lying. Everyone who knows me knows you can see it all over my face. Even little white lies are difficult for me to say. In my opinion, honesty is always the best policy. This has definitely back fired on me in my endeavors with my girl friends. Sometimes girls want you to lie to them. The worst part about this is that I’m a complete hypocrite. If my hair looks awful, please lie to me and tell me it’s fabulous. However, when the tables are turned I find myself unable to get the little white lie past my lips. Something in my brain tells me that if you asked then you’re going to get an honest answer. Of course there are nice ways to inform someone that maybe they should pick a dress with a different cut but I’m all about that no BS policy. I’m sure if I was a little sweeter in my delivery of “constructive criticism” I would have been able to hold on to more of my female friends. But why should I change who I am just to make someone else more comfortable? I may come off as mean or rude but that has never been my intention. I’m sure you think I could easily apologize or explain myself – it just hasn’t worked out that way. Sure, my apologizes in the past were accepted and my explanations were heard and the situation was fixed - temporarily. Only until I open my mouth and say something again to step on someone’s delicate feelings. I know, I'm an asshole. Wouldn’t it be better to keep friends around that can handle you as your truly are though? Instead of living in this cycle of offend/apologize/repeat. 

        Perhaps other people in this world do invest such time into their friendships. Maybe everyone else is okay with the cycle of offending and apologizing. I know the words "I'm sorry" can easily roll of so many peoples tongues. I could be completely crazy to not want to invest the time and effort it takes to maintain those types of relationships. Every friendship takes some amount of time and effort - but at what cost? I deeply value my time and I don’t appreciate it being wasted. I can only assume that is the feeling most people have. Wouldn’t you agree? So why is it that so many people require so much attention? I don’t want to text my friend’s everyday. I just don’t. I don’t enjoy talking on the phone. I also do not feel the need to spend time with my friends 5 out of 7 days a week. It’s just down right exhausting. I have had multiple friendships where fingers were pointed at me because I never replied to texts and I never called back and I wasn’t spending enough time with them. Blah, blah blah, the list goes on. It was sucking the life out of me and I just needed to cut my ties and walk away. 

     This could all boil down to a simple explanation of me being lazy and that I just don’t care enough. I don't mind admitting that I'm maybe a bit of an asshole. I’ve always put it off and thought that the person on the other end of the friendship rope was the one that cut ties and walked away. Maybe that still holds truth and they couldn’t stand me or my attitude anymore. The case could also be that I’m a serial-friendship-end-er (yup, I’m making that a word). It’s so easy to point the finger at other people before placing the blame on yourself. So, here I am, publicly pointing the finger at myself. If you used to be my friend – I’m sorry if I was a giant jerk and if I was way too hard to handle. This will be my last apology on the subject. For everyone else, stay firm with who you are. Don’t change yourself just to keep people close to you. Eventually the right people will come into your life and they will be able to tolerate you beyond your wildest dreams and they might even stick around for awhile. 

Until next time

-PronouncedLeah