I came across this article in the New York Times tonight:




     It brought me back to my own very awkward high school years….I don’t think I personally “flourished” in my environment until University. And I do believe a massive part of that was in LSBU, I could major in my strength-Creative Writing in different mediums, without having to divide that with my weaknesses or things I hated like Physical Education and Math. Honestly, I love physical things as an adult, just dance or yoga or running with my dog in a park, not dodgeball or soccer.

   But it wasn’t just about the adedemia. There was something so liberating about being in London, so glamorous. I feel we as humans tend to romanticize parts of our lives, looking back in sepia hued glances of nostalgia. In the digital age, and having always written fairly actively, its good for me to help see the larger picture or at least try and have perspective. But high school was very awkward for me compared to college. The best parts were meeting a few of my fellow creative misfit types who weren’t the standard jocks and cheerleaders. Those who also took drama and we would share manga and anime DVDs. I still miss that.

   I believe my first anxiety attack occurred around age 13 ½. I did not know it was an anxiety attack until years and many episodes later and being diagnosed with GAD. I just remember being screamed at by one of the teachers, who would ride around the school grounds in these Go-karts, because someone’s shirt was untucked or they had the wrong belt color. The dress code was very strict as it was a “good private school”. Everything looked hideous and as I was recently in recovery from anorexia as the trousers had to be tailored it made me feel insecure going up and down in weight.

   I remember being in between classes one day. I had on this ugly red top and it was scratchy and horrible, the harshness of the fabric  making my skin crawl. My weight was up which would mean having to ask my parents to pay money for a new pair of trousers and I was ugly ugly ugly but this was ugly and I was in a bathroom stall. I felt like I was simultaneously being suffocated whilst having a heart attack. In an abandoned memoir, I think I described this sensation as being “boxed into a cubicle of conformity.” I felt utterly trapped.

    As an adult, I prefer wearing leggings which stretch and are pretty and comfortable, or tights and a skirt (also stretchy.) I do like some jeans but most jeans at least have some kind of elasticity. Honestly, right now, I enjoy dressing up to fancy events but unless its for some occasion I don’t even like wearing makeup, because I often just don’t want it on my face.  

    However, sometimes I LOVE makeup because I want to dress up and feel beautiful and glamorous. Reading this story made me sad, (and also wondering if the Dean was a Perv….how awkward and embarrassed this student must have felt.) It also brought back with startling clarity this trandescent individual who I wish I saw more of but remain friends with to this day, Minnaleah. Our dress school’s dress code (also located in South Florida) would only allow a certain brand of tops and trousers from this approved uniform shop, hot pants or shorts were basically past knee length, etc etc….however they still discriminated against students they felt were not “conservative” enough.

   Of course, the creative soul in me rebelled. I wanted to dye my hair white and argue that was “natural.” BTW plenty of high schoolers dyed their hair, but it had to be a “natural” looking color. The blonde cheerleaders who used peroxide and bleach were fine, but one day my friend turned up looking radiant. She was wearing fairy wings and had done her makeup in this really transcendent manner. I was very shy then and still learning what my interests were, but I gravitated towards her. She was captivating. She gave me a makeover once, and it’s amazing how something like a friend doing your makeup can make you look into the mirror and suddenly, you are transformed.

    It’s miraculous what an act of kindness can do. I don’t know if she even remembers this but I was going through a really hard time and had this soul-crushing insecurity. You helped me see a beauty I often struggle to see in myself. If you are reading this, thank you so much for being my friend.

    One day, Minnaleah stormed into the bathrooms angrily. The administration had told her to take off her fairy wings and she needed to wash off her beautiful makeup (despite neither being against official dress code policy). I saw her tears.

    In University studying Creative Writing and doing some promotional work and modelling on the side, I could show up in literally whatever I wanted to for  lectures for my Undergrad. For me, as I was experimenting with Romantic Gothic fashion, some days that included a steel boned silver underbust corset and a mini veiled top hat. My hair went from Marilyn blonde to long and red. My lecturers did not care. What they cared about were my ideas and execution, the quality of my work and the areas I professionally needed improvement in.

    I loved University and-despite my rape trauma my final year-I graduated. I am proud of myself for that. Reading that article brought back so much-the cocoon of high school anxiety mixed with the butterfly that emerged studying abroad in London.

    I think school uniforms are ridiculous, personally. Yes, full on nudity would obviously make people uncomfortable. But fashion and makeup is also an outlet for many, a fun way of expressing yourself for that moment to the world. I performed to a much higher degree in Uni wearing my 18 inch corsets than I ever did in those itchy colored polo shirts. Worse yet, if you did have the wrong belt color or even if your trousers were not from the school-approved uniform manufacturer, you would get points off your GPA. In life, I am a firm believer one should never be judged for any non-fashion/promotion related job (literally any job you don’t NEED to be “in character for”)  based on not fitting into an exterior “mold”.

    The rich girls could have bleached hair and ostentatious designer bags but Minnaleah couldn’t shine in wings and glitter like the fairy I know she is inside. This apparently remains a sorry state of affairs in schools to this day.

     I also believe it’s quite sexist to demand that girls MUST wear a bra, the top shown is loose and they made her wear band-aids on her nipples even WITH an undershirt when she was suffering with severe sunburn. That is ridiculous.

    One could even say this is an example of the rape culture we live in, that we as woman must appear a certain way so as not to “distract” the boys, whose education obviously matters so much more than our personal comfort.  

    No, Lizzy Martinez, you are not a distraction. What you are is an incredibly brave courageous woman  for going through a humiliating ordeal at such a young age and having the courage to speak out about it on a national level. I applaud you and am so glad this story is trending.

    Anyone feeling discriminated against for their attire is ridiculous to me as an adult. As a model, I took fun assignments that allowed me to express myself in different characters and roles. I only model occasionally now as I dedicate a lot of time to my ultimate dream-my fantasy novel. 

    At the moment I am writing in bed-Insomnia, or perhaps simply my quiet time, in celestial print PJ’s sipping chamomile tea.

    But the part I care about?

    I am writing.





I believe I was born having bipolar disorder, but as a child through most of adulthood, the more I comprehended the harder the world became to handle.

Maybe it was my dad’s first heart attack as my earliest memory, seeing him carted away by nurses in white shoes. The whole situation was unnatural to me. I must have been a toddler, still. Daddies were not supposed to seize on floors and be lowered onto tables with white sheets. White nurses shoes did not belong on the wooden flooring. I wondered if I would ever see my father again. He wondered this himself, I found out later.

In my earliest memory my world as I knew it was ending.

What effect did this have on my mind?

For years, I hated the color white. I had a phobia of buttons because I could see my fathers heart beating and I worried it would burst. I naturally gravitated towards darkness as more and more unfortunate events happened, both world and self inflicted. Darkness was familiar, and light was something bad, or something that could be taken away.

The first poem I memorized was Robert Frost’s Fire and Ice… age 7. I would accompany my father who was a docent at a few museums and go around imagining I was flying away on the embroidered turkish maroon carpets, armed with a  silver dagger at my waist, the emeralds, rubies and sapphires glinting from glass cases like fallen meteorites sizzling. I would run around the exhibits chanting about the end of the world.

The first poem I wrote was for a school assignment. It was about how hope is the key to the world. Age 10.

I have been told I am a light soul, but I can be overcome with melencolia, darkness, depression…..destruction. My best friend Cassie would write of how she was herself, Sophia, this sane rational girl but their were her “gremlins” as she called them who were evil and often in control.

When Cassie died I wanted to,  too. I would have happily tossed myself into a pyre to bring her soul back. Being temporarily blacklisted from the EU, I could not attend her funeral. I never said goodbye. Igor. Cassie. Zak. Greywinkle. From my first friend in High School to my most recent close loss of my family cat.

What effect did this have on my mind?


Being a naturally peaceful person, not cut out for the brutality of life, I was often picked on. I had long frizzy thick hair and would sit in backs of classrooms reading or drawing. I paid attention in English and History. Math bored me. So did Biology and Science, although as an adult I find both fascinating. I believe, if one studies anything, a subject, a religion, anything at all, they need a teacher or a guide with a passion for what they do. Apathetic teachers and I had a mutual feeling of casual loathing, some teachers I loved and inspired me, and I did better in their classes, they usually ended up getting fired/suing the school board or leaving for a better job.

I studied humankind around me. Sometimes I wish I was born male because, just maybe, I would have made a better choice. I noticed that the pretty girls were popular and picked on less to my untrained eye. It was basically exercise/learn how to fight or change your outward appearance to survive in the human jungle, and at 16 I made the easier choice. I tinted my hair with blonde highlights. I made a friend who was higher in popularity than me in the high school hierarchy, and she was fun: she lived for the moment, which was a better place than being in my head most of the time.

I started wearing makeup and dating boys. I did not even like the boys. It just felt like that was the thing to do to be considered human, to be liked, to be treated nicely.

I kissed the first boy at 15, because I wanted to get it over with. It was sloppy and gross, and during some movie starring Ashton Kutcher trying not to drown. I didn’t see that boy again, Billy.

I had my first enjoyable kiss at 16 with someone I was actually attracted to, Lamont Kish. He was a skater, and this was during my first “transformation” period. Streaked hair and bikinis and spandex. When we kissed it felt like one of those rides where you are stuck to a wall as the speed increases. You are spinning and stuck in one place at the same time. We were the only ones who existed, frozen in place as the world spun like a dreidel.

We broke up because of silly high school stuff. We actually got on quite well when alone together; he introduced me to Stephen King, and gave me a copy of The Regulators when King was writing as Richard Bachman. I think I threw it in my families garage after our breakup. I was too shy to even really understand how to text guys (how was I supposed to flirt???) so I would often give my phone to my more popular friend and she would tell me what to write. He didn’t text me back enough. As an adult, I understand the world does not revolve around me and people are busy. If they have any respect, love, or care for you they will get back to you when they have time. If not, it doesn’t really matter. Because you will still be you and the world won’t end. As a 16 year old, I had no concept of this notion and became angry with him, and it ended.

The world didn’t end, though.

My mind always went to extremes. I never felt like I fit in anywhere….even at theater camp, I would hate the forced sports activities, mosquito and fire ants would devour my skin. I burned.

I always loved reading and writing, but I need to get better at fighting. Naturally, I am a peaceful person in an restless world. Maybe as I grew up, I lost some of my faith. I lost some of my belief. But I took it to an extreme. Just because a man abused me, they were just a angry red blot and humankind is so vast. Still, it’s incredible what a violent act can do to an already troubled mind.

19 ½. Rape.

What effect did this have on my mind?

My moods still rapidly cycle. I can’t control this. I don’t want to control this.


I am okay with who I am am today because I know even if the world does end, as David Bowie said, “I don’t know where I will go from here, but I promise it won’t be boring.” And if I am going to believe anyone, it will definitely be The Goblin King who Fell to Earth.

It is one thing to make a subconscious decision at 16, it is quite another to still try to cling to an outdated image at 26.

I’m questioning everything right now because for 5 years I thought I would die.

At 26 I did not die and now I know I can’t cling to that anymore. I know that if I was meant to die I will die and that will be it. I know I will have days of depression and melancholia and days of mania and joy. I accept this. I understand I am still growing, still evolving, but I accept this too. I think of my moods like clouds, sometimes dark and stormy and heavy with rain and sometimes light and white and fluffy. The sun still exists, even if you can’t see it. So does happiness and love and warmth and spirit and soul.

The important thing here is: Say the world does end. Your personal world as you know it may end, but that doesn’t mean you will cease existing.

It took me 5 years to accept that

1) Cassie would always be alive through me, because I knew her and I love her. I will always love her.

2) She moved on to another plane and I must carry her torch. I must become stronger, and put myself first. This does not come naturally. I still put my dog before me, but that is still a relationship, and one of my favorites: My dog cannot judge me. I care for her and she unconditionally loves and supports me. Even the wording here is wrong: I naturally will shower in the evenings and wake up later in the day unless I can’t sleep like tonight or set an alarm, but walking her as my first thing after coffee is simply taking care of her need and I am ok with showering later on in the day. So I am not “putting her before me” in anyway: I just still struggle with the triangle of self obsession and need to be cautious in how I speak, and act.

I do prefer animals over most people. I believe their souls are far more evolved.

I am writing a fantasy novel involving an apocalyptic scenario. But my novel is about what happens next. After the world ends. Because I want to know what happens, and if I don’t, I want to create a world out of the forest in my mind.

Hope springs eternal; it cannot be abused.

Neither can faith, or belief.

I had all the answers I needed from when I could read and write.

Destruction and darkness cannot consume me when I have the only key I will ever need: hope.

Hope is all humankind will ever need. It is very easy to get caught up in the complexities of words, feelings, emotion….society. It is very easy to question, and even hurting myself  made sense for a time, because I wanted to be the best at everything: the world hurt me, and so I hurt myself more than the world ever could.

But I am still alive. I would be lying if I said I did not want death. I crave it the way I do drugs, the way I would listen to Jill Tracy’s “The Fine art of Poisoning” or Amy Winehouse’s “Back to Black”. I miss the souls I have loved who passed on.

“Dirk thought of his parents on the precipice, wanting to sink into the cavern of night and wild coyote hills, away from the hammering headlines and screaming TV’s and the death of fathers” -Baby Be-Bop.

Sometimes I wonder if it is only natural and human to crave death, or simply an escape…..to feel so overwhelmed.

But there is a small nagging voice, or maybe a light green cricket named conscience that is chirping away like my fiance when a television episode ends “Yes, but what happens next?”

For me, next is one day at a time, one word at a time, one piece of writing or video or chapter at a time.

Next is acknowledging my personal flaws and establishing boundaries to protect my soul from the chaos of the world and my own mind.

Next is appreciating what I have-my fluffy white dog with Cassie’s sweet hershey’s kisses eyes, my fiance.

He made me a cup of tea and served it to me in this today:


Meeting him was unlike anything else I ever experienced. He is the air to my fire, when we fight it is loud and angry and raised voices and shattering glass but when he hugs me I can feel his love radiating from his heart through his arms like rods of steel as he holds me against his chest.

Somehow, even in my unbalanced mental state when we met, my soul reached out and recognized his. His eyes are the emeralds of daggers forged in the endless fire of passion, he brings my imagination to life and I love the sound of his laugh, like the crinkling when you tear into a freshly wrapped birthday present. I feel so safe when I am in his arms. I nestle against his heartbeat as his eyes sing like a thousand songs and sonnets. Infinity.

And somehow I know even if we fight or succumb to life’s poison, even if we flee thousands of miles away, we will always find our way back to each other. That we are so much more amazing together than apart, that we complete each other.

My twin flame lived long enough to know I had found my soulmate.

I may get mad at you, and you at me, but I know we will always love each other.

But I still have to get stronger. Being beautiful only leads to more harm, in the end. I need strength. I want to love you more fully, to work longer, to sleep more and put my racing mind to rest without death. At the moment you are asleep and your breathing is even. Sophia my dog with Cassie’s eyes is snuggled on my lap. And I am ceasing to type to wonder in the knowledge that my small family loves me and me them no matter what this world brings.

For this moment, I am stepping out of my mind and fully embracing my present.

With a little help from my friends

Hello again, Pixie here. After my long, intensive last post I thought I would share a quick update. I spoke to my therapist (a magical creature if there ever was one) and she advised me to look into holistic based medicine with an emphasis on PTSD as opposed to being committed somewhere standardized and awful that would not actually help me. I was worried about that too as I was committed somewhere terrible once in my families state against my will for an anxiety attack (I was prescribed Xnanx back then and had run out, and happened to be in a hospital for medical reasons and had an anxiety attack so was committed. It was absolutely awful and I don’t want to be stuck anywhere like that against my will ever again.)

The problem I see with anything outpatient though is the levels of medication in my body that I have to overtake to even get a remote effect from anymore as my body built up a tolerance. Tapering never worked for me. At the same time I don’t want to be somewhere they will just shove new meds down my throat (that place gave me awful drugs for mental issues I did not even have that cause me to hear and see things….and all that is precisely what I want to avoid.)

If I could somehow be in a coma for a month and then just remove the drugs from the equation that would be fantastic but apparently everyone wants something like this and it is not a realistic option XD

So, I still need to look into inpatient holistic medicine based places with a focus on PTSD more.

Another thing we talked about is how I struggle over an obstacle so much in my life that I can’t get to the solution. If have a problem, then there is a block and I will fret and worry and overthink and not try hard enough to work on the solution due to this huge fear of failure. How when I started therapy I was in a dark forrest and then when I start to make my way to a bridge of happiness, of warmth…..it scares me and I can dip my toe in the water but then will run back kicking and screaming to the dark negative place.

I am very honest, but also can be quite insecure. Yesterday I was up all night reading Cassie’s Tumbler. Anyone following me on facebook may already know this but I saw a new post I had not previously seen. This is the post as I posted it online:

I’m TERRIFIED right now. I literally could not make up this shit if I tried. Last time I was in London a book flew out at me at a charity shop. As in it fell out of the shelf and literally landed at my feet. It was called wintergirls. Reading the back gave me chills. It was about a 2 best friends one named Cassie and one named Lia. Cassie had bulimia, Lia had anorexia. It was a quid, so I bought it. This was right when I got back after Cassie and Zak died. Reading it was evenfreakier. The Cassie in the book dies, where as eventually Lia eventually starts her recovery journey in the end. THIS GETS WEIRDER.
I couldn’t sleep last night all night. I hate facebook for deleting Cassie’s messages. I went through her tumbler for her words, her voice. I just missed her so much, you know? Then I see this. She read the same goddamn book. Found it inspirational. She included the part at the end, about Lia getting better. WTF is wrong with me? How could I have left her? Why didn’t I just book the same ticket as tedee when they were both still alive? I never should have left. I mean, look at this: http://cassieisflying-blog-blog.tumblr.com/…/finished-winte… She included this quote from the book
“Cassie had liver damage, her salivary glands were a wreck, and her stomach was distended.” Mom holds up a loose fist. “A healthy stomach is this big. It can stretch to hold about a quart. Cassie’s could hold three. Plus her stomach walls had thinned and were showing early signs of necrosis.” […] “She drank, binged, and purged for two days. […] Her esophagus ruptured. Ripped open. Boerhaave’s syndrome, usually seen in alcoholics who regularly upchuck after drinking too much. Vomiting forcefully enough can tear the esophagus. […] She was purging into the motel toilet when the rupture occurred. She was also, like I said, very, very drunk. She went into shock and died in the bathroom.” […] “Did she feel anything?” “I’m afraid she did. She died in terror and she died alone. It is an awful way to go.”’ Did you predict your own death, Cassie? Did you always know? Are you waiting for me?

…..So yeah, after that I had RUN back into the Forrest, looked for the darkest trees, found a well and wanted to jump in and drown then and there. All the pill bottles on my nightstand were looking at me. Someone I met twice who I always disliked was harassing me online, and I just felt that ice-cold sense of emptiness. I remembered a photo on Cassie’s blog: tumblr_mc8r29vqc11qjh6tbo1_1280

I worried, was she in some other dimension, waiting for me? I miss her so much, every day and just wanted the pain to stop.

But, she also posted this



And she discussed her need for creation:

“I need to create

Ever since I was little I have had a compulsive urge to create, especially through writing. I learned to read at 4 and to write soon after and there wasn’t a single second of the day until I was 11 that I wasn’t either writing books or reading books. Then I turned 11, puberty kicked in, and all creativity ceased. It’s like my body decided there were more important things to attend to, I got over-involved in social things, interactions with friends, and of course boys, and it was all fun and merry but all it did was provide a distraction. A distraction from fulfilling myself, which is to be on my own, dedicated only to myself and my own needs and CREATE. I haven’t written a story in about five years, I now only rarely write journal entries and these are fragmented and dull. My fluid, rich, poetic literary way of writing has dried up and in its place I have NOTHING.

I really hope one day I can write a book. I want to write a collection of surreal horror short stories, and a confessional book about my lifelong struggles with mental illness. The latter I could piece together by reading through my accumulated journals of years, but how would I even start trying to make sense of it all, there is so much of it! And when I die, no one will care about my journals, they will just be thrown out. I never want children, so that rules out the possibility of me bequeathing them to someone else. My kitty Ella probably won’t outlive me, and she has not yet learned to read.

I WISH I could find a method to my madness. I wish I was like Yayoi Kusama (exhibition currently on at the Tate Modern, REALLY need to see!). She is ‘mentally ill’, but she harnesses it, and she manages to successfully satisfy her innate urge to create. I don’t understand what is wrong with me, why I can’t create anymore. Something has settled itself in my brain and is blocking my pathways. I can’t even call it mere writers’ block anymore, it’s lasted so overly long.

I just want to… some day… create something, ANYTHING!!”


“I just wrote the first paragraph of my first novel.

…but I was high and don’t think I will be able to write as well when I’m not. Also I don’t have the patience or discipline to write a whole book! But I HAVE to, it is my #1 ambition in life to write a novel and see it published. I am thinking confessional literature atm, and I already know the title! After that I will move on to writing surreal horror, a collection of short stories or something.

But can I actually do it???”

Cassie creeps up a lot into my personal writing, even my first youtube vid which is in final editing stages and should be posted very shortly 🙂

Its strange. I write surreal horror/prose things too and she somehow ends up there even if I don’t intend her to be. That is something I hold onto. I WILL write my novel, and I will dedicate it to my mother, my father and to her. If I write more than one, I will dedicate that to her, too. Facebook.com deleted the long correspondence from me to her over the last years of her life when I was legally stuck in the US and I HATE FB for that, but all I can do in find new ways to keep her memory alive.

So there I was, in a well like the girl from The Ring, ready at that moment to let the darkness consume me. Luckily I have amazing friends in London. Simicat and Ant, you saved me from doing something stupid and potentially fatal that day. I was in the well, and you tossed me a rope and pulled me out. I can see the bridge again, even if I am still scared of crossing it completely.

The best thing I feel a human can do for another human is to simply be there. After Cassie and Zak died, I self-isolated. I hated myself, why should anyone remotely tolerate me? But I didn’t hate all of me. Just the bad scary nasty demon gremlin things that appeared out of the corner of my vision like those spots of black when you press hard into your eyelids. I still feel survivors guilt, the unfairness of being in a world where she is not, where Zak is not, where Igor is not.

But I am lucky. I have people who care about me and love me. OK, most of them are halfway around the world, but they are there. This one is for you:


I do truly believe our closest friends are the family we choose. Your continued love and support means so much and I hope to either visit London again one day, or if you could come see me ❤ *fingers crossed* ❤

Also shout outs to Mary who continues to post cute videos on my wall (proof that I can actually make a new friend! :)) And Nadia and Antoin, always. I miss you all loads ❤

There are other people who I am extremely grateful for but this particular blog is for those who were my anchor last night.

As I was typing this, someone offered me a ride to a meeting tomorrow as well. They reminded me how my main focus needs to be on my recovery now and I need to block toxic/negative people (like mr. dickface, as I think of him) out of my life. I obviously can’t say who they are and don’t think they will ever see this but thank you, too.

And a reminder to those who feel isolated and lonely: are you making an effort? Are you trying to reach out, even if it is tough and scary? Please try. It really is worth it. Good things do exist in this planet, you just need to pick out the diamonds from the rubble.


If we’re always
Starting over
Every brand-new morning
Then we’re always
Starting out
With the end in doubt
We can leave life for tomorrow
Or grieve all that we thought we’d do
Or make each moment new