Kat-Lyn D.

"I had to do a clearing in my life of some people whose energy, I realized, was not supportive of who I wanted to be in the world. And I recognized that there are people who are not going to take responsibility for their energy so I now have to take responsibility for the energy that I allow to be brought into my space--life-changing for me, and what I know is, that you cannot continue to move forward in your life to the level and level and level that you need to be if you're surrounded by energy that brings you down. That sucks the life-force from you. So not only are you responsible for the energy that you bring, is what I learned, you're also responsible for the energy that you surround yourself with... And you will never be able to do and be who you're supposed to be in the world as long as you continue to buy into the energy suckers." - Oprah Winfrey

Fictional Nonfiction Pt. II I nervously wrung my hands as I walked up the steps to enter the building. I unlocked the key, placed my hand on the doorknob and took a deep breath. Go get your kids, bitch. Go save your sons. 

Depression is hard. Anxiety sucks.

I'm not really sure how much I trust myself to write this at the moment, but I'm going to give it a shot anyway. I've been up since 4 am (the sun just came up), I might be hungry, my cat is being extremely needy for whatever reason and I just want her to go away. Sometimes I wonder if she can pick up the fact that I'm distressed, and she's really just trying to cuddle me to comfort me, or, is she thinking, "Fuck you, bitch. Love on me in spite of your aggressive depressed state because it's my affection, and I need it now!" I really don't know. Either way, these hands will remain on the keyboard unless I'm fidgeting nervously while thinking of what to say next. She's still cute as shit, though.

Anxiety is a bitch. Depression is a motherfucker, and circumstances be damned.

Fictional Nonfiction Pt. I "Go get my cigarettes, bitch." He leaned back on the couch and lit the last out of the pack of Newport shorts. "I'm not leaving you here with my kids alone," I said with defiance in my tone and hate-filled eyes. "Oh, you'll go get them alright." He pulled a long drag from the tobacco filter as I sat on the floor, trying to remain as least threatening as possible while trying to gather the courage to stand up to him again. It never worked out in my favor, but I had to try. He couldn't be trusted alone with three year old Bobby and ten month old Tyriq. I couldn't possibly leave them with him after what he did to me.

So glad I'm not a web designer. Some of my posts can be pretty candid, well thought-out and pretty goddamned emotional, but I guess I'm glad for moments like this when I just can't pull myself away from my computer and decide to type a little bit more in a more light-hearted fashion. Everything ain't gotta be so damn heavy, ya know?

This post is dedicated to  XD's 30 Day Writing Challenge . Writing is something I have always wanted to do professionally. Writing was my third love, after singing and dancing. When I was younger, if I couldn't bellow from the rooftops with my voice box, it was easy for me to sit down with a pen and paper and fill all the journals I possibly could. Unfortunately those childhood notebooks and stacks of paper are nowhere to be found anymore because of the calamitous upbringing I had, but I still remember the feeling. By the age of 14 I had my own computer in my room. After hours upon hours of playing Wolfenstein 3D, solitaire and free cell, I would sit on that Compaq Presario for even more hours typing and typing away in Wordpad or Microsoft Works (this is for my OG computer heads). Before multi-compatible word processors and blog posts, I was typing away in my computer as my first digital diary.