I wasn’t always so damaged. I remember being very self confident and optimistic as a young child. Life was really exciting and I had so many friends. I remember being a class favorite; kids would vote for me to be in the school plays and always wanted to play with me during recess. I didn’t realize my home was any different from anyone else’s. 

Having friends over was pretty tough, considering we lived in a very old trailer that wasn’t well kept. There was no central a/c or heat, faulty flooring giving into time, and a washer and dryer that rarely worked. It was eventually when I would stay with friends as I got older that I saw the very subtle differences. They slept in matching pajamas after their mom kissed them good night. Meals were prepared all the time and the family spent time together. They all woke up together, too, getting ready by sharing bathrooms and reminding each other to not forget their bags. I had not experienced any of this, not even once. 

There were mornings where I guess my mom was in a pretty dark place and wanted to take it out on me. She wouldn’t wake me for school and refused to talk to me, drive me to school, or allow me to ask someone to bring me. One time, she watched me get ready for a dance for an hour then laughed when I was ready to go. She just sat and laughed, and I missed the dance. It happened quite often and was completely heartbreaking because I loved school so much. I grew to just love being away more. The worst incident had to be when she took me to a concert. I was fooled to thinking we were going to have a great night. We ended up sitting next to a friend from school. Her grandmother had brought her to see the concert as well. The next morning, my alarm didn’t go off at 6 a.m. I walked into the living room to see my mom sitting on the couch, staring at me with a sheepish grin. “You invited your grandmother to the concert. You little bitch,” she screamed, spit spewing with each word. She hated my grandmother on my father’s side, but the woman at the concert wasn’t her. Wasn’t even close. But I had to suffer. 

I didn’t feel the weight of my life until high school. She never came to my football games and wouldn’t drive me. I would attempt to stand up for myself and get punched in the head. I would miss the bus and was told I should just die. The self confident, happy little girl had disappeared. Friends would all of a sudden stop calling. No one wanted to stay over. I cried over everything. Any sense of disappointment or anything overwhelming sent me to tears. I had to ask my friend down the street to wash clothes at her house for school the following week. I had to ask others for rides to football games so I could cheer. And I always had to ask for rides home. I guess it was too much for some of them.  

College was the brink for me. I drove my car that I was only able to get through a loan from my uncle, and I packed my one bag of belongings from an apartment I rented while still in high school. My first semester, I got in trouble for tapping my pencil and shaking my leg. I was directed immediately to the campus counseling. It escalated fairly quickly to the campus psychiatrist. Depression and anxiety were the diagnosis. No matter the therapy, I still was blue. And I still cried when someone yelled. 
Now, not only do I have to tend to my illnesses, I have to hide them too. Most people don’t get it. I’ve had boyfriends who are supportive, but I’ve had a few that were not. One exceptionally terrible boyfriend thought he could help with YouTube videos about how you just think yourself into pain and medicines were placebos. Such a douche canoe. Just like the guy who sent me this message on Tinder: “As long as you’re not one of those crazy bitches on meds.” No sir, I am not. Just a sad bitch I guess. 

I’m a work in progress. It’s hard to feel like you’re on top of the world when you had the value of dirt drilled into your mind. It’s a process, there is no one fix. The most important thing is to keep taking care of yourself. 

I didn’t intend to bare this much sadness from my heart, but the messages I’ve received since the release of my blog have been utterly amazing; there are so many people like me that need to know it is okay to not have these grandiose childhood stories. I don’t always have something funny to say. My sense of humor came from being not so cute in grade school and the mere need to survive in a dark place. It comes in waves, brought on by days when I can conquer the demons. It’s okay to have hard times and to talk about them. Go see someone and talk to them about it. Ask about medicine. The pain is real and it won’t let go until you can look it in the eye. 

But I do okay for myself. I get by with a shit ton of help from my friends, endorphins from the gym, and live music. My friends know when to ask and know when not to ask how I’m feeling. 

Though, I do often wish I was a different color. 

“How hard it is to paint yourself a different color when you feel so blue

Different shades in varying lights, but when you’re born blue

Turquoise, teal, navy

Tiffany, royal, and baby are still blue

What does it matter when you’re born blue

To have different shades of shame”

How do you just fall head over heels for a man that’s sweet, loving, driven, and hard working? I’d love to. Like, I heard its great. Why don’t I just naturally want to be with these men forever? My Pinterest is over flooding with great DIY shit, and meanwhile, I’m over here having to return messages on Tinder that say, “How much does a polar bear weigh?” Get a new pickup line. I need to know how you feel about gay marriage and craft beer immediately. Start with that.
I have friends that try to explain to me how to date a good guy. He should be this and that…but I just can’t bare to sit through another dinner with a guy where I have to hear about how his family trips to Sonoma or the 5K he runs every Saturday morning.
I think Kevin said it best in Season 1 of Shameless: “Fiona is a hood girl. When she says ‘fuck you’, it means ‘I like you’. You keep asking her to lunches and getaways. It’s embarrassing. All day long, all she does is make decisions. Fucking make them for her.”
I meet nice guys all the time. I even date them sometimes. But after a few dinners, some deep conversations, or dating them for 4 to 6 months, I start to feel really bad for them. They usually have family dinners, baby showers for their siblings, and birthdays for their dads. I don’t have those. I never have. There isn’t an opportunity to invite them to these wonderful little events that I’ve always dreamed of having. And then I feel like they’re being shorted. They should totally be able to experience those things as well. They deserve a woman whose mother taught her how to make spaghetti from scratch. A woman who has lots of great pottery-like dishware to serve it in. A woman who has been beautiful her whole life, laughing and going out with all of her other beautiful friends she met in college. A woman who is super intellectual, who went to a great college and is ready to have an army of children. A woman that has never questioned her beauty and has never questioned that she wants a big home full of children in a beach side city.

And sometimes they realize that first and leave.
And there aren’t enough prayers, classes, mentors, or medicines to make me that woman. And they all deserve that woman. But I ain’t it.
And I guess the ultimate question is, do I want him? Do I even want a man with a checklist he carries around, looking for the cookie cutter wife of his dreams? One that has this ultimatum of a cottage home and 3 kids by 2019, laundry done on Thursday and in bed by 9 at night? No, I really don’t. But that doesn’t mean I don’t want a nice guy.
I guess I don’t have a type of partner I want. I just want mine. The guy who goes with the flow. He’s okay with getting surprised by life along my side. He’s willing to bend and adjust. The idea that growing and doing life together is much more exciting than dragging someone along the way.
But I haven’t given up today. I dream that one day I meet the man that doesn’t mind that I don’t really have a talent for cooking, but I try and ask questions. A man that doesn’t mind that on Sundays I watch Game of Thrones with my friends, and Tuesdays I eat lunch with my friends, and Friday nights I have dinner with my friends because they are my family. A man that appreciates my good spirited attempts at Crossfit. A man that will laugh at the memes I save to my phone and gladly eat off of my Marshall’s purchased plateware. And finally, a man that appreciates that I cry when I watch Teen Mom. But alas, he is not here. At least not here watching Shameless and eating pre-made paleo meals with me (Prep by KUG. Check it out. She’s the only reason I eat anything remotely homemade. Yeah, I just plugged that).
Is he out there? Will he watch Disney movies with me and also hate post 9/11 Toby Keith music? I could only hope. I have a lot of love in my heart to give.

I’ve loved the shit out of the wrong ones with all of my heart so I could only imagine how life would be with the right one.

But, for now, it doesn’t really matter. Because I have the most amazing friends a girl could ask for. They fill the voids that my life has dug so deep. They put loving thought into their actions.  I couldn’t do it without them. I can spread the love in my heart among them all, and I can feel like I’m home. And we can watch Rupaul’s Drag Race and eat queso.

Monograms Moms: Look, I hate a monogram just as much as the next hateful single person, but think about it. They’re the last ones getting robbed on your block. Nobody wants to steal their monogrammed China or sectional. Their friends don’t borrow and “forget” to return their scarves and blouses with the stupid mixed up monogram with the last name in the middle and 2x bigger than the other letters. Also, you should really bad for them because they can’t resell all those smocked onsies.

People with Unique Names: You do realize that babies do not pick their names, right? So stop berating little Chair or baby Fork. It is their asshole parent’s fault. I understand that uniqueness is very admired and I admire it as well (Le duh), but for Christ’s sake, take some consideration and think about your kid waiting for his/her Starbucks coffee… made by AloeVerraLynn. I’m just grateful that I atleast have a unisex, typical white kid name for my first name (Taylor) so I can apply for jobs and bank loans without having to worry about the racist white guy scimming over my resume, because I STILL HAVE TO WORRY ABOUT THAT IN 2017. UGHHHHHHH. 

The Kardashians: We all know they aren’t rocket scientists but they never claimed to be and they sure know how to put their name in your mouth. I love to see when people get pissed that they’re invited to speak on subjects such as business and social media. You know why? Because they literally dominate both. They run business and sell merchandise. To come back from media coverage that is suppose to be damning and rack in millions of dollars is unreal, if you understand how public relations works. You’re just mad no one likes your bum ass selfie you posted at 2:35 p.m. from your filthy bathroom.

Anyone in a gym: I don’t care whether you came out of the womb doing deadlifts, anyone who has the audacity to ridicule someone taking a step towards a healthier life is worse than that triangle space between your car seat and center console that sucks your possessions from your very hands. The teasing is what keeps them from going in the first place. Would you make fun of the sinner or the broken hearted going to mass for the first time? I sure hope not because Jesus sees everything. 

And while, we’re at it- Crossfitters: Wonder why you never see a selfie from a Crossfitter at the gym? It’s because they’re actually engaging in exercise that increases their heart rate and challenges them. I am NOT CUTE after a day of Crossfit because I actually did athletic things. Meanwhile, you’ve already posted 3 selfies in the mirror at some “Meatheads Meet and Greet” gym in the same workout tank you always wear. Anyone working to better themselves deserves praise. If you love going to the gym to do two sets of squats over a span of 2 hours, that’s great. But, don’t even make fun of my Crossfit “class”. You’ll be eating your words when you see how nice my ass is after squat day. 

Anyone with a big truck: Yeah, you may make jokes about how big his wang is, but YOU’RE STILL GOING TO ASK HIM TO HELP YOU MOVE YOUR COUCH. 

Anyone who doesn’t know how to do seemingly simple tasks: I can’t begin to count the times someone has made a snide comment because I didn’t know how to apply makeup or didn’t know I was suppose to dust the crown molding in my home. You just don’t know what kind of life people have had. My mother didn’t teach me any of that. But I can make the shit out of some boxed augratin potatoes. But not because she taught me. Because potatoes.