Terror.

Blog post #2, a sign of consistency even when it’s scary. Blog post #1 didn’t survive.

I’ve erased this sentence close to twenty times because nothing I type feels good enough.
The transitions don’t feel natural. People are going to figure out I’m an imposter. I don’t actually talk this proper in real life.

MY GOD why is being alive so embarrassing?!

I’m going to tell you all my darkest secrets. Not because anyone asked about them, but because I hope that if even one of my stories can touch someone and help them, maybe they’ll decide to make a positive change. Whether that’s to get help; to love themself a little more; to be more patient; to let go of something too heavy—anything—it’ll be worth spilling all these beans!

I love to talk about myself, I also hate it. I think I’m boring; but hilarious. Trauma makes me uncomfortable so that means I cope with humor, and there’s not much I shy away from. Let me make you laugh at my expense, my treat.

Keeping misery at an arm’s length, still close enough to touch and feel but far enough not to drown in, it keeps me present. My empathy is worn like a thick coat, covered in antennas, reaching out to relate. Sometimes the coat turns into a suffocating slime where I’m overwhelmed by everything I feel, whether it’s my own feelings, or others. This is when my empathy turns to spite. When it turns into “you should suffer like I’ve suffered” because I lose patience trying to relate and help; and usually people DON’T want to be helped. People don’t like to change. 

It’s been six years of blogging on and off, and the people I once wrote about are all still doing the exact same things.

I’ve healed out of so many relationships since my divorce in 2024.

Peace is lonely.

beeftalksaboutit DOT com started as an ‘anonymous’ blog project on WordPress where I wrote about my struggles with BPD, my best friend’s death, as well as ‘hot takes and trauma manifestos’. Friends read it. Family read it. As you can imagine, it didn’t necessarily go well. As it would turn out, people don’t like when you tell on them.

Sometimes life happens to you and you sit on the experiences for fifty years and never tell anyone about anything that happened because it was too painful or embarrassing. Your life isn’t a secret. We all live so afraid of exposing the people that fucked us up. We pay money and go to therapy to get un-fucked before we do it to someone else. 

Luckily, I did this at the ripe age of twenty-four and before I had children (of which I would later decide to NEVER have children). Most people go it alone and think they’ve broken the cycle on their own, and maybe some do. In my experience, most of them don’t. This blog is a testament to the work I did with my therapist to un-fuck myself, as well as a collection of stories on how I got fucked up. 

As Anne Lamott said “You own everything that happened to you. Tell your stories. If people wanted you to write warmly about them, they should have behaved better.” 

Thankfully, I'm almost thirty-two now—and no longer clinically qualify for BPD or PTSD. With seven years of nonstop self-work, therapy, medication adjustments, testing, sweat, blood, and tears—SEVEN WHOLE YEARS—I rewired MY brain and saved myself. DBT and EMDR were paramount in the process. Despite it all, I still exist.

And now you’re here, reading this, and I appreciate that. <3

All my love, K.

If you do decide to subscribe, expect more stories about mental health, relationships, psychology, grief, bad decisions, good therapy, and occasionally me screaming into the void with a sense of humor.