Good and Bad; Happy and Sad

Good and Bad; Happy and Sad

Bipolar: Do you understand it? Because even I am trying to make the pieces fit. Do you care to put yourself in my shoes to grasp it? Because it follows me to everywhere I go, and sometimes I just want to quit. Sometimes it feels better all around to just give up. Some days it feels like there are too many pieces to pickup… Racing thoughts, good and bad. Wandering mind, happy and sad.

Mania: Am I just too much, too crazy for you? Or will you just simply love me through? It’s never done until my brain decides is over. It’s not as simple as wishing it away with a four leaf clover… Racing thoughts, good and bad… Wandering mind, happy and sad.

Depression: Do you understand that when there is darkness so dark, there is no light? Or is that too much for you to bear and to stand up and fight? Nightmares I wouldn’t wish on anyone. Flashbacks of things I try so hard, but can never outrun… Racing thoughts, good and bad. Wandering mind, happy and sad.

Anxiety: Do you understand that sometimes I can’t even catch my breath? It can be so overwhelming that my heart pounds so hard it feels like impending death. In a crowd full of people I just want to disappear. It’s not irrational, it’s not for show, I am not lazy, I am filled with real and true dreaded fear…

Racing thoughts, good and bad. Wandering mind, happy and sad.

Bipolar: It has robbed me blind; everyday this disease does not teat me kind. I feel so betrayed by my own body, so betrayed by my own brain. It’s ups. It’s downs. It’s ebbs. It’s flows. I try to navigate this thing invading my soul, I want nothing more than to be myself again, to just be whole. I try so hard to feign a smile, but most times that isn’t even enough to hide my pain. Some days my body aches from all of this, I just wish I could understand this. I just wish you could understand this, because it feels like no matter what I do I leave us standing in the rain, causing nothing but pain. Frustrated. Angry. Hurt. Confused. Saying things we don’t mean, saying words we can’t take back—driving us once again right off track… Racing thoughts, good and bad. Wandering mind, happy and sad.

Metal illness: Unfortunately, welcome to my life. Everyday is a battle with you, why must you continue to twist your knife? I know you’ll be staying for quite a while, and my shoes are worn and tattered from every single mile. I sigh, once again… Racing thoughts, good and bad. Wandering mind, happy and sad.


Your Moon

You tell me that I’m your moon and every night you’re swallowed by the tide that I use to pull you in,

And in those moments nothing else matters when you’re next to me, your skin on my skin.

Your eyes tell me things that there are no words for,

My eyes tell you that you’re all I want and more.

When your body shivers as we lie between these sheets, I will draw you closer me,

I will warm your body and pull you down into my sea.

Kiss me like I am your only lifeline or kiss me sweet and tender,

Hold me like you own me, for you I surrender.

Ignite your magic deep within my bones.

Hold me tight like you’ll never let me go,

Kick off these covers or just take it slow.

I just want to feel your magic deep within my soul.

In these moments nothing else matters when you’re next to me; your skin on my skin.

Your eyes tell me things that there are no words for,

My eyes tell you that you’re all I want and more.

I love that you’ve made me your moon that gets to shine every night down upon you.

Can I pull you in just as the tide would, every single night until the dawn breaks through?

And, forgive me if it’s too much to ask, but can you make me your burning sun, too?

Will you let me shine down on you for the whole world to see that it is me and only me that warms you?

Everything you are is all that I desire,

Every time we touch you set my world on fire.

When you hold me like you own me, for you I surrender.

You ignite your magic deep within my bones.

When you hold me tight like you’ll never let me go,

And you kick off these covers or just take it slow,

I feel your magic deep within my soul.

Always With You

Unless you know her, you could never understand.

Living with her is like constantly waiting for the other shoe to drop.

It’s like drowning in a tank full of oxygen, there is air all around but your lungs won’t allow you to inhale.

It’s like your heart is racing at the speed of light.

It’s such a strange sensation—feeling your heart pound against your chest but still it feels lifeless inside.

It’s like trying to outrun the sun, the moon and all the stars in the skies, with cement shoes on your feet.

No matter where you are, it’s always there.

There are times you get lucky and she lets you breathe easy for a moment, but more often than not she fills your head with irrationalities and paralyzes your soul.

I should be able to escape this.

I should be stronger than this.

I want to scream; I want to cry.

I feel nothing and everything all at once.

I am sad, but I am numb.

I am scared, but I am numb.

I am anxious, am I still numb?

I feel like death may come for my soul if I cannot escape her.

And just when I think I have overcome her, she signs her next twisted love letter…

“Always with you. See you soon! -Anxiety/PTSD/Chronic Depression.”

K. Lindsay



It’s a constant, never ending battle; a brutal war between remembering and forgetting.

It comes in waves; same days I’m floating on the surface embracing the calm–other days I’m too weak to keep my head above the tide.

Tonight I am drowning in the waves of my own silent hell.

Tonight I am dancing at rock bottom with my demons, cradled in their relentless grip.

There’s one. There’s two. There’s three. There’s four. No–there’s five.

One. Two. Three. Four. Five.



Physical pain.

Mental anguish.

Emotional distress.

Relentless burden.

Victim and survivor.

Tonight I am drowning, I can’t find the strength to fight for air.

Tonight I am spiraling down, down, down.

One. Two. Three. Four. Five.



Where should I begin? I feel like my words my are going to fail me, but let me tell you a little something about him. 

I am more free with him than I have ever been or even ever thought I could be with another soul in all my life. It’s incredible and somehow it just continues to get better and better. It’s mind blowing to constantly connect with another soul on such a deep level, whether it be physically, mentally or emotionally and it’s beyond my tiny human brain’s comprehension. But my god, his love is extraordinary! 

Let me break it to you though–we’re not “perfect” by any means! Nothing in life is ever perfect, and we are both the first to admit that we’re sometimes far from it. We have our highs and lows, but those lows are just drops in the massive oceans of highs. We have our disagreements, arguments and misunderstandings that usually seem bigger than they actually are in the moment; we are human after all. We’re both stubborn and passionate and we can kind of act like assholes to each other at times–warranted or unwarranted, that’s always up for debate. 

But with all that said, I truly believe that our purpose at the very end of whatever this life is, is to walk through this life together–hand in hand, side by side. I can assure you that I’ve never been more sure of anything in my entire life. He makes me strive to be a better person everyday. He makes me believe that good men still exist. He makes me believe that real men stick it out and stay even when things get tough; even when so many others have shown me otherwise. He protects me as if his life depends on it. He makes me genuinely believe that I do deserve the love he gives me; constantly, unwaveringly, and unconditionally. 

He has changed me. He’s unhinged me. He’s completely dismantled me like no one else has ever been able to do. Of course, that comes with the exception of becoming a mother which is the most important and greatest accomplishment in my life. 

To just put it simply, I am a better me because he loves me and accepts every single part of me and who I am. But it doesn’t end there… I am humbled by his grace and the love and acceptance he has for my child. He is a fierce protector and a steadfast loving male role model for my child. His heart is kind and pure. His love is solid and ever endearing. In this moment I don’t think I could love him any more; but then again, I thought that exact thing just the moment before. 

I feel like I’m lying; not because you’re not still my best friend, but because I am no longer yours.

The only thing you can count on in this world is that nothing ever stays the same. And when I say nothing, I truly mean nothing! Even the things you think are the most solid things in your life change and go away. Even the happiest Fairy Tales can turn into the worst heartbreaks of your life. It will cut your soul to the core, it will rip your heart out, it will leave you questioning everything and everyone.

This is an open letter to one of the people that I trusted my life with, gave nearly 20 years of my lifetime to, loved unconditionally, and would still do all of the above for. This is only a tiny bit of the story of us that turned one into of the worst heartbreaks of my life. It would take 1,000+ pages to give you the entire back story and present day story. She knows it all—so no need to go into that amount of detail for everything.

At age 11, I met my best friend. At first, we hated and completely despised each other. Eventually, we discovered that we liked all of the same things and the rest is history. We were inspirable within days and remained that way for decades to come. We saved each other from ourselves. We were each other’s safe haven when home life was terrible. From 6th grade all throughout Jr. High school and High School—and for many years after—that never wavered. We were determined to run the world , side by side and nothing in this world would ever break us apart. I never could have imagined that anything ever could’ve changed that…

I remember how hard I cried nearly 11 years ago when I watched her walk down the isle to marry her high school sweetheart. It was like I was not only giving my very best friend away, but I felt like I was giving away my own daughter. I knew things would change in that moment; but I knew that he was her dream come true and in turn that made him my dream come true for her. Little did we both know that just two short years later that she’d be there by my side as I welcomed my one and only miracle child into this world; I remember the tears she had in her eyes when she held my son. I knew she was just as happy for me that day as I was on the day she got married. There we were—best friends for more than half of our lives—watching each other’s dreams come true. Who knew ten years later we would become strangers living lives that don’t include the other? If someone told me ten years ago that this is the place that we would be, I would have laughed in their face. We were stronger than any two people on this planet. Our love and loyalty ran so deep, not even God himself could shake that.

But, these days when I talk about her in conversation with people I know or even people I don’t know, and I still call her my best friend; but then I have to catch my breath. It is literally sucked from my lungs and it takes a few seconds to register in my brain that everything has changed. In a sense I feel like I’m lying; not because she’s not still my best friend, but because I know I am no longer hers—and then I wonder if I ever even was?

Best friend, I don’t know what changed exactly, I don’t know what drove this wedge between us, I don’t know how this happens to two people that planned and centered their entire lives around being best friends. I could ask a thousand questions, but I think it’s better that I just save my breath because I know that I’ll never get answers to the millions of questions I ask myself every night. I’ve tried, relentlessly and to no avail. I could beg for you to come back into my life—like so many times before—but I don’t have enough tears and strength to continue down that road once again. I think it’s probably clear, as it has been for the past three years that no amount of hope or tears, will ever bring you back to me. I hope you understand how much that kills me.

With this said, best friend; just know that I will never give up on you, I will never stop hoping that you will come back into my life and that things could go back to where they once were—But I just don’t think that will ever happen… but I refuse to give up on you and what used to be. You are still, have always been, and always will be the other half of my soul. If you take nothing else from this, please take that part with you and carry it forever.

Thank you for the many priceless memories that you have been apart in my life—they are irreplaceable and I look back on them often. Thank you for helping to shape the person that I am today. Thank you for once being the kind of best friend that most people only dream of. I love you. I cherish the memories that we’ve made. I wish you nothing but happiness, success, love, and peace. Though there will always be a void in my life without you, I hope you never feel the pain and void losing you has caused me as you move on though this life without me in it—because it is heart wrenchingly unbearable.

Forever love and light,


 For you:


Sarah McLachlan 

I will be the answer

At the end of the line

I will be there for you

While you take the time

In the burning of uncertainty

I will be your solid ground

I will hold the balance

If you can’t look down


If it takes my whole life

I won’t break, I won’t bend

It will all be worth it

Worth it in the end

Cause I can only tell you what I know

That I need you in my life

When the stars have all gone out

You’ll still be burning so bright


Cast me gently

Into morning

For the night has been unkind

Take me to a

Place so holy

That I can wash this from my mind

The memory of choosing not to fight


If it takes my whole life

I won’t break, I won’t bend

It will all be worth it

Worth it in the end

‘Cause I can only tell you what I know

That I need you in my life

When the stars have all burned out

You’ll still be burning so bright


Cast me gently

Into morning

For the night has been unkind

Every story has a beginning; this is mine.

Friday, March 20, 1987—that was the day that I came into the world at 2 lbs. 3 oz.; screaming and roaring like a fighter and then almost instantaneously, fell quiet as if I had never entered at all. That is the way my mother would describe it to you, if you asked her—which trust me—she tells me the story of the day of and after my birth quiet often. Likely because they are still painful for her and it helps her to talk it through because it all ended up being okay for the most part. But, I digress. Let’s go back to the day of my birth and start from the beginning. My mother was scheduled for a cesarean section at the Tinker Bell Air Force hospital in Oklahoma City, OK where my father was currently stationed with the Air Force. She was taken to the hospital by a friend of hers with my three year-old, big sister in tow to be prepped for surgery—my father was nowhere to be found at the time. There was a lot of tension between my parents at the time, so it wasn’t exactly surprising to my mom that my father wasn’t at the hospital like he said he would be. Eventually, my mother learned that as she was being prepped for surgery, my father’s commander tracked him down and demanded that he go to the hospital for the birth of his child and to help take of his other 3 year-old daughter. So, just as my mother was being rolled into surgery, my father showed up, suited up, and was in the operating room to see the birth of his second child. My parents were unaware of my gender, but I’ve read many letters my father had written my mother during the time of their marriage and her pregnancy with me—he was set on me being a boy (this will carry weight later on). My mother claims she didn’t care either way, but always had a feeling I was a girl. At 9:09 a.m. I was pulled from the womb, It’s a Girl! shouted out by the medical staff to announce the arrival of my parent’s new baby girl. There was one cry, one very strong cry, and then silence. Immediately my mother could hear the whispers and saw one of the nurses whisk me by her—I was not crying, I was not moving, I was blue, my tiny body lifeless and limp—but she did catch a glimpse at a full head of black curly hair. She couldn’t do anything but lay on a table, numb from the chest down, abdomen cut wide open, and watch helplessly as the medical team began resuscitation efforts on her newborn daughter. The doctors were unaware of exactly what was wrong with me at the time, as far as they knew I was completely fine and healthy when they pulled me out of the womb, small, but still okay as they saw it. They were perplexed as to why I stopped breathing and eventually went into cardiac arrest within seconds of cutting the umbilical cord. I was eventually rushed out of the operating room into a different operating room where my father was not allowed to follow so he stayed with my mother as they stitched her up and prepared her for recovery—in complete silence. After my mother was brought to the recovery room, my big sister Kimberly, was allowed to greet my parents in the room. She was very eager to meet her “baby sister”, and was full of questions as to where I was—all of which could not be answered to an adult let alone a 3 year-old child. After about 45 minutes of waiting in the recovery area I was rolled into my mother’s room in an incubator, intubated and fully dependant on a ventilator, leads and wires coming from all directions of my body, and with 2 IVs in my head. I was still blue, but I was alive for the time being. My parents were told that there was something wrong with my heart and that I would need to be life-flighted to The Children’s Hospital at OU Medical Center to undergo surgery within hours. My parents were shocked. My father said nothing. My sister said “That’s my baby sister! Can I hold her now? She’s MY baby!” My mother was full of questions that she was told could not be answered because the flight team was waiting, so she asked two last questions, first question: where did her hair go? “Ma’am, we had to shave it to insert the IVs because her veins are too small to hold a catheter. Her head was the only place we could access any viable veins.” Question two: can we stick our hand in and touch her? “Yes, your daughter may also touch her arm or leg and then we’ve got to go.” Something can be said about a mother’s touch—because in the few brief moments that my mother was able to touch me, my tiny body stopped shaking and my vital signs steadied. My sister got to finally touch her baby, but just couldn’t understand why she could hold me in her little arms. That must have been so confusing for my 3 year-old sister—she was expecting a baby doll, not an alien baby on life support that she couldn’t hold like her favorite baby dolls. That also had to have broken my mother’s heart to try to explain why he baby sister was in that condition when she didn’t quite understand herself. My father stood on the other side of my mother’s bed, possibly too shocked to move—he was frozen, he could not ask a question, he could not blink or look away, he could not move his body to walk over and touch his daughter and say goodbye, possibly for the last time. Clearly, I do not remember these things—these are all details I’ve been told by my mother. Nobody knows how my father was truly feeling in those moments, nobody knows if he was too scared to touch me because of how fragile I was, or if he just couldn’t bring himself to say goodbye to a child he thought he’d never see alive again. It’s possible he felt all of those things—he was a human, he was a father, he was not a stone-cold, heartless man for his actions, or lack thereof that day. Shortly after I was flown to The Children’s Hospital at OU Medical Center my father took my sister home to let my mother rest. There was no rest for my mother though, as soon as she could she was begging to be wheeled outside to a phone so she could contact the hospital and find out any information they could give her on her newborn. She also had one more phone call to make and that was to her father, a man you will hear me refer to as “Dada”. That term will become clear later on. Once my mother was able to reach the staff at OU Medical Center she was told that I was currently in surgery to have a balloon placed as a temporary fix until I could have open heart surgery the following morning at 6:00 a.m. to correct the congenital heart defect I had call transposition of the great arteries. To break it down, transposition of the great arteries is a serious but rare heart defect present at birth (congenital), in which the two main arteries (in this case, the aorta and pulmonary valve) leaving the heart are reversed (transposed). Transposition of the great arteries changes the way blood circulates through the body, leaving a shortage of oxygen in blood flowing from the heart to the rest of the body. Without an adequate supply of oxygen-rich blood, the body can’t function properly and the child faces serious complications or death without treatment. This news was completely devastating to my mother and to add insult to injury she was told that there was only one other currently surviving child that had had the specific surgery I needed. Without getting too technical and medically boring, I should just say that the surgeon that was set to perform my surgery in the coming hours is the doctor that basically invented the arterial switch surgery. Dr. Ronald Elkins had only performed it once before on a little boy that was about 2 years older than me, but at the time was doing great. Before this specific arterial switch procedure became an option for babies with TGA, a different procedure that wasn’t always statistically successful—the Mustard and Senning repair—was the only surgical option available. I was about 5 pounds smaller than the other child who had the successful arterial switch and the surgeons weren’t sure if I would be able to withstand the surgery that I needed to survive. Within a few hours my mother had managed to get out of bed unassisted to pack her things because she was determined to be with me at OU Medical Center and in the process ripped open her c-section incision. This was not about to stop her from getting to the other hospital though and somehow she managed to convince the doctors to pack the incision with sterile gauze and release her from the hospital less than 12 hours after giving birth via cesarean section; she got a ride from her friend to the new hospital where I was currently in very critical condition in the NICU. There were no cell phones or pagers back in 1987, at least not anything like that that was accessible to people with the low-middle class means of my parents, so my father was unreachable and unaware of the situation. A lot of the details from here are scattered as I’m sure the whole situation was very traumatic and emotionally and mentally taxing on my mother. When I underwent my first open heart operation at less than 24 hours old, my mother was at the hospital waiting alone during my nearly 6 hour operation. It is still unclear as to where exactly my father was at this time or what he was doing or thinking. But, as a parent myself now, I just can’t understand how, under any circumstances, you could not be there for your sick child during such a difficult and major operation—regardless of what issues were going on in the marriage at that point. But again, I digress. I came out of surgery and my mother was told that it was successful but I was still very critical and the next 48 hours would be the most crucial in my recovery and to my ultimate survival. My mother could not hold me or touch me because any extra stimuli would put too much stress on my already overly-stressed, fragile heart. She did not get to hold me for 4 days, which was hell for her. I recovered very rapidly, and grew stronger with each passing day. My father came to visit me twice while I was in the NICU at OU Medical Center, his whereabouts and reasoning for his absence are still and will forever remain unknown to me. My mother brought me home at 9 days old, free of any leads, wires, monitors, or respiratory support. I had gained weight at a rapid rate and if you looked at me with clothes on, I looked like a normal, healthy baby. If miracles truly do exist, I was and am definitely one of them! In the weeks after being brought home, things between my parents had only gotten worse and they ultimately decided to get a divorce. Because my father was in the Air Force and was stationed in Oklahoma City only a few short months before I was born, my mother had no family and only 2-3 close friends in the area so she decided to uproot her 3 year-old and 1 month-old children and return home to Utah where she was born and raised and all of her family resided. My father remained in Oklahoma due to his Air Force obligations. Although he was born and raised in Metamora, Illinois, he moved all around the eastern US and ultimately ended up in Charlotte, North Carolina a few years later. So my mother packed up what she could, sold or gave away what she couldn’t and my Dada and Grandma drove across the country with my 8 year-old cousin, Jed, in his pickup truck with a small trailer to pack us up and bring us back to Layton, Utah. My sister rode in the truck with my grandparents and cousin, Jed and I rode in the car my dad gave my mother all the way to Utah. When we arrived in Utah we stayed with my grandparents until my mother could get back on her feet and get our own place a couple of minutes away from my grandparent’s home just a few months after arriving. During the time we lived with my grandparents, my Dada had formed a very special bond with me and I became the center of his universe. He would come home from work every night and hold me before he ate the dinner my Gram had prepared and waiting for him on the table. He’d rock me to sleep every single night in his la-z-boy until his arms fell numb. He couldn’t stand to hear me cry, ever, so he’d pick me up and hold me each time my mother wasn’t there the second I started crying. I was his baby, I still am—and I am so grateful for that. Up until that point, my mother and her father did not have a very close relationship—but it’s not my place to go into that because it’s not my story, it’s hers. The bond and attachment that my Dada and I had formed over the few months that we lived with him and continued to build and keep after we moved out on our own, opened the door to rebuild a new father-daughter relationship with my mother and her father; which was exactly what she needed most at that time. I’ll definitely dive deeper into the relationship I have with my Dada and Gram as I write more, but what I’ll say now is: My Dada and Gram saved the three of us, in more ways that I can count here and now. I know that I personally owe so much of who/what I am today to them and their helping hands in raising my sister and I alongside my amazing mother.

So there it is my friends, this is how my story begins. To say it was a little rough would be an understatement and a disservice to all of the pain, strength and sacrifices my mother made in this time and continued to make throughout our lives after I came into the world. But this is how I came crashing into the world and into my parent’s lives like a wrecking ball in an already dismantled foundation. This is the beginnings of how I got my unwavering strength and courage from my mother to continually rise from the ashes and keep trucking along; and this is also how I began my journey of being an absentee father’s daughter. As for how that has shaped me as a person, a woman, and a mother—well that will become clear without necessarily having to spell it out nice and neatly for you as you read on.

*Some details have been left out or condensed to save you from severe boredom and because some of the details are simply too personal and not mine to share with the world. Unfortunately, I only have my mother’s recollection of events. I was never able to really speak to my father in order to understand his recollection of these events and reasons for his absence. Every time I think of him, I ask him these questions in my mind—because every part of my soul aches to know his side of things to try to make sense of why he just didn’t care–and if he did then what the hell was he thinking, oh and where the hell was he when I was needing him most?! (I’ll bet you’re understanding the name of this blog now, huh? Haha)  I will never have the opportunity to ask these questions or to have these answers and that causes a permanent hole in my heart that will never go away and can never be repaired. Below are some photos of me with the people mentioned in this blog post. I do not have a single photo of my father and myself from when I was a baby—that breaks my heart realizing that right now.


My sister, Kimberly, watching over me the day I arrived home. She’s been protective of me from day one.


Big sister finally getting to hold HER baby. I am still her baby. She is truly my best friend and the greatest gift our parents ever gave me.


My beautiful Mother and a very unhappy baby!


My Dada; My Rock; My Hero


My Gram; My Idol; My Heroine

Welcome to the Fractured Fragments

I’ve thought about starting a new blog for a really long time, but I always had the same excuse as to why I shouldn’t even give it a real thought—my truth might really hurt the people I love the most. I mean, why wouldn’t it? It’s my own truth and it hurts like hell to realize it myself sometimes, so how could it not bother them? What if they can’t handle my truth? What if they feel that my truth doesn’t match their truth? Will I lose friends or family members? Will I cause them pain by revealing the truth that they never knew? That has always been something I’ve done everything in my power to avoid my entire life, it doesn’t matter how big or small the issue may be, if it is going to cause conflict or hurt someone’s feelings—it stayed bottled up inside. I’ve always been so afraid to hurt the people I love, I walk on eggshells, avoid certain topics, bite my tongue, lie straight to their faces about how I feel, forgive and forget too easily just to move on. As I’ve grown up and grown older I have been able to trace a pattern that came straight back to where it all started—with me. Instead of hurting the people I love by being open and honest, I push them away instead. I put them or a specific situation/feeling/emotion in a box and push it to the back of my brain and save it for a rainy day. Maybe I’ll pull it back out one day and reopen it and mourn the loss that I, myself, created; maybe I will leave it there forever, never to resurface again because it hurts too much. What I have realized today is that a person can’t do this forever, it wears you down so thin and sooner or later the bough breaks; and when it does it’s time to sink or swim. So I’ve decided to throw my excuses and fear out the window and cling to the only thing I’ve ever been able to hold on to no matter what was happening to me or around me—I’m going to write. But the writing is the easiest part of it all; sharing it with the entire world is the most terrifying thing for me. I’m sharing more than just poetry I’ve written and carefully constructed about love or broken hearts here, but also, here is where I’m sharing my real, honest, sometimes ugly, brutally raw emotions and truth with you. I’m choosing to jump in and learn to swim. I’m choosing my own sanity, my own happiness, my own truth. Today, I choose myself. If not now, then when? Welcome to the fractured fragments of a fatherless daughter. Stay tuned, I’m only getting started! I hope you keep coming back.