Family Matters


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Blame is a funny thing. We blame ourselves for gaining that extra five pounds last month. Or we even blame others for falling out of touch with each other over the years. It’s something that we pass around to others as if playing hot-potato. With blame, we begin avoiding responsibility where no one is truly held accountable for their actions. What is really heartbreaking is when people blame themselves for something that they had no control over.

My grandpa was one of the most cold and distant people I’ve ever encountered. He was never emotional about anything nor did he show any type of affection to his sons or grandchildren. He never called to see how my first day of school went, or when I was in the hospital, or even congratulating me for graduating with my Bachelor’s Degree from University. He wouldn’t send as much as a card in the mail saying, “You did it!” I didn’t ask him for anything, nor at this point, did I ever expect anything.

When he passed away February 10, 2017, I didn’t feel anything. Sure, he was the last living grandparent. And yes, it was an end to a childhood-era. But how could a person be held to an important title, and not be at least kind or loving? After years of trying to be the bigger person and initiating conversations, I stoped trying to have a relationship with a man that would refuse to acknowledge me at family functions.

Sitting at the table with my dad a few days after the funeral, my dad talked about how much guilt he was harboring for not having my brother and I not spending as much time with my grandparents on his side. How was my dad so capable of love or capable to feel any type of emotion for others. He lived under the same roof as the man who refused to hug me for the past 6 years– and yet, he somehow incorporated the blame that my grandpa was supposed to have and pushed it back upon himself. It baffles me how different they are and how lucky I was that my dad is nothing like his dad.










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I am tired.

I am stressed.

I am angry.

I am anxious.

I am a sneeze away from a psychotic break.


I can’t breathe.

I am depressed.

I can’t move.

I am struggling.

I want out.

No one hears me.


Helicopter mom doesn’t listen to anything but the hum of her own propellers. Too self-absorbed to notice anything but herself.

I feel like everything that I do, is a waste of time and effort.

I can feel the helicopter’s blades strengthening.

Deafening, smothering, defeated.

I can’t seem to figure anything out.

Identity theft-thief doesn’t even want to be me.


Searching for independence.

Struggling for independence.


Eat feelings.

Gain 20 pounds.

Hates self.

Gains 40.


So anxiety stricken, that I can’t stop reliving situations in my head.

I have that constant feeling that I’m at the top of a 400-foot roller coaster without any safety restraints.


Hanging in suspension.


So incredibly lost.


I’m not writing as much as I used to.

I’m not drawing as much as I used to.

I feel like I’m stuck.

I need to get out.

I can’t breathe.

Perpetually Single


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Just as a precaution, I know this is considerably lengthy and I probably wouldn’t read the entire thing. I just don’t have anyone that I can talk to about this and I’m venting about my recent “dating” experience. I’m overwhelmed and I just need to write out my feelings.


Why is it that dating so difficult? How hard could it possibly be to find someone to share your time, memories and experiences with? It doesn’t sound like too big of a problem, right? Wrong. Too much of something typically results in some much needed “me time” or resentment.

People **my mother** have been harassing me about not having a boyfriend. When did it become a problem being a self sufficient and independent woman? Was it an issue when I didn’t have a date to my high school’s junior prom? No. Was it worry some that I didn’t want to spend time with people I was not interested in furthering a relationship with? No. BUT because I am now in my mid-twenties, my mother is freaking out. I love when my mother reminds me on a daily basis that if I do not lower my standards and expectations, I will surely die alone. My response to that is, “If that’s what it takes, it’ll be for the greater good.” I love being alone and I revel in it. I do not want any communication with anyone. Would people consider me to be antisocial? Sure. Do I care about titles? No.

However, since I live in a town where everyone seems to know everyone, I was convinced by my friends and family to give online dating a try. I don’t think I’ve ever been so well… amused by everyone on there. I never realized that the people I grew up with had a COMPLETELY different side to them and were such freaky-deaky’s.

Yet, through all of the clutter of people in my inbox, one stood out more than others. Its amazing that something as simple as “hey” got my attention over someone that actually asked me a question. This guy was really attractive and seemed that he would be interesting to talk to. He was tall and had light brown hair with deep chestnut eyes. Wow. After exchanging witty banter for about a week, I finally became comfortable giving him my number. Conversation was easy and things were actually going really well. He was extremely open and honest about his past. Which, for those of you that did not know, being honest is one of my huge deal breakers; I don’t associate with liars, no matter how small the lie is. So when he was honest about his recovery and his past, I was pleasantly surprised and really taken back. I’ve never experienced a connection like this. I have never been in love, but I knew that I was really starting to like him to the point that I was emotionally invested.

Another week went by and we felt that it was finally time to meet. I was so excited to finally look at a person instead of gazing at a picture. I wanted to look into his eyes when he was talking instead of staring in wonder at a screen. Considering that we live about 35 minutes apart, we agreed to meet at a neutral coffee shop that would be our half way point. As the days got closer and closer to our meet, I would wake up excited. It was such a foreign feeling. My heart would flutter and drop a little bit every time I would see that he had messaged me.

When the day came, I got up at 6:00 a.m., drank a gallon of coffee, brushed my teeth, jumped in the shower, and started trying on what seemed like one hundred outfits. I wanted to make a killer impression. A few hours had passed and I didn’t hear anything from him. “That’s fine” I thought, “maybe he is at work and he can’t be on his phone.” Now it was an half an hour before our coffee date, and still nothing. Was I looking too far into our whatever it was? I finally got a text three hours after our date was supposed to be… 9:00 p.m. I was crushed. He came up with the excuse that he was helping out his friend, whom was also a veteran, with his medications. He had also mentioned that this friend had also given him a pot cookie and it made him forget our plans. We have been talking for a little over two weeks and you forgot that we were supposed to meet?  All it would take for him was to shoot me a text saying that today was a bad day. I’m not your mother. I understand that things come up and shit happens, but you should have respect for my time and my feelings.

After he apologized, I shook it off and didn’t hold that incident against him. We made plans to now get together that weekend. I was still pretty excited. The day finally arrived and everything was coming together. When all of the sudden, I receive a text from him. “Hey I have to help my friend move. He’s getting out of a messy divorce and he needs my help.” Well at least this time I wasn’t stood up. As he helped his friend, we continued texting. Naively, we make plans again for the third time to which he also cancels. I can’t even remember the bullshit excuse that he used because at this point it does not mean anything to me.

How does the saying go.. fool me once, shame on you… fool me twice shame on me? I know he is busy and I know that he has a life, but my issue is that if he wanted to make it happen, he would’ve. You make time for people that you have respect for or are interested in. This time I didn’t text him back and nor did he make an effort to text me back. I was so disappointed and let down. I felt that in our month’s time in getting to know each other, that I had left some sort of impression on him. A week almost passes to which I receive a hostile text saying that I was done with him and that I had decided to stop talking to him. I told him that I didn’t feel that he wanted to make time to see me or that he had necessarily wanted to see me and that he proved it with not reaching out to me in the entire week. To which he pushes it back by claiming that he tried texting me. Screenshots of our conversation with each other were exchanged and both of us were right. I never received a his texts and he never received a reply. It must have been a phone glitch, because we were both telling the truth.

We both apologized and acknowledged that it was a miscommunication and that it was neither of our intentions to stop talking. We pick up texting but this time it feels different. I can feel there is a disconnect. I can feel that he is being weird. Does he not believe me about not getting his texts? Why would I lie about something like that? If I wanted to stop talking to him, I would’ve deleted his number, blocked him, or told him that he should loose my number. Now instead of texting me throughout the entire day and talking, I get a text reply about once every 8-10 hours. What the hell. Why would you throw a fit because we stopped talking, and why are you not replying back?? Do not resurrect something that was almost dead. If you wanted to move on with your life in a different direction, why get confrontational and not act on it? You should have just left it alone. What was your point that you’re trying to prove?

Still throughout all of this, there is a small hope that he figures out what he wants or if he wants to pursue a relationship. I know that I won’t be around forever. I ain’t got time for this. I have a life that is as equally important.



Weekend Warrior


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I’m the girl next door, the friend-of-a-friend that tags along for a party, the go-to shoulder to cry on, and the one that gives the best unbiased advice. I am dependable, genuine, and nice. I was never the first pick for any sleepovers nor was I even the second pick. I’m reserved and extremely guarded. I’ve always wanted to be outgoing and confident. For me, these two seemingly simple things have been a constant struggle. Throughout my entire life, I have always struggled with my weight. When I was happy, I ate. When I was depressed, I ate. When I was bored, I ate. Sensing a theme? It has been a really difficult road and it has taken me a long time for me to finally accept myself and for me to be comfortable in my own skin.

I have always been there for other people. Yet when it comes for me to rely on someone or ask for help, I feel like I have no one. No one calls me to see how my weekend was or to check in to see if I’m doing okay. Do I come off stronger than I actually am? Does no one really have time for me? The friends that I considered to be close to me are farther and farther away. I’m not looking for a ‘pity party’ or any sympathy. I just wonder how I got to this point in my life.

Recently, I have started to really look at all of the friends that I’ve made. It seems that there are very few friends that have been around for more than 8 years. I do not have any childhood friends and most of my friends from high school drifted away.

I want support and I want people to care about my well being. I’m lonely and I am scared. I want a best friend that I can confide in. I want someone that wants to know everything about me. I want someone that most truly positively gives a shit. I’m scared to keep sharing myself with more people for them to just walk away or not be there when I need them. I want to be happy so bad. I don’t know how to reach out and ask my “friends” to shut up about what they looked like at the bar last night and to listen to me for a few minutes. I want to talk things through with them. I want to vent to them of my anxieties. Sometimes I get so nervous that I feel like I literally become immobile and I can’t leave my house. I want someone to genuinely sit and listen without trying to change the subject back to them. I thought that I’ve been such a great friend to others, I selfishly thought that they would return the favor. I guess I can’t have it both ways.


Self Help Books and the Need For Speed: Finding a Career


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Never in my wildest dreams, have I even considered reading a “self-help” book. With the difficult task of landing the perfect, steady, and rewarding career, I needed—and still need—all of the help I could get.

One thing that is stressed throughout college is to persevere, meet insane deadlines, and to keep focus on what is important. Yet the most critical and most detrimental task, if not executed correctly, is creating a stellar resume and cover letter that sets you out from the others.

Graduating from college is one of the most rewarding and fulfilling things that I have accomplished. All of the sleepless nights and last minute study sessions have now become a thing of the past. Students spend most of their time prepping for their last semester of college with the idea that they will be offered countless dream jobs.

To my dismay, I have had the biggest wake up calls thus far. There aren’t any employers lurking in the shadows trying to convince you to come and work for them. Nor is anyone desperately trying to find you. Employers are clever and graciously overwhelmed in the amount of job hunters currently seeking one of their coveted positions. Why would they need to inconvenience themselves to find the perfect employee, when in reality job seekers are throwing themselves at potential employers?

The first week after my last final, I was troubled with the difficult task of what specifically I wanted to do. What was my calling? What am I supposed to be? What was I born to do? Through all of the rigorous and long days of soul searching, all of my efforts had lead be back to the one avenue— which was the avenue to becoming a writer. Writing is my true passion.

There will always be jobs and opportunities that will come and go. However finding the career that was designed for me will take time.

The Strengths of Fragility and Vulnerability: A Letter


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To my readers,

My life seems much more complex than it truly is.

Reflecting back on all of the “first” days of school, teachers usually asked their students to share something interesting with the class. For me, this was always rather difficult. Scanning the room, I could always tell when someone had come across the most perfect story to brag about. I would scour the memories of my dull summer, and like always my brain would suddenly freeze. Every year, I would listen to all of the lavish and adventurous stories of traveling to foreign countries. Where every year I could feel my pulse strengthen where soon enough I was convinced that my heart would leap out of my chest and sprint out the door.

I have always been nervous about other people’s opinions of me, especially when it came to my writing. For me, writing is everything. I have been scribbling down my most treasured thoughts, precious memories, and most secret secrets into journals. Everything that I had created was honest. My journal entries were so raw and special that if I had ever found out anyone had even glanced at one of my records, I thought my whole world would collapse. For a long time, I was ashamed of my writing abilities.

Never being a person to wildly boast, I have become my worst critic. However, once I become entranced into the flow of typing, my fingers press down on my laptop’s keys, creating their own music. Listening to the relentless rhythms and therapeutic notes, the words fall onto my screen like the ocean’s tides rushing against the shore.

Writing was my only outlet. Hiding in the shadow of my younger brother, my feelings and needs were placed on the back burner. While he was able to play basketball, soccer, and baseball, I was only allowed to watch his practices and games in “awe.” For nearly ten years, I was the child no one realized had existed. My ideas were immediately shot down and rejected; my journal was the only one who would accept any thought or concern. My journal was the only thing that relinquished all of my anxieties. Through the open and blank pages, I was given a plush field to run around and explore. I would craft my new voice into words and into poems that would soon be enveloped into my being.

My journal has protected me throughout my entire life. Yet as years would pass, so would my loved ones. What started off being simple writing, my writing turned into something I had yet to uncover about myself. I began to critically think and learn how to interpret my inner thoughts and feelings.

Writing is a much more difficult task; like many things, it takes time and genuine effort. Finding the particular words and finding an exact way to phrase what is intended, is merely the beginning. To make something interesting and thought provoking, the topics need to be fully developed. Exploring the surface of an issue would only have the audience in a state of dismay and confusion.

My writing is an exact representation of who I am and whom I am going to be. The subject matter, though at times might be vastly complex, will always be apart of my inner self.

Writing is a pure form of art; yet all art is, is beautiful work. Both through the written word and spoken word, language has been crafted to make a bleak or an ordinary world come to life. With styling language in a certain fashion, we are able to accomplish anything. We take simple, even, mundane words and transform them into language beyond our wildest dreams. Taking the dialect that is created; it is adjusted to the audience making the subject matter interesting.

Over time, I have seen a great amount of promise in my writing. In it’s infantile stages, it was hard to digest. Now, it has beautifully transformed into something I am proud of.

It is true; the skills that are not practiced will slowly fade away. I am at peace with my work, for my art is always changing for the better. Striving for excellence is hardly the way to become a great writer; it is the long and grueling hours of practice and the strong itch to better yourself that will make the greatest impact.

My life may be common, but my writing abilities and love for language is what sets my story apart from the rest. In order to grow as both a person and a potential author, I have to be honest with myself. I cannot live in a lie or in the lives of my characters. The best stories are the ones we can create with our words and our minds; the possibilities are endless.


The most vulnerable thing to do is to reveal your true self. Being open and completely honest is an extremely difficult task to accomplish, especially if you are unfamiliar with the person reading it. Groups of people staring into my thoughts once seemed like a terrifying notion, but somehow I have grown to overcome this.

Introductions are always difficult. When talking face to face with someone, we are able to read his or her expressions and body language where we unconsciously tiptoe around dangerous words or topics. Always tending to make notes for later of what not to mention or what to talk about instead. People have this innate want and need to be liked by others. Undoubtedly, this becomes a goal to achieve trivial statuses such as, “High School’s Most Popular” or “Most Outgoing.” Don’t force yourself to be different. If you are always acting differently around others your falsified façade eats you alive.

My name is Alexis, and I grew up in what seemed to be a small town just outside of Sacramento. Ironically, not everyone knows everyone. Being recently retired from their professions, my parents had always showcased our family to resemble the “white picket fence” stereotype.

I am now tackling my last semester of college at Sacramento State University where I will attain by B.A. in English Literature. I now face my biggest identity crisis and greatest fear: deciding what I want to do and be for the rest of my life. This blog will help me in my endeavors of truly getting to know my real self where it could hopefully lead me into a direction of what I want to do. And no—I do not want to be a teacher.

Let’s begin with, “hi, it is nice to meet you.” Though I may not know in particular whom I am talking to, I feel that if you are still reading this, I have somehow grabbed your attention, connected or bonded with you. For this, I welcome you.