Posted in Being Vulnerable

Journal 13

I’m speechless.

I come home exhausted and defeated after a two hour walk with my psycho dog

And there in the house is my boyfriend.

My boyfriend who is suppose to be at the job site.

The boyfriend I just got off the phone with.

He’s in the house.

With a bouquet of roses, dinner made, candle lit and music playing.

I’m not joking.

I started crying.

I was so shocked at this huge display of love.

I lost it.

Sometimes a person’s love for you will do that.

It will just sneak up on you and reintroduce itself.

Hey Brooke, my name is love.

We met a while ago, but you’ve gotten a bit comfortable and have forgotten me so I thought I’d reintroduce myself.

It was gentle.

Soft.

And the biggest relief to have dinner made.

Because Fuck I love food.

And he nailed it.

Truly, I am so honored to be his partner in this lifetime.

What a fucking legend.

Posted in Being Vulnerable

Journal 10

So I’ve been called a sadist.

But I’d like to describe it more as

A controllist.

I like to believe I have the upper hand.

But what this person doesn’t know

Is this is my wall talking.

He doesn’t know I’m full of shit

He doesn’t see me crumble

in therapy

Or cry with joy from being loved for three years by the most forgiving man I’ve ever met.

He doesn’t know me.

He tried to pull that perceptive card,

But I’ve met his like before.

Confident on the outside

Insecure on the inside.

Like all of us.

So don’t tell me, you can read me.

Because I know you’re no fly on the wall.

You’re just like every other psychology cock sucker thinking you’re the next Freud.

So bye boy.

Posted in Being Vulnerable

Journal 7

Today I’ve been thinking about home.

Craving familiarity.

I’ve been listening to country music.

Christian music even though I’m not Christian anymore.

Ya it got that bad. 😂

Craving mac and cheese

Tacos

Friends

My whole being is feeling this pull to reconnect with Americans again.

Being in Australia, I’ve only met 3 Americans.

One was a flake.

The second was too loud.

And the third is an adorable Cuban from Florida who is also very loud but we were able to work on it.

Other than that, I’ve met only Brits and Asians.

And don’t get me wrong, they’re very lovely people. But the Brits want to hang more with the Brits and their slang always throws me for a loop anyways.

So my only friends are Asian. And they’re amazing lovely women, but we can’t relate on everything. There are certain things I want to say, but I know they won’t understand.

Just like any group of people, your group knows you. They see you. They can relate with you.

And I miss that.

So I problem solved.

Where can I find Americans in Sydney?

Facebook.

So here I am today, posting on Facebook if any Americans in the city want to hang.

I don’t care if I sound desperate.

Because if you’re on facebook, you’re desperate too.

We’re all fuckin desperate for friendship and making the first move is my forte anyways.

So if you’re out there Americans, I just wanna say hey!

Posted in Being Vulnerable

Journal 5

I like to be naked.

So Fuck Adam and Eve

For their punishment.

I want to be free

And forget lent.

Life is about honesty

Commitment to choice.

Not living in serenity

Forgetting the noise.

Posted in Being Vulnerable

Journal 4

Working from home today.

That means hanging with the pup.

My new source of joy.

We saved him from the shelter a month ago now yet somehow it feels like I’ve always known him.

I had a dog before him.

Harley.

And she was my baby. My world. But I couldn’t afford to bring her across the world with me.

It broke me.

I thought it would be many years till I could replace her, yet it only took two.

Now this cuddle monster is my world, my baby and I couldn’t be more grateful.

His morning cuddles ease me.

His upside down smile warms me.

And his sneaky behavior brightens me.

He is nothing like Harley yet everything like her.

And I hope this time is different.

Posted in Being Vulnerable

Journal 3

I sit here with my flat white thinking of last night.

I almost cried listening to Jocko Willink’s motivational speech on discipline equals freedom.

He asked questions like,

You want free time? That takes time discipline. You want more saved in the bank? That takes financial discipline.

And the whole time he was saying this I kept thinking of my dad and how he taught me the same thing. He didn’t word it that way, but he did teach me discipline at a very young age. And I feel like I get it now. He wasn’t being a hard ass just because he likes power. He was being a hard ass because he wanted me to be free when I was older.

I always thought I wasn’t enough for him because he would criticize everything I did, but really he just didn’t want my expectations to be too low. Because low expectations don’t offer freedom.

And then I thought about how forgiving my dad is. And how even after I called the cops on him this year, he still is seeking a relationship with me.

That’s more than some daughters get.

Though he never says, sorry.

I know he is

Because he wouldn’t keep coming back to me if he wasn’t.

Posted in Being Vulnerable

Journal 2

Damn those dog farts stink!

Almost as bad as my dad’s coffee breath in church.

Rancid, dude.

But at least they’re both honest.

I wonder if my soul stinks as much.

Because as of late, I haven’t been honest with myself.

I go back and forth between pain and pleasure.

Thinking of my dad…

Buy a donut.

Thinking of my mom…

Buy a dress.

Escape escape escape.

Distract distract distract.

It’s so easy to pretend it’s alright.

I’m across the world from them.

They can’t get me here.

But my credit card says otherwise.

I am buying to distract myself from my stench.

Because this wound is festering, brother.

Yet I just keep slapping band aids on it.

Except today.

Today I’m getting a whiff of its misery and I’m not pulling back.

I’m not pulling back today because yesterday I promised I wouldn’t.

So here I am.

Raw.

Open.

And honest.

Posted in Being Vulnerable

Journal 1

I haven’t written here for a while. I guess I’ve been avoiding it. I tend to do that when I’m in conflict. Even through my past therapy lessons, I still run from my emotions. I guess some habits never change.

But I’m here now.

Writing. Thinking. Plotting.

I want to be consistent in my endeavor to be vulnerable.

I want to be more fearless.

So I’m gonna write.

Daily.

And it’s going to get annoying.

But I think I need to do this.

I need to find my pain and forgive it.

Because this blaming avoidant behavior isn’t working.

So here I am.

Promising tomorrow I’ll show up.

Love you.

Brooke

Also, we got a new dog. Say hi to Buckley.

Posted in Being Vulnerable

If it wasn’t for writing

If it wasn’t for writing,

I’d probably go insane.

It’s the only way I know

how to really feel.

My emotions come in forms of letters,

which magically get spun into words.

And I, the observer, sit back and watch as the pen takes me.

It’s as if the hand that moves the pen isn’t mine.

I can feel it moving,

but my mind is not the one thinking the words.

It’s almost spiritual, you could say.

It’s as if the universe knows I struggle with talking

and therefore graciously lets me share through writing.

Written words have always made more sense to me.

They’re intellectually raw and more difficult to produce,

which I tend to prefer.

I guess it’s because I have always lived in my head.

So for me,

writing comes naturally.

Yet, it may not always be pretty,

But neither are feelings.

In the end,

the value is in the effort

not in the display.

So please continue writing

I want to read all that you have to say.