More on this book
Community
Kindle Notes & Highlights
“The effects of unresolved trauma can be devastating.” —Dr. Peter Levine
Clinomania (noun): an excessive desire to remain in bed; morbid sleepiness
I picked at the leather cushion beneath my thigh and concentrated on mimicking a rock: hear nothing, see nothing, sit still all day, and sometimes fall over and crush people to death. Goals.
I’d crossed out the drug policy because I didn’t follow bad laws.
My new life motto: stand for something or fall for everything. Yes, I was standing for drug use. Someone had to.
Current life plan: throw myself off a cliff as soon as possible.
As far as I was concerned, he didn’t deserve anyone’s respect. First, he was a man.
Anyone else plagued by men? Just me? Nice.
I would have joined him, but I didn’t laugh with men. I only laughed at them.
Therapy had clearly mellowed him out. Not.
He needed electric shock therapy, or a lobotomy, or both.
Ironic, so does my bd
At least I hadn’t been born a man; that would really suck…although, my penis would be huge.
Conflagration (noun): a large disastrous fire.
It was called giving up, and everyone needed to practice it more.
I hadn’t felt this sick since I’d learned fifty-one was divisible by seventeen.
My inner slut screamed at me to sit on his face and suffocate him.
One day, you were a woman with hopes and dreams, and the next, you were fantasizing about sitting on two men’s faces just to shut them up.
Happens to the best of us
We loved an ally.
All the men glared at me (they were jealous of how good I was at sucking dick).
I would have felt bad. But I didn’t. What could I say—bitches were harsh like that. For context, I was bitches.
Everything is going to work out great. Just have positive thoughts and keep trying. Blah. Blah. Blah.
“Men should be seen, not heard. Remember that.”
Sue me, I liked cute clothes.
There were two steps to being that bitch: (1) protect your peace from men, and (2) never pay retail.
Maybe that was the worst part about war: you thought it would give you answers, but it only created questions.
Wars started messy and depraved. They ended the same way.
Real
I wasn’t sure if I should spiral or beam at his praise, which once again said a lot about my morals.
Me when I get called a slut
receiving gifts was one of my love languages. So were words of affirmation, acts of service, quality time, physical touch, and begging for my forgiveness. It was called having standards.
Period
(the day I stopped being dramatic, I’d be dead)—then
I got PTSD three push-ups in (I was lazy) and never did that again.
lol me after I get out of the military
