January 19, 2014 — 110 Comments

depression (1)

I can’t write anymore.

I have 12 drafts sitting here. Mocking me.

Tick. Tock.

He commented on my first post:

“There’s a huge world between “black” and “white” (avoid the beige, the fucking Gap khaki beige),

so write truthfully what you’re feeling, wherever you are.

Make this blog at your image(S).

Keep this blog about the real you.”


But I’m afraid.

Can I say that?

I’m never good enough.

Is that what you all come here to read?

If I comment, she screams at me.

I haven’t washed my hair in a week.

Tick. Tock.



I came here

After another blogger decimated me.

Destroyed my family.

Destroyed my child.

Out of the blue

reached into my life, took hold, played with me for a few days.

Got bored.

Threw me in the garbage.



Didn’t know I’d had a childhood in which nothing I ever did was good enough.

Didn’t know it was the first time in 20 years I’d written after a horrible fall from grace.

And I was broken.


Don’t go pushing yourself into my life and disappear.

Because I damn near died when it happened before.

“Sweet Samara, I’m not going anywhere. I promise.”

So where ARE you?


Tick. Tock.


I love my child so much I sometimes look at him and can’t breathe.

Just looking at his eyelashes against his cheek when he sleeps takes my breath away.

“Mama, you’re wearing the same clothes again today.

It’s like, the third day.”

Tick. Tock.



I want him to be the person in his blog.

I want him to be the way he was when he first emailed me.

So. I go back.


Never finding what was never there in the first place.

“All writing is betrayal.”

Jen once wrote, “the more you want closure with someone, the less likely you are to get it.”

Tick. Tock.



I’m sitting here waiting.

I can’t walk home with all this poster board and the mechanism I constructed to illustrate

Kepler’s Third Law of Planetary Motion.

The square of the orbital period of a body orbiting around a larger body is proportional to the cube of the semi-major axis of the body’s orbit, which is basically the body’s distance from the larger body.

Which made sense to me in the 6th grade, but I can’t even process that sentence.

And I can’t carry it all home

And the first place trophy.

You said you’d pick me up

You forgot the science fair was today.




Really loud, that one was,

cause it’s cold out.



“Here – here’s my world. Please handle with care. ”

He never even looked.

You said, in that considerate and polite way you have,

I’ll read and comment appropriately, if you’ll let me.

That would be good. That would be healing.

It never happened.

Just carefully constructed words

To hide a painful lack of interest.


Tick. Tock.



“Mama, can we have dinner together, please?”

“Baby, I made a great dinner for us.”

“I meant – will you EAT. Not just sit there.

You’re doing that thing where you push the food around your plate.

but i can tell you’re not eating. Give me a break.”




So tired of recycling it.

I want the bliss I was put on earth for. That I’m certain we were put here for.

Not this recycled pain.

From 1974. 1979. 1994. 2013.


We were put here for something different.

I know because I wrote it in my comment section.

Three days of making it through 200 comments.

Yes, I know there are 40 more in my queue.

Tick. Tock.


And when she wrote,

“I can’t take it anymore! Why are my child and I even HERE?”

I responded, “because YOU are worthy of love. You deserve bliss.”

So it must be true, since I wrote it. I must have believed it.



I’m right back where I started last fall.



There will be no one to pick me up this time.

No one to champion me on.

I can’t write.


My blog was on life support.

It’s unplugged now, and dying.



I put my son to sleep a while ago.

We cuddled for sads and glads.

He said, “mama, where ARE you?”

“I’m right here, baby.”

“no you’re not.”

I’m failing him.



Freshly Pressed. 209 new followers.

nothing to say.

I’m failing you.




I have an old grandfather clock in my foyer.

It was my uncle’s.

My cousins gave it to me when he died.

It’s really loud.

Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock.



110 responses to DEATH OF A BLOG


    I wish I had the words that would comfort you, but I don’t know that I do. What I do know is that I love your writing and your truths. This is your place to do what you want with. Like people have said to me in the past couple of days, don’t censor yourself. I really do wish and hope that you don’t leave.


    You can write. I know it every time I read your blog and every time you comment on my blog.

    Do not let the old wound open up again.

    You have so much to say.

    Please, write on, Samara.


    Yes you can write. You can write the words above that in a few short lines let the reader into your emotion and turmoil. And your truth.
    And it gives you so much pleasure. I just got here, but even in the few posts I read, I found myself wanting to read more and understand.

    You have a great voice and style. Use it how you see fit. But I hope that includes keeping on writing and posting.

    Rock on, Samara.


    Sweet Samara, what the fuck happened? I’m sorry if I’m behind on your posts and not caught up, but your value as a person and writer is not measured by someone’s interest in you! Fuck ‘EM. Just write. YOU are amazing. Truly. Your writing is exceptional. Stunning. Thought provoking. It grabs me by the heart. It makes me strive to be a better writer/blogger. Your personality seeps into your comment section as you make amazing connections with others. REAL connections. You are a rock star. Own it. Take a blog-vacay if needed. Find you. Rekindle your love of writing. YOUR WRITING MATTERS. A lot.
    You’re incredible, and also incredibly hard on yourself. Give yourself a break. Love you, girl. xoxoxo


    You don’t know me & yet you move me from deep within, from a place half forgotten.

    Your words are a powerhouse of emotion.

    Thank you

    Pure and sincere


        Nothing quite like cycling to get you to…or from somewhere. I do it all the time. When the weathers bad I stick my bike on the turbo trainer turn up the music VERY LOUD close my eyes turn my legs slowly round…feel yourself…build…the sweat trickles from your finger tips…air sucked in blown out…sucked in blown out…get out of yourself…

        Right now I’m listening to Underworld a track called Spikes. Isn’t music brilliant. So much of life between your ears. Listen to it. Turn those pedals!


        cycling + music = heaven.

        Except in NYC. I was thrown off my bike, flew two car lengths and tore my ACL to shit.

        Gotta listen for traffic when cycling in NYC. But I don’t live there anymore, so it doesn’t matter.

        Don’t cycle as much as I should. I miss it.


        I re read your blog. It’s dark here. My blood hisses in my ears. And yes there a clock. Tick. Tock. My heart races whilst I alternate between a raging fever & ice cold. Images & thoughts ebb & flow. Time stands still speeding past me as I leave by degrees. Leave


        You’re re reading my blog?

        Ack. That post was from a bad time. I will explain.


    That was soul-wrenching writing. You poured it all out there.


    You can write. and you know what the beige is ok.
    maybe its not beige. maybe you are your own biggest critic. actually of course you are. arent we all.
    just write honey. its always been there within you. you Dont need anyone elses affirmations.


    All of this hate from the past week is killing me. I just found you and hate that you’re going through this. I also know of friends being bullied. It makes me stabby and incredibly sad at the same time.

    You are stronger than them. I believe in you.


    This was so heart wrenching. Don’t give in to the hate that you feel is taking your breath away. Channel it. Write it. I’m new I know, but you have a gift and a powerful voice. Give yourself a break. Give yourself some space. But just hang on.


    My heart hurts for you on so many levels right now. I am sorry. If you decide to stop (which I don’t think you should but I know where you are mentally), it doesn’t have to be forever, though it may feel right now that it has to be.

    Sending you peace and strength.


    I have only just started reading your blog. Don’t stop. You deserve to be able to keep going.


    This was… wow. So few words and yet, it said everything. Samara, you have a gift. Please don’t give up. Don’t give the negativity enough credence, enough power, to take you down. And sure as hell, don’t let anyone dim your light because it’s shining in their eyes. Hang in there girl.


    Don’t stop now, samara. I’d be sad to see you go. Cimmy would be, too (I’m at home with Boy, and she’s off at church with Princess, or otherwise she’d have commented by now).

    You’ve given us a lot of support– it’s only fair that we return support in kind.


    Samara, you are a tremendous already and I have a feeling you’re just getting started. You can’t give up now. Just quiet all the voices of doubt in your head. Believe in yourself. I know you have so much to offer with your writing and your fresh voice. This was a tough week in blog land. You can always take a break and come back when you’re ready. One thing about blogging I know since I’ve been doing it for a year and a half, it’s about pacing. Write when you want, when you have something to share. Do it because you want to! And I know you will. Feel free to email me if you want to talk.


    You’re not back where you started! What are you talking about?! That’s why they call it the past. Because it PASSED. Are you the same person you were last fall? No, you’re not and neither am I. Nobody is. There’s someone to pick you up. Someone strong. Someone you’ve relied on over and over again. The one person who has never abandoned you and never will. Wanna meet her? Go look in the mirror. Put some Zen in those corn flakes. They’re not just pretty words. They’re the truth.


    I am new to your blog. Wished I had the sense to have found you before, but paths cross when they are mean to cross. Not my business or my timing, is it? Waves lap the beach when the moon beckons on its gentle pull.

    As for the writing, this is where we sit when the sleet slaps against the sheet roof, yes? I retreat into myself and into my writing self when I can’t even grasp at how I am feeling. The mere act of putting finger to keyboard or pen to paper is an act of salvation and release. Even against my own wishes. The day I am lorded by someone else over what is within me is the day I have lost self. And I always have that gift of me to share. As do you. We all do. We aren’t here for commerce (well, most aren’t – you know what I mean), or for prestige or stature. I stumbled onto WP to type a few things crescendoing in my heart and spirit. Needed a virtual pad of paper.

    And in that slow embryonic decision, I found a swelling of others who were doing the same. I still am. When I read some of the posts like I have just started reading of yours, my faith in this whole thing we do is reignited. Burns greater. The words of others used in haste, hate and hindrance is a non-game changer to me. I can’t lay claim to be in the position you are in. I have no experience of that, so bear with me. But I have come across bullies, across those who wish to harm me or put me down, or to lay claim to something that is not theirs. My spirit and writing belongs to no one. No one. It is my soul’s way of whispering, shouting and caressing. Without it, without the words, I am muted.

    Don’t be muted. You have much more underneath. Take a break. Write in a journal on the bus, in the backyard, by the cafe. Write some goodbye letters to the spirits who seek to crush you and then burn them. Cleanse if needed. But write. Write. Write.




      I sent some of what you wrote on Guap’s blog last night to a blogger – that is how deeply you moved me with your words.

      thank you for your blessings. I need everyone’s I can get, right now.


        Thanks, Samara. That’s very kind of you.

        I like the idea of the muse shifting and changing our playground rather than another person, if you know what I mean.


        Take in the love that’s being demonstrated here 🙂


        How many chances do I get?

        How many times can I fall from grace and get to stand Up again?


        As many chances as you will let yourself have. Inner Resilience. There are no markers as to how often it can happen. Our internal landscape allows us to feed on the energy it chooses to feed on. I choose hope and positivity. Not negative externals.

        I am sending positive vibes your way 🙂


        I am allowing myself to feel them.

    Aiming for Simplicity January 19, 2014 at 3:35 pm

    Samara, you are strong enough to carry yourself! I too have watched the carnage of the past week and pulled back, you aren’t alone, you hurt is a shared hurt. Your writing is a powerful thing and it’s your healing journey, you have not let anyone down. Don’t stop writing, it’s in you, it needs an out. Chin up. Meg.

    Aiming for Simplicity January 19, 2014 at 3:36 pm

    Ps, YOU didn’t fall from grace, appearances can be deceiving.


    Samara, once again, you CAN write. You can write regardless of whether you spaced out during your big break interviews, or someone commented that they like your writing, or someone commented that they won’t. Your “can’t write” is 10 times better than anything I’ve ever written.
    Oh, and the hate mail… I’ll respond to all of it for you. Use the following template and just respond to all of them:
    “Dear hater,
    Your hate is very important to us. Please continue to hate, and Samara’s representative will be with you soon, once she start giving a fuck about your opinion.”


    Dear Samara. My friend. You haven’t fallen, and you did nothing wrong, and in this entire world of writers and bloggers and those who are both, I have yet to come across any one person who is a writer because of someone else. No one dictates who you are and what you write. By what insane equation you concoct the stuff you write, I don’t know, but I can guarantee that it only comes from you, and that is a truth that some blogger will never take away. They can’t.

    You don’t need some one person to champion you. There is a community of supportive people here who are already doing so. No one person has the power to prop someone up by themselves; only the egoists ever believe that, and they’re no good for nothing.

    I am glad to know you. I am glad to hear you. I am glad to share with you. I am a willing participant in your mad bits of writing, and I want to see more. Give me more. You said that we shall prevail together, and I believed you. I sincerely, absolutely, completely believed you.

    Plus, and I have to remind, that you gave me the Year of the Douchecanoe. When 2014 started, I was not expecting douchecanoe. It kind of snuck up on me, and now everything is a fucking douchecanoe. Drive who cut me off? Douchecanoe. Co-worker who stole my print job? Douchecanoe. Rob Ford, mayor of Toronto and the greatest sleazebag ever (there has to be a great story in him somewhere). Epic, larger-than-life douchecanoe. I can’t take douchecanoe and give it back to you now; the damage has been done, and I’m stuck with it. So, you know, give me some more. Give me lots more. Give me one of your 12 drafts, anything, I’ll take it and soak up each word. Because I love the way you write, as I’ve said before.

    So let’s get at it. I will if you will. And vice versa. I’m going to write. I’m going to write the hell out of this place. And I dearly hope that you will too. Let’s take no prisoners. Let’s not let anyone drag us down. Let’s fucking scream and run mostly-gassed throught the corridors of this place, littering it with every shred of writing we can come up with. This is the Year of the Douchecanoe, and nothing less will do.


      Oh, my god – I just laughed for the first time this week.


      There I am. Samara. Yes. I’m in here, somewhere.

      Under all this stupid hate mail, and self doubt, and abandonment issues, goddammitt!!!

      This is the Year of the Douchecanoe!!!

      Did I ever tell you how jealous I am of your tag line? Dream hard, rage hard.

      Genius. You are.


    You can’t just stop writing like that. You’re a GREAT writer!


    Damn it, Samara. I feel so helpless. I know what depression feels like. I’ve dealt with it for years on end. Depression so deep that you just don’t have the strength to… BE. If I knew the person responsible for triggering you this time, I’d be so tempted to poke him/her in the eye. I’m that angry! I wish I knew where you were and that I was close enough to come and give you a hug. I wish I knew your phone number so that I could call you. It’s not fair. It’s not.


    Please don’t allow yourself to be silenced. Your voice is important. And beautiful.


    Samara… I don’t know what to say. I’m going to email you, in case you need to talk or vent or anything. Even if you just want to hit “reply” and then bang the keys so that I know you’re okay… that works too.


      I’m here. I’m breathing.

      I just watched a break dance movie with my kid. A little bit of normalcy.

      Nothing like hanging with a 10-year-old from the suburbs who thinks he’s a B-boy to ground you.


        Sometimes a break dance movie is the perfect escape away from the drama of the internets.

        Please don’t stop writing.


        I had no idea there would be drama here.

        I never would have come here. This is supposed to be a respite from the bullshit, not the bullshit.

        And this was bullshit. I was not supposed to be a part of this bullshit. I’m just a motherfucking blogger.


    Hi Samara, What could I say to make you feel better. I don’t know you but I know that you are a writter, an incredible writter. I’m not aware of what took place in blogland this week but I hope it is all behind you now. As I read your blog I was thinking what is it that I can say or do to comfort you. I’m not really good with words but the many people that commented said everything I wish I could have said. You’re brilliant and gifted and the mom af a great kid. I love break dance and hip hop movies, they make me wish I can do that. Your fellow blogger Carrythemessage is brilliant, so are all the other bloggers. His message was so powerful. I promised myself I will publish something this week, you’ve inspired me so much. Your writting is very open and poingant and your mind will be missed by many. I know you are your biggest critic but I have to tell you that you should not be listening to yourself when it comes to critiquing yourself. LOL we all do that unless your a pompas ass. Please stay strong you’ve got a beatiful voice and a brilliant mind. F. the Doucecanoes.


      today we watched “Battle of the Year”- and man, would my son give anything to break like that! I don’t know- he’d pretty much have to devote his whole life to it to get that good..

      Thanks for your support.. Please post, and let me know when you do.


    I would miss you so much if you left. I can’t imagine what you’ve been going through, but if writing is part of finding your bliss, it might be worth going through this fire and coming out like Khaleesi on the other side. Maybe not unburnt, but definitely the mother of some amazing motherfucking dragons. I love you. I want you here. I want to read, and share, and play, and laugh, and explore Blogland with my new friend. That said, if this is affecting your home life, than take a break, and none of us will go anywhere. But please don’t go away for good. Perhaps it seems selfish of me, a total newbie in your life, to ask you to try a third time when you’re been burned twice in this place. I guess what it boils down to is… just please listen to your friends, and the internal voice guiding you towards bliss, instead of the kind of small people who send hate mail or the demons on your shoulder. Letting them beat you down will never bring you to joy, and joy is what you deserve. I want to see you glow.


      I love you Jennie Saia.

      I just pulled out a post I was working on about education. almost ready to go.

      fuck. makes my chest hurt to look at it; where it was supposed to go.

      i worked on it. it deserves to be read. Maybe- in a day or two?


        Yes. Or in a week, or whenever it feels right! Hell, I just disappeared for three and a half weeks – not one single post – and came back to find I was enjoying myself with words again. You are allowed to rest until you have the energy to dance gleefully, instead of just slogging along through sheer determination. Your words matter. I want to read what you wrote about education. But I want you for the long term, beautiful wonderful woman, so don’t feel like you have to burn the candle at both ends right now.


        P.S. Remember how it was you who brought me back? Somehow you simply saying you missed me drew a slew of stories out of my chest. We never know who we are inspiring, and we are all someone’s champion at some point, even if we don’t understand how we got the role.

        I love you too, unwitting champion. I can’t help thinking of Leonard Cohen in times like this. Hallelujah, of course:

        …but also, and maybe more importantly, “Ring the Bells that Still Can Ring”:

        Ring the bells that still can ring
        Forget your perfect offering
        There is a crack in everything
        That’s how the light gets in.


        Jennie my sister wife and love-
        I went to sleep to this last night. Finally, I slept.

        How did you know I love Leonard Cohen? Halleujah, perhaps, my favorite.
        And Peter Buckley’s version.
        I see the light at the end of the tunnel today.


        Brilliant! The light, and YOU.


    You just wrote something sad and beautiful, a poem. You are doing exactly what you’re supposed to be doing. Just write like no one is watching. But let us watch.


    … Is the week over? Has the blog world moved on to a new drama? Can we stop worrying about stepping on egg shells, on whether we are supposed to be joining in the witch hunt or helping to build a moat or urging for calm or wondering why any of this is our business to begin with…? It’s not my place to speak about one person’s pain or another person’s bullying issues. Is it?

    You, my friend, are beautiful and brilliant and stronger than this squall. It will pass. And your words will live on. Have no doubt about that. You don’t need justification, you don’t need approval, you don’t need acceptance from any of us. Any. Of. Us. You are a great writer You are talented. But, you shouldn’t need to hear that from me, you should know it already.

    Maybe I’ll just keep saying it until you believe it, trust it, know it without a doubt.



    Don’t you go anywhere goddamnit! Oh God I just took the Lord’s name in vein. Or is it vane? Low on sleep and high on red wine. My younger self is filled with mucho guilt.

    I don’t know what happened but what I do know is when I saw you pop up in my reader I felt an electric charge of excitement. The world needs your voice.

    I need your voice. You need it too.


    The consequences of the last week of whatever-the-fuck-we-call-that have been vast. There were civilian causalities in the war waged by one individual against another individual. It’s was quite a show of rock-throwing. Somehow I’ve come out unscathed, mostly, so far. I’m actually quite surprised, but thankful.
    Take care of yourself.


      Thank you. Glad you were unscathed.


      I’m going to read more of Samara’s blog. Just this post is really good writing. I don’t know if I’m going to agree or disagree with what’s going on but I do have to mention Melanie this wasn’t just one individual and on other individual.


        Hi Maggie-
        Thanks for reading, and commenting. I really am grateful that you took the time to do so, and that you understand what happened.



        Thank you Maggie. I’m sorry. I was rash in posting this comment. It wasn’t sensitive to Samara or the situation.


    I get the feeling you will be up and ‘kicking ass’ in your own inimitable & brilliant style soon


      Thank you – I’m getting there , getting there.


        Use the bike? 😉


        Thought about it.

        It’s all indoors for me, now.
        Although, I may spring for a new road bike in the warm weather.


        …a new road bike…oh boy. Good excuse to look at bike porn, not that an excuse is needed…

        I did a crazy thing (on reflection) I joined a turbo training club after warming my arse sliding down an iced road one winters day. 30 people covered in sweat & colour coordinated lycra synchronated-syncopated-orgiastic groaning…so much pleasure to be experienced for so many reasons…the main one being when the sufferfest pain stops. Am I selling this to you? Probably not…


    You write wonderfully with raw emotion spilling into poetry
    This is the wonder of WordPress it sets us free to express openly and without any care. Sparks tingling and then the words catch fire, our bright flames draw an audience of a thousand moths dancing close to the blaze – we become afraid again. What if the fire should go out? And the fluttering moths leave us forever?
    The real flame is inside you and you can keep this fire going.


    I’ve been on and off your blog a couple of times since I found it earlier today–can’t get away, there’s some fucking phenomenal stuff here. I hope you worked through whatever was getting you down, but you’ve got a real voice here, not just a blog your write in but a voice, and that’s rare.

When I see the orange light, I have a BLOGASM...

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