Broken When He Found Me

June 2, 2016 — 139 Comments



I want to write about sex.

I want to write about the glorious way it feeds my creativity, and how deep pleasure is balm to my soul. I want to capture the absurd dichotomy of my existence as both single mom and sexual being, in long wet delicious sentences.

But then I would be a sex blogger. And I’m not brave enough for that.


I want to write about the tug of war going on in my brain, my anxiety and depression and PTSD and Imposter Syndrome.

But then I would be a mental illness blogger. I don’t want to be mentally ill, let alone write about it.

I’m inflamed with unexpressed ideas. It feels like sickness. Tender, feverish, swollen.

I want to bite off more than I can chew and chew longer.

I want to navigate the jagged edges of all my experiences, dance among the wreckage, celebrate the joy and the hideousness of every mistake I’ve ever made.

I want to write about the grief and anger that are spinning out of control, that feel like ground glass shredding me from the inside.

Instead, I am a phony.




Long ago I learned abuse and neglect as love. I am addicted to feeling never good enough, and the sweet momentary high when I’m mining for love and hit right into a silvery vein of approval.

Because in our first exchanges, you either criticized or ignored my writing, you felt like home. But this time, I WOULD be good enough. If only. If only.

If only.


I was new to the online world. And didn’t know that unwanted attention is part of the experience for many women.

You said it was because I had a sex blog. And that no one would take me seriously.


I turned to Brenda at Burns the Fire. Two years later, I have not forgotten how she saved me.

She told me, LOVE. Just, LOVE.

Yes, you are provocative, she said, and what’s wrong with that? Just LOVE.


I’m disconnected from what ever it is that people feel when they read me. When I sit at the keyboard all I feel is fear. The blood pounds in my ear so loudly all I hear is a verbal dance of madness.


I want to write stories of horrific post partum depression, the kind that makes you want to drown your own child. And how I crossed over to a love so deep, I’m the one drowning now.

But how tiring it is, that I need to share everything, down to the last blood cell.

I’m not funny on Facebook.

My rock tees are silly.

Bad things happen to me because I seek pain.

My beloved project was only popular because misery loves company. I left it over a year ago and once an arrow shot into the heart, it bled out.


I’m not a writer. I’m simply part of a cult that writes little 1000 word essays for other WordPress bloggers.

Yes, that is what I am. I have no evidence to the contrary.

Is that a bad thing?

*dances in a cult-like fashion around a WordPress statue*


I only use profanity because I’m a lazy writer. Yes, it’s an easy way to get a cheap laugh. Suck my dick.


I want to breathe fire into these keys and tear apart every fucking idea about what a blog should be

I want everyone to know that I’m crazy, and find it thrilling because it means I’m doing great things.

I want to Write Free!

Freedom feels like a walk along the ocean’s shore, accompanied by the cry of sea gulls and the briny smell and the wind blowing cooler than inland.

Freedom feels like a month in a loony bin inpatient treatment center getting electroshock therapy to burn this out of my brain, for once and for fucking final.


The wrong person at the wrong time can build a nest right inside your insecurities and confirm for you that you are, in fact, nothing.


I have learned the hard, soul crushing way that writing your deepest tragedies leaves you open to pain almost as fierce as the tragedies themselves.

When someone you cherish asks for the fourth time why you moved out of NYC. Or asks you how your beloved brother died, when you spelled these things out in technicolor horror on posts they, in fact, commented on.

I learned the painful way that some of the people I love most don’t read what I write, and that sometimes, people leave comments to keep up appearances.

Which is like, inviting you to my brother’s funeral, and you showing up in a clown suit.


My posts are too long. I violated the formulaic 700 word rule. What’s the point in tapping out this sentence when everyone stopped reading by the time I wrote “sentence”?


This will be another story that I won’t publish, part of the daily bloodletting.

I write daily but publish infrequently.

I fear being ridiculed again, hearing you sneer that not everyone writes about shoplifting and heroin, you know.


I know.

Here. Here’s a recipe.

Vanilla Chai Frozen Smoothie

  • 1 scoop vanilla chai protein powder
  • I frozen banana
  • ½ cup almond milk

Put everything in your smoothie maker thing. Turn that shit on. Eat it.




I often sob while I write. Out of sheer relief that comes with sharing my truth as transparently and vulnerable as humanly possible

Self sabotage is my comfort zone. I squander my life on drugs and terrible choices and people whose need to make me feel small meshes perfectly with my need to disappear.


I have been force-fed so many different versions of myself, there is nothing left but everyone’s idea of me.


He did not break me. I was broken when he found me.

He was just drawn to the glittering shards and could not help but grind them down into dust.


Please refrain from disparaging comments. Be encouraging. 
I need positivity. Talk to me. I’m listening. 


Join me on Facebook, Instagram, and Twitter . Or don’t. You do you. 

139 responses to Broken When He Found Me


    It’s taken me a while to read this because I knew after the first two paragraphs that it needed my full attention. No distractions or Facebook prompts popping at the top of my screen. No need to hurry so I could get dinner ready or rush to work. I’m glad I waited because I was right. This not only needs but deserves full attention. Not just because it’s so incredibly honest and beautifully expressed, but because it’s you. In words. On this screen. Revealed and exposed; the things you fear most — yet the things that make your writing shine and sparkle. Not like broken glass but like sunlight reflecting off polished stone. Your honesty is both inspiring and heart wrenching. There is no reason to hide what sparkles. Embrace it and own it — and continue to share it. It’s your gift. And ours, too, Samara.


      This is such a beautiful, heartfelt gift of a comment, but right now all I can think of is, “He cooks for his family, too? DAMN.”
      Yes, I know you used to work as a chef, but I marvel over how good of a husband and dad you are, all the time.
      Thank you for being here.


    What everyone else said! … a gazillion times over. 😀 And one more for the road, you are a writer, and a pox of Shakespearean proportions on anyone who says otherwise.


    You write well. I always click like on your posts but seldom comment. At the end of the day, it does not matter what the world thinks of us. When we leave this planet, its always our soul who carries the truth.


    You write.
    The venue doesn’t define you.
    No one gets to define you.
    Except you.

    So define yourself, and write what you want.
    Everyone else?
    Who cares.


    As an aside Samara, I have a guest post over at Cordelia’s Mom’s. If you have the time to drop by I would be honored


    You are love.

    Best advice I ever got? Just write.



      BRENDA!! The Gangsta of Love!

      Remember how confused and frustrated I was? I nearly shut down my blog. You gave me so much!
      Did I ever tell you how much of an impact that conversation had on me? Well, if I didn’t – I’m telling you now. xoxoxoxoxoxoxoox


    I have never read something I identified with so completely. Thank you, thank you for putting the thoughts into words and the words into the universe.


      This is a wonderful feeling, that I reached so many people. I was really afraid to publish this, and just be a drain on everyone.

      I guess I have some bad juju to get rid of. Thank you . xoxo


    Yours was one of the first blogs I ever read, and its still one of the best. Nobody deserves abuse or neglect in lieu of love, and if anyone implies what you do isn’t writing, I would suggest that what they didn’t wasn’t reading. My best to you. – Owen


    I will beat the everloving FUCK out of anyone making disparaging comments on your blog.

    I don’t stop by as much as I used to (had some trouble at work. Refer to the last 1 or 2 posts on my blog if you have time. Ugh) but I’ve always loved your blog. Knew you were a kindred when I saw your post about Lollapalooza and the spoken word thing and the Maggie Estep RIP (that was you, right!?). You rock. And your rock tees are fucking AWESOME!

    And yes, I “cheap-laughed” at “suck my dick”. 😀 Because it was fucking funny.


      I find profanity funny, but I’m really 12 years old.
      And yes, I wrote about Maggie E when she died. So sad.
      Thanks for being here. 💜


    Hey, I clicked over to read the story of your beloved brother and the sisterwivesspeak blog cannot be accessed. Says the domain will expire soon… 😥


    Fucking goosebumps all the way man.


    “I want to write about the grief and anger that are spinning out of control, that feel like ground glass shredding me from the inside. Instead, I am a phony.” Amen, sister! I feel like this nearly every single day. I can’t write about what is really turning me inside out because people in my real life (family, coworkers, children) read my blog. I have to keep my shameful secrets when I really want to put them out there, get some feedback, maybe some advice, some understanding, or some assurance that I’m not as crazy and fucked up as I know I am. Or perhaps I need someone to tell me I AM as fucked up as I think I am — perhaps that would motivate me to end this shit. Anyway — this post? It is something I totally can relate to. I’m glad I’m not the only one.


      It’s painful to hold back what you really want to write, whatever the reasons are, isn’t it?
      I felt judged for so long. I’m hoping this will help me move past that.

      As for being fucked up, EVERYONE is. Some people are just better at hiding it than others. xoxo



    Freedom looks a lot like this piece you punched out ⚡️

    You ARE a writer…if you want to take it for a spin, use the bones of this post and add 7 or 8 thousand more meaty words to it…shouldn’t be too tough.



      First of all, hello! Welcome! I love the little lightening bolt you put at the end of the first sentence! I must know how to do this – I’m guessing it was on your phone?

      And thank you for your support and encouragement. 7000 more words? that would take me about a month! xoxo


        Yeah…I’m more expressive with my phone. 💥

        A month to build out this piece…then you wrap into something else for 10 K…but it only takes you 3 weeks. Next you snap out a 5K story in 10 days. ..get it? If you really start swinging lingo you maybe one of these Nanowino maniacs in the fall.


        Never! My writing process is much too slow for that!


    Everything you described here is why I love you! You are real, brave and…Samara. You are you and that is that. If people don’t like it, they are free to move along. Don’t stop being you, bonita! xo


      I have no choice but to be who I am. As someone famous (I can’t remember who) once said, “everyone else is already taken.”

      I hope to be comfortable with who I am, and to be brave. People like you who support me make all the difference. xoxo


    That totally spoke to me. “He was attracted to the glittery shards”…yes! You aren’t alone but it can get better, allow yourself to feel better. I lost my brother and it took a long time for me to allow myself to find joy again, to be entitled to happiness to stop seeking self destruction because I didn’t know who I was unless I felt pain. It can get better. Beautiful post.


    I am you in many ways. Thanks for writing. I’ve started writing short stories – you get to embellish and it helps. Much love x

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