I think I’m friends with an everyday sadist.

I think I’m friends with an everyday sadist and yet I had no idea.

In the beginning, I definitely had no inkling that this could be true. But I should have recognized it long before today. Maybe I was just ignorant that this type of person existed or perhaps I didn’t want to see.

According to the Association for Psychological Science for an everyday sadist, “cruelty can be pleasurable, even exciting. New research suggests that this kind of everyday sadism is real and more common than we might think.”

I honestly bought into the belief that I was “irrational” or that I twisted things around as they would tell me when I questioned their behavior or the contrary things they would often say. I began to hate myself and readily accepted the blame when our friendship went awry.

I tortured myself. I missed the friendship and wondered what exactly it was I did wrong to bring about the end. Once I started feeling normal again, POP, the return of my friend into my life–always on their timeline.

And everything was wonderful and fun again.

and began to fade.

and fade.

and the crumbling began.

Torment and tears again.

Heartbreak and sadness.

A return to normalcy.


Rinse. Repeat.

And every time I blamed myself. Accepted the blame, completely.

The Association for Psychological Science also says,  “Some find it hard to reconcile sadism with the concept of ‘normal’ psychological functioning, but our findings show that sadistic tendencies among otherwise well-adjusted people must be acknowledged,” says Buckels.  “These people aren’t necessarily serial killers or sexual deviants but they gain some emotional benefit in causing or simply observing others’ suffering.”

Even as I find this information and try to reconcile that I was used in a despicable way, I still desperately wish to be wrong and for the friendship to continue.

Does this make me an everyday masochist?

I don’t think so. I believe I’m just someone who mourns the friendship that I thought I had to begin with.

I’m suffering, but I don’t enjoy it.

I know now that I’m going to have to find a way to break free and realize that my friendship is worth more. I’m worth more.

Have you ever experienced anything like this and how did you break free?




My darling friends,

I know I usually post on Mondays but I have some feelings to work through and the best way for me to do that is always by writing.

Over the last few days, I’ve been sinking. Not like a rock in water but more like a discarded daisy tossed in some bubbling, gray muck. I’m not exactly sure what brings me to this place, again and again, but here I am.

I suppose it may have something to do with this sunless, never-ending winter. At this point, it feels like summer is just something I dreamed about once. It snowed this morning, and my spirit sank as quickly as these daffodils.


I’m taking my vitamin D supplements, but I don’t know if there can ever be a replacement for the warmth of the sun kissing your skin. It’s kind of like a virtual hug versus the real thing.

Maybe part of it is the feeling that people think of me as a toy and not a person with a beating heart. I’m real. And so is my pain. It would be easier to have your heart completely snapped in two and left alone to repair, rather than slow, cracking fissures repaired shoddily with sweet, loving words.

The biggest culprit, I’m sure, is the rejection that comes along during the querying process. I know this is typical, but I think what bothers me most is that people who are not writers and have never written and queried a novel seem to think that if the book is any good, or if you have any talent, your novel will immediately get picked up. I think that’s the part that makes me feel like a big, fat, failure more than the rejection itself.

I’ve been honest about my process and failures, but it’s hard to share that part. It would almost be easier to suffer in silence in some ways and not share what I’m going through. It’s hard to live up to people’s assumptions. If I didn’t suck, I would be successful. Simple. Easy. That’s what they think.

And so many people think they could write a novel (if they had time–how many times have I heard that) and it would be the next great American novel or a New York Times Bestseller. I know that’s how people think because many have messaged me for “writing advice” and told me how they could write a book and that they’re sure it will be “better than anything they see on the shelves now”–the shelves I currently can’t get my book on. That’s why I know that they think if this book doesn’t get published, then it must be because I’m a talentless loser.

I already feel that I’m a talentless loser all on my own. I have a lot of fear that this is what’s going to be proven to me and not the phrases I’m always repeating to keep going. “Keep writing. You can do it. One day it will happen.”

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I know I can work through this. I always do.

Perhaps there wasn’t a lot of point to this post other than me knowing that this expression of my feelings will begin to heal me. Maybe some of you feel the way I do, and you’ll know you’re not alone, in whichever way you are sinking.

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I lost a friend.

I lost a friend.

Recently, I lost a friend, a friend I wanted to keep in my life forever. But there was a problem–one I was unable to overcome. I lost the trust I had for this friend. They hurt me, more than once. And since I loved them,  I tried to forgive. I tried to forget. I worked to trust them again but I couldn’t. I was suspicious of every word they said and the way their actions made me feel, even if their explanation was reasonable. But you can’t have a real friendship without trust, can you?


I don’t blame this person. We all make mistakes. I wish I could have figured out a way to trust again, but I just don’t know how and for that reason, I know that I share the responsibility for the ending of our friendship. I don’t often let people get that close to me, and I’m sure in the future I’ll be that much more guarded about who I let in. My heart will always have a small crack that will never heal from their absence, but it’s better to live with that crack than to feel like my heart is being dragged around and stomped on–even if it isn’t.

I’m sorry.

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