Love, Lust, and Lamotrigine

Why am I keeping a shame journal? Because my memory rivals that of a goldfish, and one day I’ll want to look back at all this madness — preferably from a sunlit balcony at seventy, fabulously single and mildly unhinged. Welcome to the chronicles of a twenty-something woman stumbling through love, lust, and mania in a big city — equal parts emotional wreck, accidental philosopher, and surprisingly competent scientist. This blog isn’t just about sex or heartbreak (though, trust me, there’s plenty of both). It’s about the beautiful mess of being alive: bipolar highs, depressive dives, questionable men, and the fleeting, holy moments that make it all worth writing down. Think of it as a cautionary tale, a confession booth, and a comedy special all at once. A reminder that, yes, the bar is in hell — and somehow, we still manage to trip over it in heels. Enjoy the chaos. I certainly do.

[emotionalghostown]

The benito

Picture the setting: an island with the bluest waters, views that make your heart ache, and an unlimited supply of cheap alcohol. A bunch of twenty-somethings, all slightly unhinged, set loose under the Mediterranean sun — and the bosses? Just as chaotic.

This was our office’s annual “work seminar,” a euphemism for a week where hierarchy dies and everyone’s wild side comes out to play.

Among the mayhem, a manic, popular me was thriving — collecting new friends, hangouts, and half-remembered inside jokes like business cards. But one person caught my eye again under that sweltering summer heat: Benito.

A Puerto Rican god — tattooed, funny, effortlessly sexy. The kind of man whose calm smile hides a storm, whose laugh feels like an invitation. I fought the flutter he gave me, oh I did. Until one night, I almost came undone.

We’d spent the day biking up a mountain and down to an isolated rocky beach to swim with a few friends. By the time we rode back for the seminar’s closing party, the roads were rough, the air was thick with salt, and my brain was already halfway to the dance floor.

The party was a disco turned nightclub — free drinks, flashing lights, and a DJ I’d charmed earlier in the week (so, obviously, I had song privileges). Dressed head-to-toe in orange, I was ready to conquer the night.

Bad Bunny came on, and I was in my element — perreando with Benito and another Latina friend like the floor was on fire. But eventually, she got too drunk to function. Naturally, we became her caretakers.

We carried her down to the sea, where the waves lapped gently under the moonlight. I held her hair back, rubbing her shoulders as she threw up. And there was Benito, crouched beside me, his hand on my back, whispering how good of a friend I was.

When we finally tucked her into bed, the night was still young, so we stayed out with a few others — drinking, laughing, existing in that blurry half-light between exhaustion and desire. By dawn, it was just the two of us, drunk, smoking cigarettes on a random stone staircase we’d found on the way back.

His breath was too close — hot, uneven, soaked in rum, salt, and smoke. My heartbeat was hammering against my ribs so hard I thought he could hear it.

He leaned in, his mouth brushing my neck, and murmured, “Esto es una mala idea,” but the way he said it made it sound like a promise. Then, lower, rougher: “Pero coño… I need it.”

My hand was on him before I even knew it. His fingers gripped my hair, hard enough to make me gasp. “Yo cuido a los míos,” he whispered, voice dripping heat. “Let me show you how.”

I swear my whole body short-circuited. His words, his breath, his hands — all of it was too much. I could feel every inch of him, every reason I shouldn’t.

All I managed to say — voice shaky, lie trembling between my teeth — was, “We work together. We can’t.”

I didn’t mention my boyfriend. Out of shame. Out of fear. Or maybe because some reckless part of me wanted to keep that door cracked open — just enough for the possibility to slip through.

So I stood up, dizzy, heart still beating itself to death, and walked away. Left him there on those stone steps, with the taste of smoke and sin hanging in the air.

Now I see him at work, a few doors down, his cologne haunting the corridor. Every time I hear his voice — deep, low, familiar — my body remembers exactly what it almost did.

The quiet I built for myself — the meds, the stability, the boyfriend — suddenly feels like borrowed peace. A calm rented by the hour.

Because the truth is, I miss the chaos. I crave it. The unanswered texts, the waiting, the burn of lust that hurts more than it heals. I hate it, and I want it. I want to taste danger again, to feel that dizzy rush of not knowing if I’ll survive the night or the feeling.

Maybe I’ve grown addicted to the ache, to the slow bleed of wanting what ruins me. I don’t know if it’s who I am or some demon lodged inside my ribs, whispering that stillness isn’t living.

My quiet life — this borrowed joy — feels both like a leash and a mercy. I hold it tight, terrified of losing it, yet every part of me strains against it.

And I keep wondering: was my life before this just one long symptom? Or am I the symptom — the walking embodiment of mania, wrapped in soft skin and good intentions, forever torn between craving the storm and pretending I’m at peace?

And as my life would have it, the final strings of my morality broke — in his arms. And oh, my Lord, I fell into trouble, hard. Back to square one. Years of work undone in a single heartbeat…

[emotionalghostown]

The healer

So, long time no post.

Shortly after starting this blog — and one depressive episode later — I was diagnosed with bipolar disorder. (Honestly, who could have guessed, riiight?)

Once the meds kicked in, things quieted down for a while. My moods stopped trying to kill me, and I could finally breathe. And then, as if the universe thought stability was getting boring, I fell in love.

Not the chaotic, all-consuming kind. The real kind. The one that calms you, that feels like home. The one whose scent wraps around you like a blanket and rocks you to sleep.

This love came in the form of an unsuspecting, handsome, Twinkie-looking German man — the kind whose sexuality you question the moment you meet him. (My girlfriends later explained that thinking a man might be queer is actually a green flag — apparently, it means he’s safe.)

You could call our love story a slow burn — boring and frustrating at first. Two opposites colliding: a chaotic, loud extrovert meets a calm, collected man addicted to chess and to watching me exist. Through his gaze, I come alive. I feel seen, cherished, adored.

It took me a while to realize it — even though I chased this man for months. I always believed him indifferent, never imagining he might see me as a blessing; a storm shaking his life and lighting it up.

My bedroom walls are papered with analog photos of us in every city and country we visited together. In each one, my eyes shine brighter than I’ve ever seen them — especially when I’m in his arms.

But as life would have it — and as my bipolar dictates — mania is never far behind. My nature resurfaces, wild and merciless, and suddenly I want to tear my hair out and curse the day I was born… and the day I walked into this innocent man’s life.

Because yes, we can be good. But everyone becomes the villain eventually. And the next post? It’s my descent into insanity and darkness.

[valentina-poem]

[emotionalghostown]

Denial is step one, don't feel bad about it

[emotionalghostown]

The dare (TW)

This story takes me back to undergrad — senior year, spring semester. By then, I’d earned enough credits to relax a little, so I was basically on a self-imposed break. Every night was an excuse to go out, drink, and laugh with my friends.

In that group, two people stood out: Mal and Andy.

Mal was my favorite — the nerdiest, sweetest, most awkward lesbian I’d ever met. We clicked instantly. She was one of those people who radiated comfort, always around for a laugh or a ridiculous late-night conversation. For context, I’m pansexual, and most of my friends then (and now) are LGBTQ+. Believe me, I have plenty of stories about that part of my life. But that’s for another day.

Then there was Andy. Tall, skinny, blond, blue-eyed — the kind of shy, musical type who played the piano like it was breathing. And if you’ve read my other posts, you already know I had a bit of a colonizer complex back then. (Sorry, Mom. Sorry, Dad. I’ve grown, I swear.) But at the time, his type was my kryptonite, and I’d caught myself crushing on him more than once.

We partied at his place often, and this time it was his birthday. It was a massive party. Everyone got absolutely hammered. As people drifted off to bed, I found out my sleeping spot had been set up in his room. Too drunk to care, I collapsed and passed out before the party even ended.

Later that night, I felt someone climb into bed. It was Andy, slipping in beside me. What happened next was a blur — I wasn’t fully conscious, much less able to consent. We had sex, but on my end, it was hazy, unwanted, and wrong.

The next few days were chaos. I was shattered, crying at random times, barely keeping it together while still having to see him every day. He acted like I’d rejected him — like he was the one who’d been ghosted after a casual hookup. The sheer audacity of it was nauseating. My friends took his side, and suddenly I was the outcast — blamed, dismissed, and alone.

Months later, the final blow came. The few friends I still had told me what really happened: Mal and Andy had made a dare. A childish, disgusting game to see who could score more hookups — and I was their special little dare.

I wasn’t a person to them. Just a challenge. A game. A punchline.

That night, and the months that followed, shattered something in me. I learned how betrayal feels when it comes from people you trusted, people you considered friends. I had to face the horrifying reality that I’d been violated, that I’d experienced something no one should ever have to endure. The worst part was the twisted guilt, the battle in my own mind. I had been violated, but not in a way that was easy to categorize or even easy to say. It left me grappling with questions I never wanted to ask myself, left me blaming myself for something I’d had no control over.

But I came out of it with hard lessons. This experience stripped away my naivety and taught me that cruelty sometimes hides behind friendly faces, and that betrayal can come from the people closest to you. It forced me to learn, to grow, and to remember this: never lower your guard, never take responsibility for other people’s cruelty, and always, always speak your truth.

[emotionalghostown]

The 007

This one’s about Jake — a rich kid with hazel eyes and a magnetic pull I couldn’t resist.

I met him through my mentee at a house party in the fanciest part of the city, the kind of place that smells like imported candles and generational wealth. His apartment was sleek and spacious, practically begging for trouble, full of people whose confidence came with trust funds.

His friends were textbook bourgeois. I’d met rich kids before — I was the scholarship girl at a private school, remember — but this was a new level of money. These people weren’t just rich; they were born into power and carried it like designer luggage. The men wore their privilege like a family crest, and the women looked airbrushed into existence: glossy, slim, and eerily identical.

I felt like Jenny Humphrey when her dad married Lily. What in the Gossip Girl was I doing here?

Luckily, my Scorpio rising has never failed me. I had dark, cutting eyes and a tongue sharp enough to slice through small talk. My education taught me how to blend in — how to mimic their rhythm, their smug ease. So I played the part: laughed at their jokes, volleyed their sarcasm, and made them believe I was one of them. Inside, I was thinking, this is a game — and I’ve already won.

Jake, though, was maddeningly aloof. He didn’t flirt, didn’t even give me a second glance in public, like he had an image to maintain. Still, the tension buzzed under my skin. By the time we reached the party, I was vibrating with it, ready to set something — anything — on fire.

Half a bottle of Montbazillac later, I wandered into the kitchen for water. That’s when I felt him behind me — that heavy, charged silence men have when they’re trying not to seem obsessed.

I turned, and there he was: those ridiculous hazel eyes locked on me.

I started to walk away, but he leaned in, voice low. “Can I kiss you?”

I laughed, mostly to break the tension. “Don’t you want to?” he murmured.

Oh, I wanted to.

We made out right there, then stumbled into his room, where we had the kind of sex that makes you believe in soul contracts and bad decisions.

That night became a week, then months. Every time he was in town, we’d meet. It was raw, wordless, and dangerously easy. We didn’t need to talk — language would’ve only ruined it. It was chemistry, physics, and poor impulse control.

But you can feel the but coming, can’t you?

One summer night, I was out at a bar when my phone rang. Jake. He never called — ever. We’d been doing this for over a year, and it was strictly text-based lust. So when his name lit up my screen, I knew something was off.

He sounded groggy, paranoid. “What’s wrong?” I asked. He laughed. “Damn, how’d you know?” Then, “Can I come meet you?”

Curious — and mildly alarmed — I said yes.

He showed up looking like he’d seen a ghost. “You know me as Jake,” he said slowly. “That’s my name… but it’s not the full story.”

I raised an eyebrow. “What are you, CIA or something?”

He smirked. “Yeah. Actually. Good guess. And tonight, I think I blew my cover.”

I waited for him to laugh. He didn’t.

Apparently, he was CIA — and had just botched an assignment. He said he needed to lay low, that I was detached enough, smart enough. He just wanted to be with me, in my arms, until his head stopped spinning.

So there I was, walking home beside a man who might have been a spy, wondering if this was a fever dream 007 movie or just foreplay.

At his place, he started spilling details I’ll never repeat (not because I’m noble — because I enjoy freedom than you very much). Then, in the moonlight, I saw him check a gun before sliding into bed beside me.

He trembled. I held him. Somewhere between pity and disbelief, I thought, Huh. So this is what “mysterious” looks like in real life.

I lay awake, listening to his breathing slow. Guns aren’t exactly standard décor in Europe unless you’re in law enforcement — or deep in something darker. The whole thing felt like a scene from a smut novel gone terribly wrong.

And that was the last time I saw him.

He vanished as quietly as he’d entered my life, leaving me with a night full of secrets, a lingering scent of cologne, and a story no one sane would ever believe.

[emotionalghostown]

The awakening

He wasn’t just some random stranger; he was a piece of my past. Let’s call him Alex. Alex knew me before life twisted me into someone unrecognizable. He drifted back into my world just as I was pulling myself out of the wreckage that blue-eyed disaster had left behind—the one I’d let break me twice. I was healing, scarred and shattered, struggling to find myself again. And then, like a storm rolling in from nowhere, there he was. Alex.

We started with texts. They were small, tentative at first, just friends reconnecting. But somehow, he managed to reach into my soul faster with each message, reminding me of who I used to be. He could call me out in a way that cut through the mess, showing me parts of myself I’d forgotten. It was like he’d always known I was more than the broken girl my last relationship had left behind. He saw me—even when I couldn’t.

Of course, I fell for him. He revived parts of me I thought I’d lost. And just when he started to show me what it felt like to be valued, to be cared for, he got colder, like he was already slipping away. I felt the storm brewing inside me all over again—the familiar feelings of insecurity, abandonment, confusion.

So I returned to this chaotic, handwritten letter I’d written to myself—a way to make sense of the pain, the rage, the heartbreak. And yet, Alex lingered like a shadow, a reminder that I’d tasted something real, something that felt like love. I spiraled, caught between feeling abandoned and missing him, torn between anger and sadness. He’d promised me the world, and then, as if it were nothing, he was gone, too.

He finally texted me back after days of silence. I’d been there waiting, checking my phone obsessively, feeling the anger and hurt bubble up inside me with each unanswered message, each day that passed. And then he was there—an image, an audio clip, a simple response. I knew, deep down, things were unraveling. He’d talked about engagement, a future, just days before the silence. I wanted to believe him, but my gut knew this was the end.

I loved him, though, with a reckless, desperate kind of love. I dreamed of him, replayed his words, felt the ache of his absence like a phantom limb. I wanted to wrap myself around him, to say all the things I’d held back out of fear of being broken again. But reality had other plans. His life was moving in a different direction, and all I had left were fragments—conversations that once made my heart race but now felt hollow.

For a while, I held on, still trying to text, to call, hoping there was something left. But his replies grew fewer, shorter, until there was nothing at all. I told myself I didn’t need him, but the memories clung to me. I remembered the way he’d make me laugh, how he cried at sad movies, how his eyes lit up when he talked about the things he loved. I remembered the nights he’d hold his phone, whispering words of love that might’ve been lies, but filled me with a warmth I hadn’t felt in years.

And then, he left for good. He faded like a character in a story I’d stopped writing. I waited, hoping he’d return, but somewhere along the way, I realized he was gone. And just like that, the hope I clung to turned into anger—not at him, but at myself. I’d let another piece of me slip away, trusting someone again, only to be left shattered.

Alex was a moment of clarity, a spark in the darkness. Now he’s a memory, a part of my story that taught me more about love than I’d known, even if I wasn’t ready to receive it. I healed, I moved on, but a piece of me will always be his, no matter how many times I rewrite the ending.

[emotionalghostown]

The undoing (TW)

When I first wrote this, I was trying to remember who I used to be—the girl I lost somewhere along the way, buried under trauma and bad choices. She was someone who used to laugh freely, who had dreams that soared beyond the walls of this city. I can still picture those late nights, holding myself together as best I could, whispering that I’d be okay. Back then, I believed in love like it was a fairytale I could write myself into. I stayed up late reading fanfictions and Wattpad stories about impossible love, love that could break boundaries and conquer anything. I played Lana del Rey, Cigarettes After Sex, Marina on repeat, as if those songs were spells to summon the girl I wanted to become.

I was eighteen, naive but full of hope. I was barely an adult, just a child with big dreams and a heart wide open to the world. I thought I could live out the stories I read, maybe save a damaged soul or impress someone untouchable. I wanted to be the heroine, blissfully unaware of the dark corners lurking in real-life romances.

And then, I met him, mere months after moving to this big sin city. The guy with the tragic past, the one everyone warned me about. I remember the rush of excitement, how his blue eyes seemed like portals to a world I wanted so badly to understand. He was my “tortured angel,” his blond hair a mess I wanted to untangle. I threw myself into him, believing I could save him. But instead, he broke me, shattering the wings I hadn’t realized were so fragile.

I fell hard, fast, and with my whole heart, and he dragged me back to reality. The painful lesson: broken romances don’t last. They leave scars that burrow deep, wounds that linger, and that take years to close. I wish I could’ve held on to the person I was before him, but survival meant leaving her behind.

I can still feel the weight of that day—the first time he raised his hand against me. I felt my heart shatter, piece by piece, as if the world I’d built up in my mind had been a lie all along. I searched for the girl I used to be, but he had chased her away, replacing dreams with nightmares. By then, I’d become a ghost of who I was, numb, broken, holding on to anything I could to stay alive.

And then, there was the day he shoved me down, and I realized I was carrying a part of him. The positive test was a lifeline, an impossible irony. I didn’t know how to survive him until I had to protect someone else. He shoved me again, knocked me down again, and with every hit, I felt pieces of myself stirring back to life. I was reborn, in a twisted way, as I lost that child. That loss sparked something in me, reigniting the fire I thought was gone forever.

It’s been a long, brutal road, and the wounds remain. I may never be who I was before him, but I’m still here, standing on my own. And that, I’ve realized, is more than enough. I’ve learned that surviving isn’t about forgetting the past; it’s about reclaiming yourself, piece by piece, from the ashes.

The song at the bottom of this entry was what he sang to me every time, and it will forever be associated with him. (The Lil Peep obsession is 100% the red flag in hindsight.)