Category: Personal Stories

Personal Stories

There’s No Place Like Home

Sara Elizabeth

I disconnected from the stakeholder meeting after thanking them for their invaluable insights, biting my tongue to keep the truth in my throat: I know a thing or two about needing these kinds of services. It’s been three months, but I still have nightmares about the homeless shelter. I put my headphones back on and let “Ashes and Smoke” by Anna Graves repeat, as I cry. And cry. And wrap myself into a hug, maneuvering the pillows in my bed in such a way that I feel like I am being held. I am a 36-year-old woman simulating safety and love in chaos and isolation. 

I was watching Jane Eyre before the meeting, and I realized that the cruelties of life haven’t changed all that much. The form they possess has shifted. When I was first admitted to a psychiatric unit, I remember the officer telling me it would be okay, it’s not like the 1800s or even the 70s. We’ve swapped lobotomies for zombie-inducing medications—the perfect prey for abusive staff. No longer do the adults shoo children outside and allow them to speak only when spoken to. Instead, they are handed an iPad and forced to perform for social media. People will watch you starve, be rushed away in an ambulance for a health crisis, and eventually collapse so publicly, beating your own body into submission, because that’s what it feels like everyone is doing to you. The only way to have some sense of normalcy in this life is by becoming the very thing you hate: a dissociated, cruel thing chasing the next high. 

I can’t do that, so I cry after meetings. I daydream of a world where I’m not sick—or, since it’s so hard for me to imagine that, I see myself supported… that if I am too dizzy to grab water, I can ask someone for help. I dream of such simple things, and it breaks my heart. I dream of being loved gently. I dream of a life free from abuse and trauma. I dream of being able to heal. I dream of being safe. Sometimes I forget that I live in a world where these are out of reach, so I latch onto that which refuses me, hoping it’ll see my soul. Sometimes they turn around, pour their secrets into my stomach, and walk away. The secrets are rotten, and they make my stomach hurt. Sometimes I throw them up, and they get mad, telling me that’s why no one likes me. 

I can’t even cling to religion, though I’ve had the most profound spiritual experiences in this endless dark night… because I can see how suffering breeds belief, because hope needed a sister to keep going, but I’m too self-aware, and if belief and hope are real, they must be evil, because the suffering exists in the most awful loop. 

And all I want to do is go home. 

But I don’t have a home. 

I had so many dreams centered around the Wizard of Oz in 2024 and early 2025… and now here I am. Crying after a meeting, pillows holding my sanity together, as I whisper once again, I just want to go home. 

Personal Stories

Is this a glitch in the simulation or is this reality? New year reflections.

Sara Elizabeth

The other night, I had this dream that the world actually ended in 2020 and I’ve been living in this glitched simulation since. Of course, I have a deep fear and fascination with simulation theory. Pair that with the mess of 2020 and this year, it really does feel like we are living in some apocalyptic novel that is setting us up for the dystopian sequel. You know what I mean? I wonder if that is why so many people refuse to acknowledge the severity of the pandemic, because it is so scary and yet we are expected to continue on with our lives. The world can’t shut down. The same way the world doesn’t shut down for war or other ongoing tragedies. It’s much easier to pull the covers over our head and pretend the monster we see isn’t there. Pretending makes us feel safe. Even if we aren’t safe at all. 

I know I am not alone in the amount of pure chaos that has happened in the last two years within my personal life as well. August 10, 2021 marked the two year anniversary since my mom passed. This will be my third Christmas without her. She passed a little before the rona took over the world, which I count as a blessing. At least I could say goodbye. At least I could be there when they took her off life support. In those first few months after the pandemic hit, I often thought of what it would be like if she was still here. What would she say about all of this? What would we do? Would we be safe? 

Or would we both end up pretending that we were safe for the sake of feeling like we are? I  don’t know. 

Roommates, Grief, and Survival

Shortly after my mom passed, I had to find roommates so I could afford rent. That was when I met Hannah who ended up becoming one of my best friends, and who I am still so hurt and confused over. I have so many questions I want to ask but that I know even if she answered, even if she spoke the truth, I don’t know if I could trust it. I couldn’t trust her.

Kattie became our roommate shortly after. Kattie is passionate, brave, and so kind and genuine. She doesn’t see her worth, which breaks my heart and frustrates me at the same time. I just want to scream at her that she is worthy of a healthy love and a healthy family. Not because I am mad or anything at all like that. I just don’t know how to make her see this. So, Kattie, my sweet friend, if you are reading this recap blog of the last two years / my attempt to start blogging again – YOU ARE LOVED DAMMIT. YOU ARE WORHTY AF (LIKE YOUR TATTOO SAYS). And you deserve so so much better than this world has given you. 

Between a toxic landlord, losing my faith,coming out as bisexual, moving suddenly to California to go live with my sister, and then getting back to Utah, tackling my physical health and mental heath, starting a new and amazing job that is the most healthy workplace I’ve ever been in, living with a toxic roommate who screamed “cat cat cat” and “bleach bleach bleach” despite the house being filled with mold, leaving the Church, taking a break from friends I love so very much because I just couldn’t handle anything anymore, moving into my own apartment with no roommates at all, losing one of my best friends and questioning her motives, to reconnecting with old friends and building new friendships. The last few two months when life started falling apart again, my friend Lex helped me through so much of it. Lex is one of the people who created a safe space for me to come out and hyped me up with a whole bi-pride photoshoot. 

All the while, Christmas is almost here, and I still haven’t really learned how to process my grief. I feel like the first two years have been processing the trauma of watching my mother die. I’m just now at a point where I don’t have nightmares every night and see it happen every night… but as time passes, the more it sinks in… death is permanent (possibile afterlife beliefs aside) and she is not coming back. 

Oh, and did I mention I’ve now been diagnosed with Bipolar? And possible OCD? Yeah, I’m doing greeeaaaat. 

Yet somehow through all of this, through the hardest two years of my life, I’ve survived. Past Sara? Oh, she would’ve unalived herself by now. I’m not sure where the resilience came from or how I’ve managed to find an inner peace despite it all. And on the days, weeks, and even months when I didn’t have that inner peace, I coped. I survived. Honestly, I was in survival mode for such a long time it took me a while to finally disconnect from that and reconnect with that inner peace. 

So, where does this leave me for 2022? 

This last year has set the tone for my self-discovery. I’ve left the Mormon Church and will be completing my official resignation next year. I’ve dived back into the spiritual areas I always felt called to. I have several tarot decks, an altar, ouija board, book of shadows, and spell books. I still love Jesus, or at least what he represents. I’m not sure how I feel about the teachings in the Bible or within organized religion anymore. Of course, this path comes with its own set of grief. Saying goodbye to God isn’t easy. In fact, I would’ve much rather chosen to pretend that I “know” he’s real than let go of something that promised me safety from this cruel world.But I am choosing to be honest with myself that I don’t know what is real and what is not, but I will do what allows me to feel most connected and safe and grounded. And if the Christian God is real, then I hope they understand that I am not choosing anything out of malice or ill intent. And if God is Love, well. Love would understand. Love would know me so perfectly. Love wouldn’t be mad. 

I started a TikTok (like everyone else) during those early days of lockdown. I’ve discovered how much I love making videos, and so I plan to continue that journey and embark on a YouTube channel. 

I will publish a book I am currently working on. (Around February) 

I will get my second and third dose of the vaccine.I will continue to wear a mask and protect others as well as myself. (Maybe this earlier like this Christmas weekend… I just need a ride.)

I will continue to take care of my health, even if some of the tests and procedures scare me.

I will continue to bring all that I can to my job. 

I will go on dates when things settle with the rona. I will learn about people and find their beauty and steal pieces of them for characters in stories I will one day write. I will find the beauty in the world even if most of what I see is dark and gross and sad. 

I will love fearlessly. I will fight for what is right. I will be loud. I will be brave. I will not surrender to myself or to others. 

Sidenote: If you have a book, you’d like for me to review next year, please send me a message to get on my calendar! 

Mental Health, Personal Stories, Poetry, Religion

Poem: I Know What It’s Like

Sara Elizabeth

Before I share this poem with y’all, I wanna share a little bit about my what is happening in Utah and the Mormon community and how it is affecting the LGBTQIA+ community.

Mormonism is a pretty intense religion. Think evangelical or Jehovah’s Witness intense. So when our prophet or the apostles say something to its members, it’s a pretty big deal. One of the apostles recently spoke at Brigham Young University. (Here’s a link to his talk word-for-word, so you can read it and make up your own opinion. This is on the Church’s official website. I’m not trying to cherry pick his words, but I am human, and this was my favorite apostle – even since leaving the Church, I loved Elder Holland… and well, I’m hurting because of his words. So yes, I will be paying more attention to the ones that have caused so much pain.)

Basically, Elder Holland – an apostle who has brought so much comfort as I struggled with my mental health – spoke to faculty and staff at BYU declaring that the school cannot condone homosexual behavior and that members should not confuse love with support. You know, the whole hate the sin but love the sinner argument? He even went so far as to call out a BYU graduate and former valedictorian who “came out” during his graduation speech – a speech that was approved well in advance. A speech that I am sure has helped countless LGBTQ+ students at this Mormon university. But none of seemed to matter, as Holland said this student was commandeering the school and its graduation ceremony. An apostle of God publicly shamed a student who had gone through the proper BYU and Church channels to get his speech approved.

It doesn’t stop there. Just a week or two after a lesbian couple was murdered on their honeymoon in Utah, this so-called apostle a God who is defined as “Love” encouraged members to take up (metaphorical) musketfire against the LGBTQ+ community. It feels so much like all of my heroes have become the villain. So many are grieving because of these painful words. And though I am sure he meant well, I am sure he didn’t want to cause harm, I am sure he believes this is the way to show love… that it’s how God would show love … sometimes there is nothing more harmful than a person who means well.

And while there has been such a huge outpouring of love, there has also been an increase in hate. My neighbors have pride signs proudly displaying from what I am sure is BYU-contracted housing. People created beautiful chalk art supporting LGBTQ+ students at the school, but then people like those in the video above did what they likely thought was that metaphorical musketfire Elder Holland mentioned.

Just the other day, as I was decked out in pride-themed makeup and clothing, I had two men in a car follow me, slowly, revving their engine while I was walking. This isn’t common behavior in Provo. I had several Lyft drivers look at me in disgust upon seeing my pride attire I’ve been adamant about wearing these days. Things are tense. People are hurting. My friends are hurting. I am hurting.

And with that, I leave you my poem:

I know what it is like 

To be so in love with Jesus and being born again

His Spirit all around me as I sit on my friend’s front porch

Butterfly clips sparking in the sun like Christ’s pure love

I know what it is like 

To feel the wrath of God crushing my heart

As I open the pages of forbidden scripture

My own Song of Solomon, a piece that didn’t belong

I know what it is like

To sit in a closet crying with a pink-covered book about kids with cancer

The doctors told my mom that I have a growth in my brain

And verily, verily I say unto me – God is punishing us for what we’ve done 

I know what it is like

To have a crush on a girl that works at the local small town diner

She said my Hot Topic earrings were cute and I thought about her for weeks

But the religious books say its just a phrase, my hormones are confused, I am confused

I know what it is like

As my sweet friend Mary Jo tells me that she thinks shes gay, my heart stopping

And even though I thought I was gay too, I was so scared for her salvation

I prayed and said words I thought were inspired 

 “I love you no matter what, but I can’t hear about that.” 

I know what it is like

To be bullied by the girls at youth group being called “gay, a dyke, a les”

Before I even acknowledged these pieces to myself

I was condemned and sent straight to a self-loathing hell

I know what it is like

The internalized homophobia turning me into the monsters I hated

“I’m not gay! I like dick!” As people continued to label me when I was confused

So much justifying and hatred in the name of love, because even when I said gay isn’t a sin

Even when I said I accept you, I know Christ would let you in – I refused to see myself 

I know what it is like

To be on each and every side of this so-called argument that infringes upon human rights

But I never claimed to speak for God. I didn’t hold the power that this man does

Words. And the word is God. Word is God. God is Love.

Shouldn’t your words be love? Apostle, sir, can you tell me how metaphorical gunfire is love?

I know what it is like

To see my friends share stories with tear-filled eyes and stories of suicide 

In less than 48 hours these words have indeed shot so many in the heart

But I will walk in rainbows and declare safety here because I am not ashamed of me

I am ashamed of you. 

In the name of Jesus Christ, 

Amen.

Personal Stories, Unsent Letters

An Open Letter to the ER Doctor

Sara Elizabeth

To the doctor who saw me at the ER last night, My breasts are not inherently sexual.

Examining the staph infection that has taken over 1/4 of my breasts – not to mention to all of sores the sores that keep getting worse and are not responding to antibiotics over – is not sexual.

But your religion taught you that my body as a female is sexual and dirty and wrong.

Because of this, you a freaking medical doctor working in an emergency room, refused to examine it my staph infection. Instead you asked me if I had a picture. Thankfully I did actually have a picture.I had taken one that I sent over to my friend and sister to show how bad it’s been getting. I wanted to make sure I wasn’t overreacting, since every single health issue I have has been diminished and neglected by the majority of the doctors I’ve seen. I didn’t want to waste my time going – but everyone said I should.

I’m used to going to do doctors while having seizures, numbness, drooping face, and a plethora of other symptoms. And I’m used to them brushing it off or telling me which specialist to go to next. I’m not used to being sexualized. By. A. Doctor.

You looked at the picture left the room without a word. I waited and waited, feeling ashamed and stupid for even bothering to come in. I would’ve gone to urgent care instead, but they don’t accept my insurance. I would’ve waited for the doctor, but it was the weekend and this was just getting worse. I almost got up and left.

While I dealt with my own crisis, debating whether to just give up and leave, I can only assume you were having a moral crisis given the size of the infection whether you should look at my breast or not. I’m sure you saw the results of my biopsy from my last visit that this is indeed a staph infection and it’s not responding to treatment.

Finally, you came back and examined it. After squeezing when there is clearly no puss and pushing and pinching it in every which way, while I writhed in pain, you said

“It’s not that bad.”

I am aware that is not as bad as an infection can be. But the fact that its spreading, I was running a low-grade fever, and everything else going on with my body – I am trying to get someone to listen before it does get “that bad”.

I am positive if you had this size of a wound on your penis or testicles, you would be bed ridden, demanding treatment immediately. There have been so many studies done on how doctors (even female doctors) do not take female patients seriously. A man can go in with the same demeanor, presenting the same symptoms, and he will get tests, treatment, and referrals more often than women who have the same symptoms or diagnosis.

Maybe if this infection was on my arm, the doctor would have felt the need to treat it.

Maybe if my psych stays weren’t in my medical record.

Maybe if I fit the Mormon image and didn’t have tattoos and piercings and colored hair.

Maybe if I wasn’t obese – because fat people choose to be fat and they choose to be sick because all of their problems are related to their weight, right?

Maybe if I fit whatever your ideal is of a sick patient who deserves treatment… maybe this infection would already be gone.

PS. To you and all the other doctors who are quick to tell me I don’t have cancer and don’t need a mammogram because its all surface lesions, please kindly go back to medical school and study inflammatory breast cancer, skin cancer, and cancer in hormonal glands. While I am mostly positive that this is simply a Lupus/Scleroderma/MS flare and it’s causing all of my body’s issues – whatever the cause, I deserve proper treatment.

Thanks…. but not really,

S.

Mental Health, Personal Stories

Where the Heck Have I Been? Life Update!

Sara Elizabeth

2020 was a horrific year for all of us. And 2021 has been kind of a mess, too! At the end of 2020 I was basically shipped off by the Church to go live with my family in California. My health got progressively worse and the doctors in that small desert town weren’t able to help. Not only that but being in said small town left me with very few options for work. In fact, it was impossible to even get an interview. By what can only be described as a miracle I made it back to Utah alive.

The trip back to Utah was frightening to say the least! Stay tuned for my vlog update in which I detail how a Mormon con-woman picked me up in Barstow, California and started smoking something that was DEFINITELY NOT weed or cigarettes on the way there. Oh, and we almost got hit a few times!

For now, I want to write about all the positive things that have happened.

I got to know my niece and nephew better! Peyton is such a beautiful almost-teenager and so fun to hang out with. Christian is your typical teenage boy, screaming at his video games and gamer friends. 😅 I also got to meet some pretty cool animals. Sassy, Midnight, and Vamperina – the cutest doggie and kitties ever!

I also got to meet some pretty cool animals. Sassy, Midnight, and Vamperina – the cutest doggie and kitties ever!

I also started the journey of loving myself no matter what size I am. I learning my worth and never again will I say cruel things to myself. I have so much divine worth. (And so do you!) But more on that later!

I’ve been back for a few months now. In these few months, while my health struggles are still present, things have been looking up. I have a place to live, an absolutely amazing job, and I am slowly but surely getting set up with the specialists I need to treat my autoimmune diseases and epilepsy. This isn’t to exude toxic positivity because the hell I’ve suffered and at times continue to suffer through is still very real, valid, and it deserves to be acknowledged. And it has been – in conversations with my friends, co-workers, and Love (aka God/Jesus cause I’m going through a faith crisis 😅)

Soon I will post some insane story times – in the meantime be sure to give my TikTok account a follow @ weetziewishes, check out my YouTube channel, and be sure to support on Patreon for exclusive access to unpublished works, early access to books, shout outs, and more! All of which can be found here https://linktr.ee/janexrochester

Mental Health, Personal Stories, Poems & Literature

Writing My Mother’s Story

Sara Elizabeth

In 12 days it will be two years since my mom passed away. It feels so much longer than that. In those two years, I have experienced an entire lifetime of heartbreak, trauma, change (both good and bad) – I am an entirely different person. So much so that I don’t quite know how to fit in with my friends and the city in which I live. The only constant since her passing has been the grief. I miss her my mom so much. 

My mom had a difficult life and the older I get the more I realize how unfair the hand she had been dealt was. She always said she wanted to write a story about her life – and even suggested we write it together. We never got that chance. And so I am compiling all of the stories she has told me together to create her story – because her story deserves to be told. 

It’s not easy, though. In ways it helps me feel closer to her but it also solidifies the fact that she is gone. I’ve started the process of connection with family and friends who might be able to help fill in parts I forgot or parts she never told me. I imagine this will be the most exhaustive and the most rewarding writing project I have tackled.

While it’s just in the beginning stages, I will be sharing snippets with my subscribers on Patreon. (I already posted the Prologue!) It’s only a $1 for the basic package and you get access to a lot of sneak peeks and Early Access content!

Feel free to check it out here: https://www.patreon.com/saraelizabeth
Personal Stories

What Happened to My Friend? The Case of Krystie Stuart

Sara Elizabeth

We’re sitting together in my library. I’m on the brown chair that was part of a sectional my ex-husband bought, guitar on my lap.  My friend Krystie Stuart sits across from me at my desk. It’s a small room, but it held three shelves full of books, my 2007 iMac, and a giant Breaking Dawn poster. She asks me to play something and despite my nerves, I agree. We had been toying around with the idea of playing a song together for our church. (Some of you may know that I am currently leaving the Mormon church. That is not the church I am referring to here. It was your run of the mill non denominational church.) I start strumming the chords to 3 Doors Down’s “Going Down in Flames”, a song that allowed me to cope with my struggles fitting into the Christian community. 

Krystie smiled and told me that my voice was pretty, and then asked about the song. I told her what the song meant to me and then I started talking about the song “Playing God” by Paramore. The conversation quickly turns to mental health and the judgment among our peers at church. I expressed the pain I felt from the Sunday school teacher telling me hurtful things.

“You are allowing demons to influence you by taking medication for your depression.” “Your husband is a dark influence on you.” “You need to dress more modestly. You’re distracting the men.”

Krystie nodded knowingly and said she had been told similar things by this person. For a second, I was like oh good! Someone who gets me! She confessed she had been diagnosed with Bipolar, but that she also agrees with this woman that on some level its related to demons. Especially because during her episodes, she’d have visual hallucinations and see demons. She firmly believed those demons were real. 

Krystie was one of the most spiritual and Christ-like people I’ve ever known. God was her life. And though we did not always agree on things and there were times she believed some questionable doctrine, she had such a beautiful and gentle heart. When I first met Krystie, it was at youth group and I was about 13 years old. She was older than me. I remember her holding hands with her boyfriend, and how they would talk about how they hadn’t even kissed yet, and wouldn’t kiss each other until they got married. When I stopped going to youth group, I didn’t encounter Krystie again until a few years later when I was volunteering at the library – and so was she! And then again, when my now ex-husband took me to “his” church. And we became friends. 

In 2015, I divorced my then-husband and moved to Utah. I remember I didn’t talk to her as much after I moved. But I didn’t talk to much of anyone back in California. I have a lot of regrets about that…

When I found out Krystie was missing, I was in shock and fearing the worst. I felt so helpless. I was hundreds of miles away and relying upon the news, family and friends, and a kind woman who had reached out to Krystie’s family and helped hire a private investigator. I’ll go into details about what we know about the case in a later post, and eventually a video on my YouTube.

 Krystie Stuart went missing on March 3rd, 2015 and part of her remains were found in February 2019. There is so much we don’t know. So many gaps. So many situations in which the case wasn’t handled appropriately at all. 

I am hoping by sharing this story, I can bring awareness to this case and maybe someone who knows something will finally come forward. We need answers. And I may be helpless, but I still have a voice. And it’s time I use it.

For more information, visit this news article by the Daily Press. 

Or connect @ In Loving Memory of Krystie Sutart Facebook Page