Loving yourself is the hardest thing you can do...

Having dealt with depression most of my life, I never realized what it was like to love myself until a few years ago.

I knew how to hate myself, that I had no problem with.

There was this year, between the hospital and then therapy, that something clicked in my mind. I was seventeen, and really sick of just being sad.

I knew there wasn't a way I could just turn off my depression, it would always be there, but maybe I could divert it.

Here are some things I learned in therapy, and some stuff I learned after therapy.

1. Learn what you like about yourself: One thing I could remember that I liked about myself back then was how much I liked writing. I wrote a few pieces every now and then, but I was proud of them because I had written them.

2. Learning to give myself a break: There's no harsher critic than yourself. In school, I felt as if I had to be the best at everything. When I wasn't, that's when all the dark thoughts and feelings came creeping in, so I had to learn to tell myself...It's okay.

3. Learn who the enemy is: Depression is the enemy. It is this black dog trying to keep you down, trying to make you feel as if you're the only who feels that way.

4. Love: It could be loving to write, or falling in love with a person, or fall in love with storms. Whatever you can find, love it, and hold on to it. I really love writing, and hate leaving stories unfinished. I fall in love with my characters and with the thought that only I could finish their stories. That keeps me going most days.

5. Learn your goals: If you have goals...you have a future. My goal is to be a published author, and I think about that everyday. I write to work towards that goal.

6. Love yourself: There are some things only you can do. Think about this world without you, think about all that people that love you, and can't live without you. I can't really tell you how to love yourself. One thing that worked for me, was looking at myself in the mirror in the bathroom and saying it out loud. Say out loud things you love about yourself, and eventually you'll start to believe them.

I'm writing this during a thunderstorm, so I'm going to spend my day indoors writing my new story, and drinking tea, oh and listening to the Grease Live and Legally Blonde The Musical soundtrack, it's amazing!

Hope you guys have a great February, filled with love and happiness!

Rebeca xx

Broken Perfectly...

"When we're broken we like to believe that if maybe someone just hugs us tight enough we'd be put back together." -Rebeca Ruiz, Broken Perfectly (out soon).

As humans, we are not invincible. We are not immortal, we are just mortal. It doesn't take much to break us, and I just don't mean physically.

I am almost done writing Broken Perfectly (it finally has a title) and it has made me learn so much about myself.

Often people ask me why I have such dark writing, and if I need some mental help. Because what kind of person writes about heartbreak, or car accidents with near death experiences, or suicide, or rape victims, or death?

I write about these people because these people exist. Not just in my head but in the real world.

I know that there are people in the world going through heartbreak, dealing with a loss of a loved one, post traumatic stress disorders, depression, suicide attempts, or just surviving whatever they are going through. They are all out there.

I do my best to do my research, make sure I get everything right, making sure I get their stories right.

I have known people to suffer through depression and convince themselves that they are okay. I have known people who isolate themselves for fear of being hurt, and push people who love them away.

I have known someone to take their life because they were just so sad on the inside, I have almost been that person.

My characters thoughts sometimes come from me and what I was feeling when I was eleven until I was sixteen.

If there's something I want my readers to take from my writing is that everyone deserves a happy ending. It will come in it's own time, you just have to keep going.

It doesn't matter if you're a 'broken person' because broken people eventually find the person who will keep them together, that will help those wounds heal. Maybe it will be a boyfriend/girlfriend, maybe it will be your best friend, maybe it will be a stranger that you meet for one night.

There's no such thing as too broken in my book. You are who you are for a reason, and therefore broken perfectly.

Broken Perfectly will be out soon, it's a continuation of Broken Pleasure, Ryder and Scarlett's story. Here is a little summary, some spoilers!:

Ryder and Scarlett are both engaged. Not to each other. To other people that they have decided to commit to.

Willow's wedding is bringing up old feelings and issues that were never dealt with. Keep in mind, Scarlett is only in town for a few days, then she's running back to her home back South.

Will they finally have their happily ever after, or will more heartbreak and fear keep them apart?

xxRebeca

Alone

Sometimes I think it's odd that I could spend my whole day in my room, and that I find it comforting to be alone.

If you ask my parents, I've always been an independent child. I guess independent is another word for stubborn. If I didn't want to do it, I didn't do it.

Some people may call me selfish because I won't do something unless it benefits me in some way. I think all people are like that, is there such thing as a selfless person? No. People always have a reason for doing things, whether it's to make them feel like a better person or to help them gain something.

I could go days just staying in my room, writing, listening to music, or just watching YouTube videos. Call me a hermit(?).

Over the last six years I have found myself not talking to people I used to talk to because I felt the friendship was over. I ended the friendship, broke off all contact. I believe in clean slates.

To be honest...I have less than 10 friends, that's being generous. Maybe 2 or 3 who I am extremely close to, even then not as close as the closest of friends, and the rest are acquaintances. And I am perfectly okay with that.

Being alone is something I'm good at. Nobody to be disappointed in me or have any expectations for me. I can be who I am.

This sounds a little sad. But I'm not sad. I am happy with my decisions, happy with who I am close to, and I am happy just being.

Have a great day, wherever you are.

xxRebeca

Music is the reason I write.

I can remember ever since I was little that I have always loved music. I mean, who didn't?

I grew up in a Mexican household which meant music was always playing when we woke up, when we cleaned, and especially when we had social gatherings. Spanish music always has a story to tell, they were descriptive and allowed my imagination to flow.

I kind of moved away from spanish music, and I started getting into my own music. Kelly Clarkson, Britney Spears, NSYNC, and many more.

In my head, I could create stories, stories I would dream about at night. I liked to sing (even though I was terrible at it) and I liked pretending to be the lead of my stories inside my head. My imagination was wild.

The first time I wrote was after reading Twilight in middle school. I think I was in eighth grade. I wrote and wrote, at least I tried. I wrote in complete silence because that's how my neighbor wrote her amazing stories.

I wanted to write amazing stories, too. Like the ones in my head that I got while listening to music. I didn't write for a long time after that because I thought I wasn't good enough. Every story I tried to write just ended with me saving it and never looking at it again because I got blocked.

One day, while listening to Thriving Ivory, I was driving to my friends house to pick her up to go to class, I just had this story pop in my head. I remember grabbing my phone and opening the voice recording app, and I recorded myself just saying words.

I didn't really have a story. I had an idea. I still remember the words that I thought of that day. Car accident. Coma. Scarred body. College. Unhappiness. Save Me.

I could even imagine the place where the car accident happened, I had a place in my town that inspired it.

This all happened before I wrote my first book. I pushed the idea aside, and I'm glad I did because it really let me think about it for about a year. Scarlett and Ryder talked to me in dreams, they developed and finally I just had to write about them.

I wrote about them with a few songs in mind, including the song Unhappy by Thriving Ivory, one of my favorite bands.

Now I don't write without a music playlist. Music helps my imagination, it helps me write, and I absolutely love it. Sometimes I'll write a scene with one song on repeat just so I don't lose idea in my mind.

Now, talking about Scarlett and Ryder...I released Broken Pleasure last month, and I am very proud of it, though the idea of anybody reading it makes me feel ill. I did get my first review on it a few weeks ago, and you can get it here.

I hope you guys like it(:

xxRebeca

A milestone...turning 20

I turned 20 this last weekend, on Sunday to be exact.

This is it.

The end of my teen years. a moment I never thought I was even going to get to.

What am I now?

I'm no longer a teen. Not technically an adult, that's 21. It's scary, now I feel like I have a bunch of things I have to get done.

Boyfriend?
Marriage?
Children?
Real job?

I mean, this is sort of the beginning of my life, the last 20years have all been in preparation for this.

But you know what?

Fuck it.

I'm going to do what is necessary for me to be happy. Whether that be writing or finding a great guy to be with. Whatever I need to do.

Sorry that it's been two months since I wrote anything, but I promise (like I always do lol) I'm going to do my best to write more on here.

And sorry again for the shortness of this post, promise to write more soon.

Inside the mind of a hypochondriac...

When I was fourteen, I started experiencing sharp pains in my stomach. Little did I know, that pain would change my life as I would not be diagnosed for another two years.

For a year, I'd get the pains, and the time between them would be closer and closer. All my doctor said was to record when they would happen.
I still remember the routine in which they came. I would eat dinner, around 4 in the afternoon, and I would have a night time snack so I could go to bed around ten or so. That's the routine I had growing up, eat when you get home, eat before you go to sleep. The snacks at night would usually be milk, coffee (it made me tired instead of energetic), and cookies or bread to dip in our drinks.
Dinner was whatever my mom made, which was Mexican food, since we were Mexican.
So I'd go to bed, and I would wake up in a night sweat, and in severe pain, right where my sternum ends. Every night like clockwork. It was get pain, stay awake for a few hours holding myself, trying not to cry, and then forcing myself to go to the bathroom and puke. Then I'd cry myself to sleep, the pain would cease then.

The doctor looked at my notes, and just wrote it off as heartburn. They gave me some heartburn medicine that did nothing. I went back after a month, like she said, and she accused me of not giving the medicine a chance.

Take in mind that I was fourteen, this pain was a stabbing pain, when I had it, I could not move if I tried. I may not have been a doctor, but I'm sure heartburn doesn't make you want to die. It sounds drastic, but that's how I felt. I begged God, or whoever was listening, to take my life because it hurt so bad and it was so constant. I get sad thinking about it now, but it's true.

The doctor would give me medicine, tell me to lose weight, tell me to suck it up, recommended I avoid certain foods. I took the medicine, I avoided all foods, water gave me pain as well, I was losing weight quickly because I wasn't eating.

If I did eat, I would sit in a chair, straight up, for hours. I wouldn't move. I wouldn't sleep until it had been at least four hours since my last meal. That helped. Sort of.

Finally, my doctor referred me to a gastroenterologist, a doctor who specializes in the gut or whatever. She scheduled me for a endoscopy soon after I finished my freshman year of high school, and by then I was taking antacids by the handful, ibuprofen, Maalox, and Tums were my best friends at night.

After the endoscopy, they told me they saw a little inflammation, but nothing to be worried about. The surgery triggered something inside of me, and I felt okay. I felt amazing. I was still afraid to eat or even nibble on food, but the pain stopped.

But as I went back into my old routine, the pain came back in a few months. It felt almost worst. I would crawl in a fetal position, I would be falling asleep in classes or at home on a chair. I started losing more weight, I couldn't wear tight clothes, it triggered it. Everything irritated my stomach, exercise, food, and even the medicine I was taking.

By this time, the ER had seen me so many times in a month. I could tell they were sick of me. They kept telling me I had GERD, also known as heartburn. Nothing was working, I would cry at the hospital, I felt like no one believed me, at one point they thought I was pregnant, another time, I had a full blown panic attack, I couldn't sit still, I couldn't breathe, and they did an EKG cause they thought I could be having a heart attack.

The doctors weren't helping, so I looked on the internet. That's when I guess I started to become a hypochondriac, I couldn't take it not knowing what I had. I started thinking I had cancer or appendicitis or liver failure, I definitely thought I had pancreatic cancer, I even started making plans for when I died.

It was scary, and one day after school, the second week of school during my junior year, I had some Mexican food because my stomach was starving, I had had pain all week at night, but I was just really hungry.

It was about an hour later when I started to feel the familiar pain. I had this chair that I could curl up and sleep on, and on my table I had ibuprofen, I was up to eight a night, Maalox and the tums, oh and a big bottle of water.

I kept passing out from weakness, two hours after I ate, I threw up everything. Even though that usually helped, it didn't that time.

It was six in the morning, after a restless night of passing out from the pain and weakness and hunger, I stopped my dad before he could go to work. I had to go to the hospital. I had never had the pain last over three hours, and now I was going on thirteen hours.

The ER was empty, took them five minutes before they called my name. My blood pressure was low, I was pale, and cold.

As soon as I had an ultrasound to see if I had appendicitis or gallstones, they gave me the great stuff. Morphine. The pain was numb, and I slept for an hour before they told me I had gallstones and I needed my gallbladder taken out some time in the near future. That it could wait until I had a break in school.

Then they kicked me out and sent me home, with another prescription for heartburn. TO HELP they said.

I made it home, and an hour later, I couldn't take it. The pain had come back, but my dad had gone to work and my mom didn't drive, so I had to wait for him to get back around four o'clock. The pain was so bad, I almost called 911, but I forced myself to wait.

And when we got to the emergency room, it was packed. It was four hours before they took me in. I was shaking severely, and crying for those four hours, begging for them to take me in, but all they did was give me a blanket.

Finally around eight, I was taken into a room, where they told me I would be having surgery later that week. I got my gallbladder taken out two days after that, and according to the doctor and the pictures, they were the size of golfballs. My laparoscopic surgery ended up with me having to be opened, and I cried after, and not because of the pain.

I felt that my doctors had failed me, and wrote me off. They could have caught it earlier, and now I can't trust them.

I avoid doctors at all costs. It's been a while since I've been to one, and to be honest, I'd rather google a symptom than go to their office.

After my surgery, I started to Google every symptom whenever I had any. Whether it was a simple cold or I sneezed weird.

My two year illness took such a severe toll on me. I tear up whenever i think about it. It's sad.

My parents always write me off whenever I feel sick. They think it's all in my head, and it is. I know that it is.

When I get a headache, or a migraine, I start thinking I have a brain tumor. If I find a new freckle on my body, I think I have skin cancer. If my stomach is upset, I obsess over what I ate. Sometimes I think I'm having a heart attack when I have a panic attack over my breathing.

I know that I over think of what I can have. Right now, I think I have cancer, but I'm too afraid to go to the doctor for fear that they won't believe me. I have to talk myself down because living in fear is not fun.

I lay awake at night feeling my chest for bumps in case of breast cancer, and I cry. I'm afraid of accidentally looking over a symptom. I google every health related way I could die at the age of 19.

It's hard. People make fun of me when I get frazzled talking about my health, they think it's funny that I think I'm going to die because of a spot or a headache. It's terrifying to think that I'm going to die.

I wasn't like this before my health scare. Through therapy I've noted that I have OCD tendencies, and that made me susceptible to hypochondria. There are articles about this, maybe I have it, maybe I don't. Hypochondria is hard to have because it's hard to believe yourself.

I don't know...

I just felt like I had to write this post. Maybe it will help some of you. Maybe it won't. Let me know in the comments, or shoot me a message. I'll gladly respond.

To Save You is Live!

It's January 12th, and To Save You, my second book is now live! You can get it here!

I started writing this story about a month and a half ago, and I guess I wanted to incorporate a little bit of what I went through as a sixteen year old.

SPOILERS. I won't write about specifically goes on in the book, but I will write about the experiences I went through and wrote about in the book.

Depression affects millions of people everyday. I've read many stories where the guy tries to save the girl from herself, and in my story, what makes it different, is that he can't save her. Mathew admits that he can't do it alone.

I remember being sixteen, and I had spent the last few years just tangling people into my web of lies. A lot of my friends knew I hurt myself, but nobody said one thing because I had manipulated them into thinking it was nothing. I just liked cutting myself, and it relieved stress. I made them think, well, as long as she's not trying to kill herself, she's fine.

I surrounded myself with the wrong people. I was so unhappy, and there was nothing I could do to bring myself out of it sometimes.

Presley had tried to kill herself one time, but she instantly regretted doing what she did. I took that from a real life experience.

I was probably twelve or thirteen, I remember that I was in middle school. I had gotten into a fight with my mother, it was summer, and I didn't want to go back to school. I just thought everything would be better if I was gone.

I took Excedrin, these migraine pills, and I took about a third of the bottle. I laid down on my bed, ready to die. Then something clicked in my head. Dying wasn't the answer.

I started to throw it all up. It took a few days, but eventually I started to feel better. I never told anyone about my almost overdose, they just thought I was really sick. It was the scariest time of my life, and I was twelve!

Another thing I wrote about that happened in my life, it was religious parents. My parents are religious, especially my mom.

I was raised a Catholic, went to church, but around eight years old, I started to question faith. Whether you believe in God or believe in nothing, that's your choice, I won't judge you.

I felt religion was being shoved down my throat. That's when I stopped going to church, I would throw temper tantrums, and my parents would leave me at home. I know it crushed them that I was no longer going, but I had made my choice.

I know a lot of friends that have gone through this. Whether it be going through it as an eight year old, or a eighteen year old.

Now I am a healthy 19 and a half year old! (today is my half birthday)! I wrote this book as a tribute to all those broken people out there, even the healed people.

You have to fix yourself and love yourself before you can start loving anybody else. No one can save you but yourself.

I hope you guys enjoy the book, I worked really hard on it.

xxRebeca