Skip to content

about me
Blog
books
shop
ARC Requests
Design
Connect

Kat Savage’s unique brand of storytelling combines some of her own truths with a little bit of fiction to connect to people in a very real way. She writes about ugly things authentically and shamelessly.

Check out her books, design work, or connect with her using the menu!

Instagram
Facebook
Twitter

Instagram

My emo 9 year old daughter is so talented. 😂 Who wants a greeting card? Maybe she can do the art and I can write the messages.

Grief does strange things to me. When I was a child, Angela and I would sit with forks in our hands and eat pickles straight from the jar. Me, always with dill. Her, always with breaks and butter. And my mother, always with Mountain Dew in her hand. Her drink of choice. I stand here over my counter eating bread and butter pickles straight from the jar and drinking a can of Mountain Dew. I never had a taste for either before. Now, with my sister and mother gone, it’s a way... to pay homage? To remember? To be sad? I’m not sure. It’s just what I do now. I eat what they ate and I drink what they chose to because it’s like... they can’t anymore. I do it for them maybe. I am living and they aren’t so it feels the least I can do. Maybe. I don’t really know. #katsavage #poetry #poetryaboutmygriefcomingsoon

People will tell you that anxiety is a little blue pill sitting on your counter each morning and you can choose to take it or leave it sitting there and face your day worry free. People will tell you that you can choose. Choose not to agonize over every little thing in your daily life, not think incessantly about conversations you had five years ago or will have five years from now. People will tell you it’s all about will power. My anxiety is a beehive inside me, each bee carrying a thought, all of them swirling inside me, in unison, loud in my chest. I flex my legs in bed, pain radiating through them, into the bones of my feet. I spread my weighted blanket over me and tuck it around my soles with hope that it can still the whole of me. Anxiety is in fact self-doubt and intense worry and a touch of paranoia and just a bit of hollow chested hyperventilating all rolled into one. The honey dripping from the comb. People tell me not to lick my lips. My anxiety whispers in my ear as I walk down the hallway, as I sit at my desk, as I sit to take a piss, how terrible am I at everything, how incomplete I am. Sometimes I take a knife and try to cut the beehive out of me, try to sever its ties. It never works. The sum of it is too much the whole of me. Which is to say we cannot survive without one another. Sometimes the honey is the only thing that keeps the pale pink fog of depression at bay. #katsavage #poetry

I think a lot about suicide. Clarification. I do not think about committing suicide. I think about suicide in general. I think about my own personal depression and how to this point in my life, it’s never driven me to contemplate my own suicide. For that, I feel lucky. As if it is by chance, as if those thoughts barely missed me and could have been mine if only I stepped to the left just a little. I think about how much further into my depression I would have to sink before those thoughts crept in. Am I so far away from them they are a dot in the distance? Am I so close I could reach out and brush my fingers against their blackness? Perhaps I will only know when they come knocking. When one of those internet counselors told me I had bipolar disorder after a brief 45 minute conversation with me that consisted of pointed questions and asking me several times “are you sure you’ve never wanted to hurt yourself?” I gave it a lot of thought because I wanted to be sure. I also wondered if a) my bipolar disorder was so obvious he could diagnose it that quickly or b) he was full of complete shit and while it was easy to think about the first option being true, I settled on the second. I do not know if it was out of self-preservation or logic. The point is, my depression is more a cinder block tied to my ankle mafia style and holding me down just far enough that my mouth and nose are above water but my ears are under so everything is loud and muffled in my head all the time. The point is my depression is dreaming about my mother’s dead body falling on top of me and I’m pinned underneath and I begin to panic because I can’t escape. The point is my depression has never told me a loaded gun or bottle of pills is the answer. My depression is not the destruction of a flame, not the danger of a current. My depression is the lump in my throat, the ache in my legs, the thunder in my chest, the panic I feel when I close my eyes and wonder if it will ever grow bigger than me. My depression is the ache I carry inside, contain. For the moment. I wonder who I would be without it. If I were as light as a pale pink balloon floating to the heavens. Imagine my disdain. #katsavage #poetry

I was so excited when I read the description of my @bookofthemonth pick for September! What did you pick?! ————— A psychopath is terrorizing Copenhagen. His calling card is a “chestnut man”—a handmade doll made of matchsticks and two chestnuts—which he leaves at each bloody crime scene. Examining the dolls, forensics makes a shocking discovery—a fingerprint belonging to a young girl, a government minister’s daughter who had been kidnapped and murdered a year ago. A tragic coincidence—or something more twisted? To save innocent lives, a pair of detectives must put aside their differences to piece together the Chestnut Man’s gruesome clues. Because it’s clear that the madman is on a mission that is far from over. And no one is safe. #botmbookbassador #botm

The #moodboard for my new novel I’m working on. Anyone wanna guess what it’s about? #katsavage

Blog Stats

14,788 hits

Search for:

Blog at WordPress.com.

Post to

Cancel