mental health
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Last month, I taught my very first writing workshop. I’ve publicly spoken as an author before, talked at high schools about craft and publication, been featured on panels at conventions. Yet Novis Mortem Collective offered me my first opportunity to actually teach writing.
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I gave up New Year’s Resolutions a while ago. I was never good at keeping them anyway. At some point, I switched to selecting an intentional word. A goal theme for the year. I have used “healing” and “simplify” in past years. This year, I’m going with reset.
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It has been a long time, and this blog is not the only thing I have neglected. My health the past few years unmoored me, but life sprinted on ahead. It feels like we have returned to pre-pandemic pace, but I am not the same person as before. I am broken and hobbling. I have…
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If I were to manufacture a hell for someone with body dysmorphia and/or an eating disorder, it would be this.
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My appearance has always been a source of fixation and distortion, creating a rift between my sense of self and physical vessel. It never looked how I wanted (not that it could with my cracked lens), so I hated it. Now, as my body has literally turned on me and itself, it feels like it…
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I have no solid sense of my physical form. My consciousness feels too expansive, too malleable to align with the flesh.
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Welcome to a darkly satirical little journey through suicide, suicidal ideation, self-harm, depression. Apply a heavy sardonic tone while reading.
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I don’t know why depression and writing walk hand in hand for me. Mania and writing surely do not, though I would love to fuel my craft with that energy. There is just a certain point in the descent, a certain shade in the darkness where my mind unfurls and all the words pour down…
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To put it frankly and in my signature vernacular: things are fucked. Around this mark in the calendar each year I tend to fall into a depression sink hole, even in this best of years, and this is far from the best of years. I don’t know if it is the transition from hated summer…
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Yesterday, I got my semicolon tattoo in a now cliche display of suicide and self-harm survival. It was a last minute addition when I was sitting to get flowers added to my seasonal sleeve. The tattoo may be fully mainstream now, hiding on the wrists of strangers all around me, but the metaphor still speaks…
Fiery Pen 