Solus

Posted in anxiety, humor, mental health, rant, thoughts by

Disclaimer: I’m 1/3rd of a bottle of wine deep, so the words are flowing in an exceptionally unrestricted manner.

Alone. I used to feel that metaphorically, as in “nobody gets me and I don’t have any friends.” But right now, I’m literally alone, and it’s an entirely different mind-fuck.

Matthew went back to Salt Lake City to uHaul our belongings to our new home – Asheville, North Carolina. He’s been gone for 6 days so far, and has 3 more to go. It’s really hard to not fixate on the fact that everyone and everything I know is thousands of miles away from me.

The trailer remains our only dwelling (we close on our house in less than a month!), but I’ll be damned if I live in that thing alone. I tried for a couple of days in the interest of saving money, but landed abruptly in a hotel room near downtown Asheville after one of the gnarliest panic attacks I’ve had since being medicated.

It all started when I slammed my thumb into the trailer door. It took seconds for me to wiggle it free, and the pain induced a mountain of hyperventilated sobs. To be honest, it didn’t even hurt that bad, but tears don’t all have to fall for the same reason.

Before I knew it, I was doubled over in a panicked hunch, desperately gasping for relief. I hadn’t slept in days, and my mind wasn’t safe there. Provincial gentlemen in souped-up (yes, that’s how you spell it, I checked) trucks intermittently sped past my trailer with music blasting so loud that it left me with tinnitus. It was cold and loud and shaky, and I needed my mama.

It took her little convincing to get me to book a hotel room downtown, so here I am. It’s still hard, being so far away from home that I can’t hug my mom and cry into her shoulders, but I like this place, and I’ll like it even more upon reunion with my dogs and my person. I’m still peeing even more than usual, and find myself walking on treadmills for hours just to keep myself occupied. I’ve even considered watching reality TV. However, I’ve also discovered some of the best wine I’ve ever had, made friends with some middle-aged southern ladies (my favorite!), and have a list of restaurants to show Matthew upon his return.

A lot of people would enjoy being in my situation, I think. A whole week to yourself in a hotel with the means to do whatever you want? That sounds nice if your thoughts are manageable. Mine are always on turbo-speed, and I spend all of my alone time trying to get my body to keep up. I would love to sleep, but because I won’t, I already have a sunrise hike planned for tomorrow.

Anyway, there’s no takeaway here, but I feel a little bit better.

-M.

Erudition

Posted in Christianity, church, Enlightenment, Feminism, mormonism, philosophy, Plant Medicine, psychadelics, Ram Dass, religion, thoughts, Truth by

Growing up in the LDS faith, I was always taught that having a firm testimony was paramount to my salvation. I was taught that the mormons have the complete Truth, and that god only gave the other religions a snippet of it. Having shed that value system, I have since realized that proclaiming to know ANYTHING about the divine is not only ignorant, but inhibitory to spiritual growth. Why would I continue to search for capital T “Truth” if I have convinced myself that I already have it?

My curiosity for theology is insatiable. Thanks to podcasts, books, and loved ones of beautifully diverse backgrounds, I have gained insight from studying faiths from all parts of the globe, and have obtained value from each of them (yes, even Christianity, despite their notoriously violent and abusive history).

As I embarked on my path to spiritual healing after leaving Mormonism, I discovered the Divine Feminine, and how many Eastern and indigenous cultures revere and worship goddesses. In these contexts, femininity is revered in conjunction with the masculine. This type of worship has been sorely missing from my life, as I’ve never once related to all of the typical dude prophets we find in western scripture. I also think it’s a bold assumption that god is a male, or even has a gender to begin with.

I have also learned that there are several modalities for Sacrament. I’ve experienced the power of plant medicine, and have achieved mental states that can only be described as ethereal. These experiences have helped me dive deep into my own consciousness and have empowered me to pursue Truth within myself. They have also connected me intimately with Mother Nature in reverence.

Then there are contemporary spiritual leaders such as Ram Dass, who have taught me to separate the “me” from the “I,” and become the witness of my own emotions and how I react to experiences. This practice has helped me keep trying times into perspective, and to not identify with the negativity that tumultuous events can bring.

I could type all day about the things I’ve learned and will continue to seek out as I search for Truth and meaning, but I’ll get to the point now. The knowledge that I’ve acquired and pieced together is uniquely mine. Who knows if there’s a god out there somewhere who dictates scripture and triages the dead into whatever degree of glory they earned? Will he withhold my heavenly dwelling from me because my eggs aren’t in one basket? If so, I’m not interested in heaven.

You won’t find me in church. I won’t give precious hours of my time to sit in pews and have gatekeepers of Truth tell me how to interpret my spiritual experiences. I commune directly with the Divine, and the intuition provided to me by my maker is the only guide I need.

In closing, I’d like to bare my testimony. I don’t know that any church is true. I don’t know if there’s a god, to what extent she or he is involved in my life, or whether there’s a warm welcome waiting for me on the other side. I am dedicated to continuously seeking out Truth, regardless of where it comes from. I am committed to not committing to any one dogma, and to actively exploring as many schools of thought as I can. I know that I’m entitled to establishing an eclectic ideology of my own, and that it will ALWAYS be subject to change. I believe that no religion has (or ever will) monopolize Truth. In the name of personal revelation, amen.

–M.

Salubrious

Posted in anxiety, Enlightenment, mental health, Ram Dass by

I haven’t been to therapy in a long while (in THIS economy?!), so I’ve been trying to freestyle my mental health maintenance by reading books, listening to podcasts, and owning up to when my partner tells me that I’m projecting again. Still working on that one-I’ve been described as “prideful” a time or two.

Old habits die hard, as they say.

I am currently reading Clarity & Connection by Yung Pueblo. If you haven’t heard of him, I strongly recommend checking out his Instagram account, and picking up his book from someplace other than Amazon. He kicks off the book by describing how awareness is the first step to healing one’s traumas and finding deeper connection in relationships. If you’ve been following me at all, you can deduce that I have a decent amount of baggage (no shame). I’m clearly aware of this, as I can write a solid blog post about pretty much any emotion I have ever felt.

Sure, I’m exponentially healthier and happier than the gal who kicked off this blog several years ago. Reading back at previous posts has been an overwhelmingly cringy experience, but I said what I said. Trauma is a bitch in that it can lay latent for YEARS until something triggers it back into full force. I’ve been dealing with this as of late, which has been making me pretty hard to get along with. I’ve got a hyperactive nervous system, and am regularly either fighting, flighting, or dissociating.

All of this is evidence of a lack of mindfulness, I think. I’d consider myself pretty hippie-like (I practically live in a van by the river), but meditation and yoga and the like have never been my cup of tea. It’s all so very noisy between my ears, which reduces my bandwidth for mindfulness significantly. However, a pretty cool dude named Ram Dass has taught a mantra “Ah, so.” for when things get too noisy in the noggin. “Ah, so.” What a way to become a passive witness of your emotions, reactions, and interpretations of the world around you.

“Ah, so. I’m spiraling again.” Let’s sit with it. Let’s feel it through and watch it pass by. Reaction can wait. I may not be at the point where I can intercept these toxic thought patterns yet, but maybe with a little practice, I can at least watch them flow through me until I’m removed enough from that emotional state to act in a logical manner.

The best part is: I’m not alone. I’ve built a beautiful network of insightful individuals over the past few years that continually inspire me to get my act together, and I am beyond grateful for every one of them!

I’ve got a LONG way to go, and I can’t imagine that I’m the only one experiencing the woes of anxiety and trauma, so let’s get a bit interactive! How do you mediate mean thoughts? Drop a comment, shoot me an email, or send me a letter via pigeon. More musings coming your way soon!

-M.

Schismatical

Posted in education, philosophy, politics, rant, religion by

An aunt of mine recently decided to run for a position on the Board of Education in the district that I grew up in, and that’s as specific as I’m going to get as it pertains to her identity. I would like to preface this post by saying that I find her platform shameful and embarrassing, and have chosen to avoid any and all affiliations with her in the future.

The district in which she is running for is sleepy, overwhelmingly white, and riddled with Mormon constituents. The closed-minded nature of this population makes a point of asserting its superiority and has a habit of excluding those who probably wouldn’t be accepted into the heaven that Joseph Smith planted in their heads (i.e. LGBT+ individuals, people who have tattoos, coffee fans, and yes-some even still subscribe to the notion that god won’t let people of color into his posthumous Sky Club). “Trump 2024” signs are far from uncommon. You get the point.

Some teachers have taken it upon themselves to build a safe and inclusive environment for all students despite this less-than-tolerant atmosphere. Not under my aunt’s watch. A few days ago, a photo began circulating around the bored housewife Facebook sphere of signs that teachers had posted in the hallway that indicate their pronouns:

In response, one of my aunt’s “platforms” was to call her constituents to action to pressure the teachers into taking their signs down by arguing that these signs are indoctrinating students into “woke culture,” and therefore must be eradicated. These folks flooded the principal’s inbox and left call after call with the school’s administration. Some even went as far as to threaten the teachers directly into compliance. And to no one’s surprise, it worked.

All of my aunt’s children (and all of her affiliates) are cis-gender and straight, so I can imagine that this is an issue that she simply won’t relate to (and refuses to sympathize with). We’re all familiar with the term “separation of Church and State,” but history has proven that this has never been the case in our “democracy.” My aunt is entitled to subscribe to whatever religious dogma she chooses, no matter how preposterous. However, she cannot impose those views on all of the students that reside within her district. The message that she is sending to the students of my alma mater is that kids whose identities do not carry the label of male or female do not deserve to be validated in their search for an authentic identity while they’re at school.

The simple signs posted in the hallways of my junior high school would likely have been an effective tool in promoting a safe and inclusive environment for students who are beginning to explore their identities and grow into themselves. Oftentimes, these kids don’t have an adult in their lives that they can trust to support them through the turmoils of puberty and development. Perhaps they can find one in a teacher who cares.

The argument that these signs are “indoctrinating our youth,” as my auntie would tell us, is utter bullshit. You wanna talk indoctrination? How about baptizing your 8-year-olds into a toxic religion that they can’t even comprehend well enough to understand the commitment you’re forcing upon them? How about insisting that the world is only 6,000 years old, despite the heap of archeological evidence that proves otherwise? How about spreading the toxic proposition that god will not embrace certain individuals in the afterlife if they are gay or non-white or identify with a pronoun that doesn’t align with their biological sex?

TLDR: If you’re going to run for a position on the Board of Education, you’d best be educated. Perpetrating this tone-deaf nonsense will only contribute to increased divisiveness in a climate that is already on the brink of civil unrest. Stop wasting time and effort on things that frankly have nothing to do with education. You live in the country with the highest rate of school shootings, for god’s sake. Kids are going to school hungry because they can’t afford lunch. Teachers are receiving poverty wages. The curriculum is severely lacking, and leaving graduates with little to no preparation for the Real World. Oh, and we’re ranked 27th WORLDWIDE in education, and declining. Develop a platform that will solve actual issues, or go find a new hobby.

Thank you to all of the teachers that courageously posted these signs. I hope you continue to promote a healthy environment for ALL of your students to flourish.

-M.

Treatment

Posted in mental health, poetry by

“It’s in your head” they said, and I nodded

rattling the cage of my psyche, my soul, my mind

“Take this” they said, and I open orange bottle after orange bottle

Three times daily, once with food, once before bed

And then everything is slower and I am listless

Anesthetized thoughts rattling the cage of my psyche, my soul, my mind

Hazily moping through days that are saturated in slumber

Relentlessly begging the clock to wind the sun down

“Do more” they demand; the persistent, untreatable thoughts

The ones that nobody has made a poison to kill yet

And I weave my way through the clouded trance

within the cage of my psyche, my soul, my mind

To do more and be more

With shallow breathing and trembling hands and racing thoughts of sheer panic

Until a quick glance at the clock grants me another dose

And I lean back slow into the tranquility

And then everything is slow and I am listless

 

M.

 

 

 

 

 

I Don’t Want To Be Touched

Posted in dating, Feminism, mental health, philosophy, poetry, relationships, strength, Uncategorized by

I don’t want to be touched.

Not even when I’m alone on the dance floor of a poorly-lit night club in a black dress and my favorite blazer

As you slither your way behind me, grabbing my waist with your free hand and clutching a warm beer in the other

Your humidified breath dripping down my neck as you try to sync two sets of hips to a beat I could feel just fine on my own

I don’t want to be touched.

Not when you ask me to go on a drive with you through the canyon, and the music is loud enough to rumble my ear drums

And you’re driving reckless and fast, my entire body swaying with the slightest twist of the steering wheel

My safety entirely in your hand, just like my upper leg, as you clench it tighter with every curve in the road

I don’t want to be touched.

Not when I’m strutting through the corridor of the mall downtown in an outfit that makes me feel strong and beautiful and sophisticated, and you, a stranger, catch my absentminded gaze

Your strides quicken as you rapidly collide into my path of travel and grab both sides of my face with your skinny, foreign hands

My eyes widen like the moon as you plant your dry, thin lips on my mouth, pull me over to a nearby bench, and sit me on to your lap, all before you even bother to tell me your name

The passers-by fight the urge to clap at your romantic gesture

I don’t want to be touched.

Not when you ask me to the movies, and you choose the lounge chairs in the very back of the theater where we can be alone

You allow me to enjoy the trailers without disturbance, and once the lights reach their dimmest point, your hands slide under my shirt

And I try to keep my eyes on the screen, but the weight and pinch of your grip makes me flinch and I tell you I need to go to the bathroom, but really I’m suffocating, and the stiff air within the bathroom stall only makes it worse

I don’t want to be touched.

Not even after sipping a drink of your creation in your living room as we watch some stupid action film on your modern, stiff couch

And before the final credits roll, I realize that I’ve been rendered immobile, and my body is slung over your shoulder, and we disappear in to your bedroom

And your body and your bed sheets consume me until the early morning hours, my body releasing inaudible screams

I don’t want to be touched.

Because you never bothered to ask me if this is okay, or are you comfortable, or where is the line

And if you did ask, you didn’t bother to comply

Because my consciousness resides within my skull, but I can’t afford the mortgage on the body that keeps it off the ground

But apparently, you can, and you take and you do what satisfies you

I don’t want to be touched.

Not even by the best-intentioned one of you out there

Because the price of security is isolation, and the perpetual fear of failing to protect myself shackles me

And my inability to form healthy relationships is inhibited, my detachment from the human touch keeps me numb for now

So that if you want to touch me, I can hide within compartmentalized lobes within my brain, temporarily severing the nerves of my periphery until it’s safe to come out again

I don’t want to be touched.

Even when you shower me in compliments about my beauty, intellect or comedic nature

Or buy me flowers, a drink, or a hamburger

So I buy those for myself

And I go to movies and canyon drives and night clubs by myself

And I feel myself

Because I don’t want to be touched.

 

 

 

 

 

Pusillanimity

Posted in mental health, relationships, thoughts, Uncategorized by

This is an open letter to anybody I’ve ever bailed on. And trust me, that’s quite a broad audience.

To the perfectly nice boy who’s been asking me to coffee for MONTHS, but I always seem to have other plans. To the girl from high school who wants to catch up over dinner, but my car keeps breaking down, or I have to go see my aunt who’s last night in town happens to be this one, and can’t we try again next week?

To my old coworker who cheerily invited me to go jogging with her week after week when I started complaining out loud about my general lack of fitness, but I was always “too tired.”

To the genuinely good and nice and warm people who did nothing but request my company, but I wouldn’t or couldn’t show. To the ones I ghosted; too much of a coward to even offer a fabricated explanation.

I want to start off by apologizing. My tendency to inconsiderately back out on plans that we’ve made together at the last minute has absolutely NOTHING to do with you. In fact, I want nothing more than to have followed through on those aforementioned plans, and gotten to know you and perhaps even have had a little bit of fun.

If I may, i’d like to offer a bit of an explanation of what is going on in this anxiety-ridden noggin that the good Lord gave me. *If there is one*

I never make plans with someone that I don’t 100% intend on following through on. My intentions are pure, I assure you. I’m always eager to meet people and create new experiences with them and so forth.

But then, as we near our time to meet up, my anxiety elevates. Gradually, at first, and I start to have doubts about following through on the plans I’d made. “What if he/she doesn’t like me?” “What if they hurt me?” “What I’m uglier/dumber/less funny than they expected me to be?”

I start to feel unsafe. Not because of the person I have tentative plans to see. Not that, at all. It’s like a reflex, a constant need to protect myself from an unidentified threat. A lump in my throat and a sinking stomach. Thoughts that move at the speed of sound.

I slowly stop responding to your text messages. I pop a Buspar (a fast-acting anti-anxiety drug intended to prevent panic attacks). I convince myself that I’m much too tired to engage with others now.

You send me a “We’re still on, right?” text.

I don’t even open it. I turn your notifications on “mute.”

“M? You okay?” you inquire.

Ignored.

I probably end up passing out at 8 PM, and waking up to one or two more messages from you, with an air of either completely justified disappointment or frustration. And I ignore it. And then we likely don’t talk again.

And I feel alone.

The worst part of it is that it’s entirely self-inflicted.

I hunger for human connection constantly. Watching other people grow and develop amongst each other is devastatingly painful, because I can”t seem to allow myself to do the same. And I end up frustrating people I care about and want to be around, but I keep standing right in my own way.

In summary, I really appreciate everyone who’s ever reached out and tried to make me feel included and wanted. Even if you’ve ever just asked me to go on a walk in the park or get an ice cream cone. And I’m truly, genuinely sorry that I was unable to follow through. I’m sorry if I made you feel sad or mad or frustrated because I flaked on you. It’s not you, it’s me.

I’ve found myself struggling with this especially lately, and I’ve come to the conclusion that I need to return to therapy, and stay compliant on my medications, so that’s my fix-it plan. If you haven’t entirely given up on me, I’d still like to get that cup of coffee or see that movie with you.

Wish me luck, friends.

M.

Calloused

Posted in dating, Eating disorders, Feminism, humor, mental health, philosophy, rant, relationships, strength, Uncategorized by

I’m back writing again, and you all know what that means.

I’m in emotional turmoil 🙂

Nothing makes me more uncomfortable than succumbing  to my own humanity. Y’know, feelings and whatnot. Particularly the ones that make you appear vulnerable and weak.

I’ve developed into the classic “funny girl.” Ask anyone that’s had a 30-minute conversation with me, I guarantee I’ve made them laugh. Humor is arguably the most effective tool of deflection.

I guess this is my self-protective mechanism; my adaptation to the realization that i’m not safe out in the world. And it’s served me well, for the most part.

I want to be perceived as the comedic, confrontational, independent gal who couldn’t give two bothers as to what anybody thinks of her. And to my core, I am that person. And I love that person. But even she isn’t immune to the pain of rejection, betrayal, misplaced trust, and heartbreak.

And i’ll be honest, initially, things don’t really get to me. I can shrug off most anything, and I’ll probably even crack a joke about it just to assure you that I’m okay. But after a random duration of time, it all gets to me at once. Pain always catches up, no matter how far of a head start you have.

Today was one of those days where I felt the pain of the last decade all come crashing down on me at the same time. I happened to be at the gym, actually, when the lump in my throat began to build. Leg day was cut short so I could make it to my car in time for the water works.

I’ve been through a lot in the past 10 years. Puberty, anorexia, braces, high school, rape, the loss of friends and significant others, death, rejection, and the constant frustration that I’m the one behind the wheel, but my GPS keeps rerouting, turning me in unproductive circles.

And I really haven’t done a whole lot of feeling.

You can only suppress emotion for so long before you break, I guess. Being alive hurts.

A healthy, well-adjusted individual would probably just allow themselves to feel the pain in real time, give themselves time to work through it, and then move on. I’d really, REALLY like to be a healthy, well-adjusted individual.

Recently, I’d misplaced my trust in someone completely, allowing them to tug me around. They gained my trust and vulnerability far too quickly, and left me the fool. My initial reaction was complete denial that it even affected me at all, and then it turned to frustration. Granted, this person wasn’t in my life long enough to put me in the emotional state that I am now.

But there’s always a catalyst for this sort of thing.

And that lead me down the rabbit hole to every other instance in which I was forced into a vulnerable position, which turned into me driving home from the gym with tears dripping down my face and some Kanye song blasting in the background.

I would beg whatever supernatural forces that exist to take the pain away, but I think the point is for me to let myself feel it.

So i’m laying here, in a cuddle puddle with my two felines, doing just that.

Growth; it isn’t always pretty.

 

M.

Itinerant

Posted in thoughts, Uncategorized by

You thought I was done with this writing thing, did you?

Not a chance.

I’ve been spending a lot of time between now and January 23rd, my most recent check-in with you guys, making more mistakes, meeting different people, gaining new perspectives, and also attempting to learn a thing or two from all of that.

I’ve been graduated from college for a little over a year now, and I’ve been walking around like a deer in headlights ever since. It’s honestly adorable how unprepared I felt when I graduated high school. That was NOTHING in comparison to how I feel right now. Does one ever learn what the hell is going on in this whirlwind of experiences that we compile together and call “life”?

I turned 23 on Memorial Day this year, and shortly thereafter, experienced what I surely hope I can call a “midlife crisis.” You see, I woke up one morning and dyed my hair pink, and later pierced my nose. Two days later, I got the stud taken out of my nostril and began the process of vigorously washing out the color from my yellow locks. It could have been worse though, I could have gotten BANGS.

I’ve continued to draw further into myself while a part of me desperately tries to reach out. I’m a prisoner to my mind, a captive audience to a voice that chants, You shouldn’t be here. You don’t belong. You are not wanted.”

Sometimes, though, I do get over myself and defy my mean brain. I hide behind my sense of humor and cool demeanor as I interact with others, peeking from behind the sky-scraping walls at others whose intentions I may never know, may never trust.

Humans love an origin story. We want to know where we came from, what existed first. Chronology. But I can’t seem to put a start date on when I started feeling this way, which leads me to believe that perhaps I always have.

This isn’t a call for attention, or even sympathy. I don’t even feel pity for myself. Perhaps it’s an integral part of who I am. I’m comfortable in my solitude, acclimated to my loneliness. I am capable of making myself happy, and I do so often. It’s only on days that I fail that I wish I were different.

I guess the most I could hope for for myself is to eventually allow myself to be encompassed by those who help set me free from my malicious mind. I’m not there yet, though. So I sit in my quaint apartment behind a keyboard, attempting to assign words to feelings, transforming the internal to the external, so that I can get some peace and quiet.

M.

Remedial

Posted in Feminism, Uncategorized by

I recently became a volunteer advocate at the Rape Recovery Center, a local nonprofit that provides counseling services, a crisis hotline, and hospital teams for survivors of sexual violence. In order to become an advocate, one must complete a 40-hour intensive training program. I’m at the midpoint of my training now, and while my experience so far has been one of empowerment, solidarity, and fulfillment, it’s also forced me to re-examine and really process (for the first time) my own rape.

I’ve come to realize that due to many contributing factors, I have yet to take the time to really process what happened to me, and how it’s impacted me physically, cognitively, and spiritually even now, a few years after the fact.

My initial response was one of damage control. Immediately after regaining control of my body, I sped to a pharmacy to pick up a plan-B pill, inquired a private feminist Facebook group that I was a member of about STI testing, and took the proper steps to ensure that my perpetrator would not be able to contact me again.

A member of the aforementioned Facebook group took it upon his (or her)self to notify my father of what happened to me. This member screen-shotted my original post about inquiring about STI testing, and emailed it to my father, which gave me more damage to control.

I’ve been floating around from day to day, somewhat numb, ever since. I’ve always been kind of a distant person, but since this occurred, I’ve been even more withdrawn, even less in-touch with my emotions and my ability to connect with people, especially men.

A guy that I’m not personally friends with DM’d me on Facebook the other day, and asked me if I was a rape victim.  I responded in the affirmative, and he proceeded to tell me that I’m so much stronger, and my spirit is more alive since I was raped.

I found this response both appalling and offensive, for a handful of reasons. First of all, this man does not know me. He didn’t know me before the rape, and he doesn’t know me now. How, then, can he feel confident in making such a statement? Furthermore, I was strong before this happened to me. Nobody needs to experience sexual violence in order to become strong. I had the strength to cope with this trauma before it even occurred, and I refuse to credit this incidence for giving me any such thing.

As for my “spirit being more alive,” I have felt quite the opposite. This incidence swiftly changed me into the cynical, numb person you all know and love today. I struggle with my emotionality every day of my life. I don’t know how to connect with people. I don’t even know how to process my own emotions without enduring a full-fledged panic attack. My sense of security has been breached, and I’ve realized that there are infinitely many things that are completely out of my control.

The man who made these comments did so with good intent. However, he does not know my experience, and therefore should refrain from telling me what it did to me. Perhaps I’m over-reacting, but I don’t feel like anyone is qualified to make such bold statements about an incident that had such a severe impact on my life except for myself.

Anyway, I am sincerely honored and excited to become an advocate in my community, and hopefully be the support that I so desperately needed when this happened to me. It’s going to be triggering, difficult, exhausting work, but I feel like taking it on will be a healing experience for me, overall. It will, however, force me to rely on others for support when the burnout inevitably hits, and discouragement sets in.

So I’d like to thank my amazing support system in advance, for helping me through this.

M.