See? Weird as hell.

I also don’t recognize myself when I’m hopeful. I was an asshole; a persecutory alter, cynical, violent, aggressive, isolated, in denial, and angry. So angry. Who am I without my anger? I don’t know yet.

But there are birds chirping and the breeze is warm, and I am so alive. My own mind no longer feels like a minefield. I hope to never take this for granted.

Part of this is simply trying to come to terms with reality. It no longer feels like the trafficking happened to someone else (who is also me). It feels like it happened to me, just me, standing here like🧍what do I do with this now?

but didn’t grasp how it impacted every moment, every day, every idea.

I am trying to adjust to feeling real but it feels like the floor will drop out from under me if I’m not careful, and the static and fog will return. I don’t want it to but also don’t know what to do with myself.

I am interested in a lot of things: neuroscience, psychology, critical theory, youth liberation, poetry, experimental and/or dystopian fiction, and writing all help keep me here.

Thanks for reading.

This account represents an effort to reconnect to the world around me and not be lost to the static in my mind, to document my own gratitude so I can access it, and maybe connect with my own history in a way that makes sense to me. I am learning to navigate being real.

This space is my attempt to document whatever small, banal things make me feel like existing in the world, even as a small piece of a larger self, feel worth it. I don’t know what that will look like yet but I wanted to pin a blanket TW for anything about my life that might surface.