i will make lists of

  • every word i can think of to describe language in an hour-long period
  • every type of honey i can confirm in production
  • television shows i have watched with some regularity
  • evidence of my autism
  • beloved stims
  • troublesome stims
  • instances of sensory meltdown
  • factors contributing to sensory meltdown
  • belongings in storage
  • gifts i have made, purchased or repurposed for friends
  • gifts made, purchased or repurposed for me
  • things that fill me with a warm sense of glowing
  • everything i spend money on in a month
  • things i would buy if i had money to spend
  • colors i would paint my house's walls
  • names i would give a cat
  • shoes i remember
  • things i have considered on nights alone in the dark
  • things that fill me with joy to discover in the morning
  • things i have tried to help me fall asleep
  • methods of protecting my work from distraction
  • the sorts of distractions i am wont to experience
  • favorite teas
  • ways i've made chai
  • behaviors that frustrate me (mine/another)
  • beds i have slept in
  • things that have given me warmth
  • candles i have loved
  • meals i have made
  • meals i could make
  • times i have considered surrendering to the desire to eat meat
  • situations in which i would seriously consider compromising my values
  • ridiculous matters i have become very incensed about
  • what i'd from the bookshop if money wasn't a concern
  • dubious wisdom
  • advice i've shortly regretted
  • questionable motives i've had in noble acts
  • revenge fantasies
  • what it would take for me to forgive _______
  • things that are beautiful from a great distance
  • things that are beautiful very close up
  • surprising places to observe the moon
  • better lists for a brighter tomorrow
  • hopeless anxieties
  • ways i would like to be proposed to
  • how someone can show me best that they love me
  • [tarkovskiy] the heart

    i remember when i could write like this

    i could type faster. i could type longer. i could use more interesting, more diverse vocabulary. i could press lighter when i write with a pen. i could spend more time forming each word carefully. i could pay more attention to my grammar, to my stylistic choices, to the subtext the technical handling of my language might loan an otherwise engaging piece. if the yard work hasn't been finished, the neighbors aren't going to look beyond the cover, is what we're getting at. if you haven't made that psychological train wreck (let's not say "train wreck," okay, at least not for the foreseeable future, let's stick to mess, let's stick to bedlam, let's say--fight club, psychological fight club, of course the first rule of a psychological fight club

    fight it off, bitch. just stop pounding that refrain. you aren't a yard swing with a pen, dragging that same line across the limestone with each pass, though they may look all the same they're really all different but what i'm getting at is: appearances matter, so if this all has the look of being the same then, on some level, they really are all the same, replicants, repetition, that same old phrase repeated in that same old phrase. beat it out. find the core of it. repeat the core in new and alarming ways.

    have you considered the merit of learning these words in a few different languages? the nuances of another tongue might add a depth to that word you use all the time that you hadn't previously appreciated. because that word in another language has the context of another language, you might be led to discover a new wing of the museum. for instance: have i tried taking a phrase, a line of poetry, some paragraph i find pleasing into an online translator, translating it into french and japanese, and then translating those versions back into english, then taking the two pieces now returned to english and comparing them against the original, then writing a fourth and fifth piece describing the resulting spaces between the original and the re-translation as well as the one between the two separate translations, the french and the japanese?

    i wonder why so many art exercises designed to inspire seem to involve the channeling and re-channeling of gibberish. you just find a bunch of incongruous material and use some mechanism to unify it, and then create something that represents that unification. perhaps it's a reflection of how we are in ordinary seasons inspired by such strange and disconnected matters, how inspiration really is a wispy thing, how the artistic process on the whole is one big raspberry to the idea of the scientific method, while being like it in a lot of other ways at the exact same time. art is like that. song is like that. writing is like that. little baby jesus is like that. oh the heavens the heavens oh scream out oh run naked run like you have something to run from

    so find chaos and utilize a method to unify it then document the unification through your preferred medium. what is your preferred medium? perhaps you ought to change that up, too, just in these process stages, because something useful to you in your practiced medium might fall out of the juxtaposition but also sometimes it is necessary to just take a fucking brake. so screech to a halt, will you, and shake the mystical piñata and see what falls out. noise makers and chewing gum. peppermint sticks and ribbons. seashells and cardamom pods. cracked bits of painted wood from the stage of a since-gone performance space. riddled with gold and circumstance.

    tonight i find it compelling to pair together words that have little to do with each other in regular time with the words "____ and circumstance." the lead word changes, the circumstance does not. the circumstances rarely change, for some of us at least, whatever we'd like our social networking sites to believe about us instead.

    english into japanese into russian into mood lighting into the back of a stranger's head into an apple floating before the face into a ladder climbing up the side of the house to the bedroom window of the youngest daughter into the latter day saint of wronged women in homes for unwed mothers where the weddings all happen some time after the first child is born.

    hear the wind blowing through it?

    it's such a tremendous sorrow, hearing the wind pass through one's efforts.

    [rs] poor mom!

    sometimes i wish i had a thunder shirt

    the two nights before independence day the rolling neighborhood illegal fireworks display that's been triggering me strong since mid-may was oddly silent.

    so did they run out, or were they saving it for tonight?

    updates as they become available

    midas (excerpt)

    i've sat through so many pages and so many lectures shaming people about love spells. it is wrong to control the minds and circumstances of others! and yeah, it is. i get it. i knew it on a gut level since before the first time i thought about doing magic workings, the summer i turned 16. it's the very reason i didn't describe myself as a magic practitioner sooner, because i thought that necessarily meant manipulating people into doing what i wanted them to do with spells. i didn't want anything to do with that kind of covert emotional abuse.

    i suspect a lot of kids who've been repeatedly injured by scapegoating and exclusion don't really need it explained more than once why a spell controlling the will of another is unethical. we live in the psychic backwash of other people's ambition. other kids got popular and subsequently maintain their popularity by projecting their pain into us. systemic oppression 101: succeed in your society by traumatizing others into the circumstances you most want to avoid. my understanding is that it provides quite the illusion of control, at least for a time. sure sounds like toxic magic to me. then again, that's the case for most magic created in the service of concealing and empowering the infliction of mental illness.

    what i did at that moment in my history was cast a spell to help me see love and the potential for love where it already existed, because i struggle with that. i can't date. i'm flirt blind. at that point of my life, i'd been gaslighted into believing nobody would even want to be my friend, and the isolation was killing me.

    i prayed for an ethical way to help myself with that, and was told in a dream to connect with true will, not force the will of strangers into giving me what i couldn't possibly know i wanted. in other words, i asked for what i needed at that moment in my history: to see what was already there. to discover what was possible. a path to take. something to work toward.

    what i haven't seen nearly enough discussion about are the ethics of material manifestation and prosperity magic, especially when practiced by magic workers who don't have any particular obstacles to getting their needs met through non-magical means; who, more importantly, already have enough, or are maybe being prompted spirituality by some form of (benign, but painful) lack. there are important lessons in longing. under the right circumstances - meaning, basic needs are met - not-having fosters creativity. creativity is magic.

    before i do any magic shifting material reality in my favor, i need to understand and take responsibility for the consequences of that. and the consequences for that can be grave, especially when i'm acting on unexamined hungers instead of contextualized need. maybe i'll get what i want so easily i'll live out my life never realizing what it was that i needed. maybe i'm condemning myself to a life of unexamined hunger.

    and it's just important here as it is with love spells: it is wrong to control the minds and circumstances of others, dig?


    it comes from somewhere.

    all of it comes from somewhere.

    magic is not now, and has never been, a bottomless salad bar. to treat it as such is a direct affront to the powers that gave us the drive and capacity to work magic in the first place.

    i believe we have the power to influence our reality with magic. i believe that if any of us are born with some degree of magical ability, all of us are. but, like everything in the realm of experience, there is a difference between possible and conscientious action. magic is an ecosystem. magic can be overharvested. magic can be polluted. we can lose magic. our connection to magic can be damaged and destroyed, on individual as well as societal levels.

    something to think about: what is my magical work doing to my relationship with eternity?


    for awayslow, especially

    as you can hear this tangle is still a little crunchy
    the clicking is a constant
    but after it's been worked a number of times the creaking and squeaking seems to diminish
    it's pretty magical


    so much fear

    and anguish
    and rage

    we stood at the farthest edge of a gathering today
    masked and distant
    listened to speakers
    clapped for voting
    if i'd known this pandemic stuff was coming i would have more aggressively pursued a referral for a pulmonary workup last year
    thing is it doesn't sound like they really know what kind of damage can result from long periods of low grade CO exposure
    (that's what all the doctors told me, and the internet backs them up)
    but, like i said, didn't know the pandemic was coming
    and i was... a little (more) broken about doctors for a bit
    or i woulda been more like, yeeeeah, maybe let's do another EKG thingie and some of that other stuff we did before my surgery
    (my annual was fine, at least)
    i've definitely seen an uptick in trauma symptoms since that experience
    which could be a lot of things
    but whatever the case i
    what my level of concern about exposure should be
    and as many of you know
    public actions and sensory processing disorders do not have much in the way of affinities
    i hate how my internalized ableism has led to my conflating my need for accommodations with making excuses
    i keep trying to bootstrap myself out of the things and situations that will actually help me do more instead of dropping me into shutdown for another fucking year
    i can't do the same things many of my friends can do
    at least not to the same extent
    or at the same pace
    all the same

    so many things i'm
    • Current Music
      mickey & taro hart - music to be born by

    minuscule creatures

    miriam's little brother

    yeah, jer?

    miriam's little brother
    there’s a silverfish in the bathroom.

    so use another bathroom.

    miriam's little brother


    miriam's little brother
    i can’t pee if there’s a silverfish in the bathroom!

    use another bathroom, i said.

    miriam's little brother
    i mean i can’t pee anywhere.


    so according to pictures on the internet, the four... minuscule hell beasts i've seen since we moved to the new space weren't actually silverfish, but maybe house centipedes? who are apparently fierce warriors who eat silverfish and other undesirables, so maybe i can, like, make the sacrifice of tolerating them for sake of the greater good, though i don't know. every time i see one it's just like, what horrible turn has my life taken? why has god forsaken me? will i ever reclaim my experience from this horror?

    understand: i can no longer magick with my clothes on, i try to magick for at least ten minutes once a day, and my workspace is on the floor. i've been ending up in full-on weeping buddha pose quite a lot lately? no reason. this could become a situation, dig? can you imagine?! i can. quite vividly, i can imagine. my therapist even told me all this scenario building i do is probably not helping me bring my best self to the fight for america's soul, but regardless, i have been given pause. perhaps it's time to design a sigil.

    anyway, another situation that is not acceptable with regard to house centipedes and myself: us alone, together, in a small room. this little moment from my television series, based on a true story!, flashed through my brain today in the bathroom when a wad of hair came to life and charged me. i made a remarkably restrained vocalization, considering, and pulled my feet up onto the toilet seat. somehow. the beast paused, their nefarious intention briefly thwarted, except not really. minuscule hell beast number two (april) was spotted easily walking up the wall closest (of course) to my side of the bed so my elevation wasn't going to protect me. i considered my options.

    on a day alone during my trip to denver in early 2002, i thought i might do the mint tour. turned out the mint was closed to visitors to protect our newborn american currency from the terrorists, but didn't know that until i'd stranded myself on the street outside of the mint. i read the signs, slowly, and slowly walked away, trying to shape out a new plan for the day.

    there was a guard in a small, unpleasant looking windowed outbuilding that might have served as a ticket booth in happier times. i'd nodded at her in acknowledgement as i was learning of my predicament, but i don't think my nod took. see, i'm strange. i'm not good at looking.... normal, especially not when i'm trying. apparently, when i try to look normal, i look even weirder. it's a bitch in job interviews. at this point in my history, i proudly wore an oversized gentlemen's black woolen topcoat i found at a vintage clothing sale in the basement of the hemmens cultural center a couple years earlier. the effect was kind of early eighties david bryne meets impoverished waif in a churchyard wasting away in her wealthy abandoning lover's topcoat. proudly i wore it in illinois, i mean. in colorado, less than three years after columbine, long before all the trenchcoat mafia stuff got debunked, it felt a little tone deaf, but i am indeed something of an impoverished waif and this was my only winter coat.

    the guard loudly, clearly and directly informed me, walking slowly away, "YOU'RE NOT WALKING FAST ENOUGH." i'll tell you what, just thinking about it, eighteen years later, disassociating a little. might need that weighted blanket. maybe EMDR. oh, god, i remember thinking, this is it. i'm gonna be a story on the news. part of it goes back to that scenario building, another part to my affective empathy: what if i'd been BIPOC and the guard had been male? this "funny" little anecdote might not exist. this was the second incident in less than six months (protected entry, CW: entrapment, intimidation) where my whiteness may have protected me from worst case scenarios when aspects of my disability and gender put me at risk. as horrible as this realization might be, consider the alternative. as i have, many times, in the years since.

    in that moment, my first impulse was to RUN THE FUCK AWAY AND BE RUNNING STILL, but i masked that threat response as best i could because, first, it seemed like running could inspire escalation, and second, it was early january and the sidewalk was pretty slippery. so i walked faster but not too much faster and tried like fuck to look normal and i will NEVER EVER EVER attempt to go to the denver mint or maybe even denver again.

    back to our minuscule hell beast scene, i remembered that moment and thought it might be productive to inform the encroaching creature in my scariest guard voice, "YOU NEED TO BE MOVING IN THE OPPOSITE DIRECTION."

    difference being the guard had combat-grade firearms and my bare ass was on a toilet. the creature continued on, undeterred.

    so next, i tried reason. it's worked for me with spiders, why not beastly centipede monsters? look, i said. the beast paused, as though listening. i appreciated that. it was wrong of me to yell at you, and i'm sorry. it's just, i'm concerned. this isn't headed to a good place. for either of us. you're terrifying, but i'm much bigger than you, and i lose perspective in the presence of minuscule hell beasts. i don't have shoes, but i can make due with a shampoo bottle. we need to maintain some boundaries here, or i might respond reactively. please reconsider your current path and maybe survey this territory at a later point in time. i should be done here in five minutes or less, i said, though i guess five of my minutes could mean a few decades in the time of a minuscule hell beast such as yourself.

    the creature turned the corner at the base of the sink console while i sucked in a breath and estimated my reach to the nearest shampoo bottle. they vanished under the plunger bulb and stayed. grateful for their concession, i washed my hands in the kitchen.

    later i told ben about my experience. he shook his head, sighed, and said, yeah, i killed one of those in the bathroom this morning. he thinks it was the morning, he wasn't entirely sure; my incident might have happened afterward, when ben was out running an errand.

    so which is worse, dear reader? that he killed the beast i'd successfully negotiated with, or that there was a second minuscule hell beast in the same room on the same day?
    argoflex 75

    who's the birthday thoughtform?

    poor anonymousblack
    i forgot their nineteenth birthday was friday
    then today discovered rust on my athame
    and it's been so long since i used the word "athame" i had to look it up in google and i am devastated

    about so many things

    and done with so many others

    no on the residency

    i am trying to not see this as heralding the death of my writing career

    (and yet.)

    the magic you practice changes over time.

    right now, i am teaching myself to dwell in my body as a long term resident
    not a visitor
    or an intruder.

    in, you know, this same world that everyone else is in, right.

    these are my trauma anchoring tools, according to element:

    air (pilot pen)
    i've cast circle with writing instruments more times than i can count, figuratively starting as a toddler, officially starting at nineteen. going in to maryland's lockdown i had three pilots left, then two, then one and probably at least i hope a half. i started to panic
    (i mean, what. i have
    enough ink to serve a moderate hypergraphia episode at least, but oh, god, i cannot abide pilot insecurity.)
    now i have a box of twelve. it's by the shrine cabinet under my
    after i tried to wipe the rust off
    i've always struggled to assemble and bond with witches tools as they are described in magic texts, largely written by and for neurotypicals; moreover, largely written by folks who know, for sure, that they are witches.
    i have two
    one for each significant attempt i made at being a proper witch, in 1994 and again in 2016.
    this is the traditional tool i have most bonded with
    i slept with one by my side for three years
    but i have not bonded with either so entirely as i have with any pen i've used to write in a journal.

    water (klean kanteen)
    we've been through some things, this water bottle and me. dropped on forest pathways and baltimore courtrooms. inch-buried on the lake erie shore. i took it to the radio station. i carried it through acadia. stowed it on a shelf beneath the register during borders liquidation. there's an accidental smear of aquamarine paint on it from neurodivergent icon 14:2 RECOVERY; i witness it as an act of consecration, the long way around. it is almost always the first thing i reach for when i need anchoring.

    fire (tangle therapy, "imagine")
    my first tangle. i got it in feburary and haven't yet worn it out. but i'm trying. tangles are my best fidget. calming and revitalizing. boundary work and circle casting all in one. i can use them to both build strength and bring energy into my hands. this textured one doesn't click as much as the hard plastic ones (especially once you've been using it for a bit) so it feels better for me to use if i'm trying to ease into sleep in bed with my partner. the hard plastic ones are better for walks and doctor's appointments. it's easy enough to work in my right hand, too, so i can write while i tangle.

    earth (16 lb cooling cotton magic weighted blanket)
    gift from my parents for christmas, though i ought to have been able to get it through my health insurance. ought to, but there's this whole set of absurd challenges around making my roaringly obvious disability official so i can get access to key resources like medical aids and certain treatment options (sure wouldn't have any problems getting prescriptions for antidepressants if i wanted to go that route, i've been handed scripts at the obgyn) and i don't really have the heart to go into it at this moment, anyway this post is a reference and a warm up for an actual advocacy piece i've been struggling with (as in, oh shit that thing i just wrote is freaking me out what was it i said was helpful to reach for when i'm freaking out, because if you don't know what that's like you might not have a trauma disorder, or you've trained yourself not to write activating things, which... sounds as hellish as it does kinda nice, to be honest) so i'll talk about that - and antidepressants* - another time.
    i've had disordered sleep my entire life. growing up, i needed weight to fall asleep. without a comforter over me, i couldn't settle. this made the transition to baltimore and shared bedding even more difficult: summers are wicked humid here. some nights even a bedsheet is intolerable, forget my necessary comforter. ben is a warm sleeper who grew up here; he is able to fall and stay asleep without covers. i cannot. i can't let go, i don't feel secure, i notice everything in my environment and everything going on inside of me. if i'm in an unfamiliar place, if i'm in a bad headspace, this can be agonizing. this blanket helps me sound the boundaries of my body in an enjoyable way. it brings me into myself. it grounds me. it's specifically designed with no filling besides the plastic pellets so it doesn't get as hot, meaning i can still regularly use it in warmer weather if not full-blast (oh god) july swoon. taking suggestions for dealing with that shit, as i have been for the last thirteen years.
    also very useful for dissociative episodes, which i'm looking very forward to being able to tell the difference again between the low grade one that seems to be my baseline lately and, um,

    spirit (m. rogers decomposition notebook, "monarch migration")
    to support the context of this photograph, i selected an empty notebook. michael rogers was a big deal for me in the late 1990s. journal 3 (autumn 2000-spring 2002) with the tooled leather cover was one of theirs. notebook insecurity is another matter i cannot abide. i hope the reasons for this are obvious. a month or so out from the end of last year i bought a two dollar "in a pinch" three section notebook from giant. if i'd known about the coming pandemic i might have grabbed a couple single subject spirals besides because as grateful as i am that i at least have these pages available for this weird mix of therapy exercises, dream work and linkedin learning notes, it's a weird seven months to have isolated to one notebook, and i'm also kind of... what if it's the notebook? causing all of this? what if this bent up and dogeared visual aid for the experience of executive function disorder is the source of all our pain?
    my conclusion was probably not, but maybe i'm ready to emerge from these chrysalis pages and i better get myself a new notebook with butterflies on it, so i did.

    so those are some of my (material) anchors during this time.

    what are yours?

    *i believe antidepressants have their place in the treatment of a wide range of disorders, including PTSD. i would never judge anyone negatively for using this potentially lifesaving option. i do struggle with how freely SSRIs are prescribed, sometimes before any other modality has been explored or even really discussed. for sake of transparency, i will disclose that i have a long history of moderate pharmacophobia, especially with this class of medications. however, in my research to date, i've found that especially with regard to complex trauma - repeated, prolonged, and/or multiple long term traumatic experiences - systemic oppression and ACEs, for example - antidepressants don't have the best reputation. this could be related to recent findings that SSRIs might diminish empathy and feelings of connection, which is not an acceptable outcome for me. but yeah, please do your own research and reach your own conclusions on this matter, because mine are most certainly rife with the confirmation bias of someone with pharmacophobia.
    like thought

    breathing in/breathing out (death itself)

    pictures from the victorious memorial day weekend reunion of that
    death cult
    capitalism has become
    (language i found unproductively inflammatory, four years ago
    has become language i find unproductively subtle, four years later)
    fifty people thick in filthy swimming holes
    jammed up together in bars:
    inhaling another's exhale
    i flash on reports of
    refrigerated tractor trailers
    lined up outside
    new york city hospitals

    i know about covert suicide ideation.

    people who learned to self-regulate with risk and addiction
    people who think the only way to ease their suffering
    is to inflict
    people who verbally assault strangers for engaging in responsible behavior that accounts for the safety of others trusting that others will of course do the same
    (because: we live in a society!
    we rely on each other!
    we are all vulnerable and mortal and, right now, very afraid!)
    people who've taught themselves to not feel fear
    people who've conflated not feeling fear with not being afraid
    so many people who don't understand that they are afraid
    people who resent their reliance on the community they assume entitlement to
    people who do not know what it means to feel safe
    but haven't recognized that a big part of the problem
    is that they aren't safe people to be around.
    not for anyone.
    especially not themselves.

    people in hard denial of the trauma injuries that have been activated to such an agonizing extreme by the pandemic they'll do anything to dull the pain
    even if it means assaulting others with their unacknowledged destructive/defiant variant of learned helplessness
    because that's what it is

    these people don't believe there isn't a problem.
    these people don't believe they're invincible.
    not deep down.
    deep down, they are powerless.
    deep down, they are hopeless.
    deep down, they believe
    even more than i do
    that nothing they can do will make things better.

    they are covertly suicidal.

    please note: this in no way lets anybody off the hook.

    especially not anyone who kills or injures another in the attempted execution of their unexamined intention.

    especially not the exploitative opportunists who've made capitalism into the death cult it is today.

    i've never had the "privilege" of being able to project my self-destructive urges onto everyone around me.
    i was informed i was a suicidal headcase for the first time at twelve years old.
    i mean, what? not likely. not at twelve. all the same
    as that broadsiding peer stomped out of the locker room
    i watched her full body slam into another girl, fire a line of violent antagonism and kick her way out the door
    i thought
    i just saw happen, there.
    i don't know what it is, but it's
    something that didn't have anything to do with me.
    maybe she just told me what she is?
    maybe after all this time
    there's actually something to this
    "i know you are but what am i" shit?!
    which just pissed me off,
    not a truth i could have spoken in middle school, but
    i viewed her perspective through that lens.
    yeah, i'm a headcase. i've accrued quite a bit of trauma. i've negotiated urges. i self-injure, i struggle, probably there have been a few nights when i should have called a hotline, at least sought out somebody to listen.
    but: i knew what was happening.
    i didn't deny it, repress it, make it into something else.
    i took responsibility for it.
    i considered what was at stake.

    i thought about my loved ones.
    what my doing that would do to them.
    i thought about writing, about my readers, about connecting through words.
    i thought about bad movie nights.
    i thought about making art.
    i thought about listening to music.
    i thought about figuring out a problem and helping to make something better.
    i thought about magic, about realizing synchronicity.
    i thought about love and really good sex.
    i thought about books and notebooks and mixtapes and pilot pens and metaphysical bookstores and handcrafted perfume oil blends in brown glass bottles topped with rollerballs and oily moon blessed candles and my favorite deck of tarot cards.
    i thought about obsidian and fulgurite and room-sized geodes.
    i thought about roses and eclipses and forests and rainstorms and red foxes and the ocean shore.
    lightning over scott's bluff, i thought about that.
    i thought about the day my nephew was born.
    i thought about the week my grandmother died.
    i thought about driving alone at night.
    i thought about all the times i expected the worst and ended up so brilliantly, joyfully wrong.
    i thought about me, about my weird conclusions and abrupt assertions, my random observations, how i'm always trying to do better, how miraculous it seems sometimes that i still have it in me to try.
    i thought about making my loved ones laugh.
    i thought about laughter. not being able to stop laughter.
    breathless, shaking, tears streaming down my face laughter, laughter that aftershocks for days afterwards, laughter that stirs up again with a shared glance, with a word, with a gesture.
    i thought about eating chocolate.

    i was able to keep myself here, though that meant acknowledging the awful truth that i was feeling an urge to destroy myself.
    it meant bringing my urge into the open, looking at it, and ultimately deciding i wanted to stay in the world.
    it meant using my anchors.
    it meant having anchors in place.
    it meant understanding what an anchor is and doing that work in advance.
    it meant first that i had the tools and resources to pull myself out of a suicidal urge, which not everyone does
    and second that i'd done my fucking homework, prepared for my future emotional well being, recognized my resources and readied them for use instead of assuming there would be some product i could buy or class i could take or day spa i could blow out the charge cards on at half past too little too late.
    it meant developing genuine emotional regulation skills.
    survival skills.
    in order to save myself
    i had to realize i was in danger.
    not assume that responsibility onto other people.

    that's what i keep thinking
    about these inhale-my-exhale memorial day weekend parties
    don't these people make art?
    haven't these people been brilliantly, joyfully wrong?
    don't these people eat chocolate?

    don't these people have loved ones?