PHQ-9

I want to believe I have this under control. I want to believe if they just give me another 6 or 9 months I can figure this out.

Salt Stained Rain

After a while, people stop wanting to hear about what you've been through. And I feel guilty talking about it half the time anyway, because I doubt my memories, and even when I stand firm, people still don't believe me. My birth family surely doesn't. They called me a liar, a lover of drama and... Continue Reading →

Maybe Next Year…

But I am of the eternal diaspora. One of many wandering children dwelling in tents in this vast wilderness. Home is a memory that I can’t remember. Rust and decay have eaten away at its core and corrupted its foundations.

Fiction as Pretense

The longer I write fiction, the more I realize that my version of "write what you know," looks like me working through my trauma by writing it. The first time I knowingly wrote my trauma into a story was when I wrote about a character being molested. It was supposed to be her story, part... Continue Reading →

Trapped

It was nauseating to listen to the high whine of the fly’s wings while I attempted to eat my breakfast. The sickening extension of each thick silence that stretched between moments of terror.

Reflections on Psalm 102

I'm going through another one of those ugly, dark periods of my struggle with mental illness. Periods that seem more and more common. It's exhausting. I end so many days wondering why I keep trying. But this morning the LORD refreshed my spirit while reading Psalm 102. You can read the whole thing here, but... Continue Reading →

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