There’s a lot of writing that comes out of me. Mythologies of how fucked up I am—how strangely I interpret some weird channel I have cracked open, if that’s what is going on. I’m super traumatized. It’s not just interpersonal and lonely horniness like my creative writing often implies. In December last year I had a series of panic attacks and manic episodes after years of stress in gender transition which have become an elongated period of trauma I now conflate into mythologies that slap. I also unmasked and I’m thinking pretty differently these days. It spins up into something really hard to handle, but I can ride it if I’m not working juggling an impossible life’s workload on top of it. I’m just not made to do the regular thing now, mentally.
Right after my months mania in October and November last year I was highly aware I needed a place to chill. I was quickly put on the wrong medication. I’ve sought help in that arena and it leads me back to healing with people, finding friends, and having others around.
I could try more medication or maybe not too. I’m really fucking traumatized. It’s the whole world. Everything’s flipped on me since coming out and owning who I am. It’s illuminated true reflections in the eyes of my fellows. Nobody seems to really believe through the understanding of my emotionally reflective intuition, or whatever. I’m just messed up by having no one and turn it all into stories. I need help but I’m the brokest bitch in the world, and every support I’ve reached out to has no true solution for my situation.
I haven’t found a way to get help since my family has abandoned me. I have nowhere to go and have been forced to keep working a job while I don’t have time to work through my shit. It’s impossible. I'm so pending bankruptcy it’s ridiculous. Struggling to keep up at work.
I believe my writing is great though and I know I’m a wonderful mother and super competent human being and friend who just loves really hard and is incredibly sad.
I need help.