October 14th
I have zero desire to put trigger warnings on my writing. I understand why they exist, but personally, I think it’s time we reconsider them.
It’s unrealistic to move through the world believing you can be shielded from its darkness. It’s unrealistic to expect others to cater to your triggers. If you don’t like what someone is saying, you can leave the room. Who are you to control them? Sure, you could argue there’s a courtesy in preparing others for what they’re about to hear/read—but that’s the creator’s choice. And I choose not to provide that.
This is real life. This is my life. If simply reading about my life sends you into a panic because it reminds you of your own trauma, I don’t think it’s out of line to say: go do something about that. Go heal. Go do whatever the fuck you need to do to move through the world without crumbling.
All that said, the reason I can write about my life now is because I’ve made peace with my past. I know who I am, and I know who I’ve been. So, this isn’t a trigger warning—but I do want people to understand that anything you read about my life, whether past or present, comes from a place of peace.
Healing is not linear, and as always, I’m fine. I can make it through anything.
Today, I find myself in an interesting place. Not a bad one, but certainly not a good one. I actually can’t remember the last time I felt like this—I don’t feel “low” like this anymore.
I’ve been arguing with myself about whether I should write about it, and the only thing holding me back is that I still care what other people think. I worry that if people really knew what went on in my head, it will change the way they see me—affecting relationships, jobs, friendships, love.
But yesterday, I read a carousel post from an account I love, @inspiredtowrite, by author Amie McNee. She often shares reflections on the importance of artists expressing themselves authentically. The post was titled “Signs You’re Nailing It as an Artist,” and each slide captured something painfully accurate about the creative process—like, “Everyone is just a little bit worried about you,” or “You’re pissing people off,” or “You make a lot of mess.”
But the one that hit me hardest was: “You want to crawl up your own butt because you feel so vulnerable about the work you’re making and sharing.”
As I sit here—not in a great place, but still wanting to write—I keep coming back to that line.
If vulnerability is the point, I need to lean into it. Why do I care if they read it? I mean, shit… welcome to the fucking terror dome. Might as well introduce you now.
As long as I’m worrying about how others will perceive me, I’m betraying myself—and my art. I don’t want to do that anymore.
I woke up in a panic at 5:33 a.m. from an intense dream that I don’t remember. I couldn’t fall back asleep, so I scrolled aimlessly until it was light enough to put on workout clothes and go for a walk. The weather’s been awful—50s, rainy, windy—but today was just a light sprinkle, and I needed to move. I walked for two hours, fast enough that I probably looked a little unhinged. Mission: walk the anxiety out of my body.
When I got home, I fell into this heavy low. No motivation. I couldn’t even come up with a topic for my podcast—which never happens. The only thing on my mind was resilience, so that’s what I talked about.
After recording, I just sat by the window for an hour, staring at the tree outside and scrolling.
I briefly snapped out of my daze, and dove into research on where I could submit my work. Which only made me feel worse. Most publications cap submissions at 1,500–2,500 words. My writing doesn’t fit neatly into those boxes. And I became sad thinking about how writers are often forced to reshape their work to fit someone else’s standards for publishing. Spiraling, I thought: What’s the point?
I don’t even know what triggered it all. It’s just… today.
I had to do something to break free from the spiral, so I thought, Okay. Shower. Being clean always helps. I love taking showers.
I turned the water hotter than usual and just stood there, dissociating. Then I sat down and found my mind drifting to Girl, Interrupted—specifically that scene where Winona Ryder and Angelina Jolie sit in the living room of Brittany Murphy’s house, wondering why she keeps playing the same song on repeat. Curious, Winona walks upstairs, opens the bathroom door, and finds her hanging from the ceiling, wrists cut and bleeding.
I stop vividly picturing her body—the blood dripping from the tips of her fingers and onto her butter-yellow robe—but the song keeps playing in my head. “Don’t they know it’s the end of the world…” Out of curiosity, not intent, I glance up at my own bathroom ceiling, checking if there’s anything I could hang myself from. There isn’t. I get out of the shower, sit on my bed, and start thinking about how much trauma has shaped the way I have tried—and failed—to intimately connect with others. How lonely life has been for me. How much pain I’ve been shamed into hiding for so many years.
Even now, I’m in this detached fog…
It’s just one of those days.
