In social work, burnout can be catastrophic — The church is pro-life until a baby takes its first breath, Afterward, it’s pro-incarceration and death It’s been almost a year since I called New York home, But the ghosts of the system won’t leave me alone I sit in my bedroom where no one can see me There’s cars in…

Truth hurts — I’ve never been a fan of comedy. Not in my younger days, and certainly not now. I was unamused by the likes of Bo Burnham and John Oliver. I was unamused by just about everyone except for my little sister. …

As I heal from religious trauma, I still have more questions than answers. — “I’ve come a long way,” I explained to Jasmine as we drove home from her niece’s birthday party in the Carolina darkness. Jasmine, my best friend. Jasmine, an instrumental part of my return to some semblance of normalcy. “A few months ago, I still wouldn’t have been willing to go…

Selective empathy is a shot to the heart. — First things first, I saw you shine. I’m not just saying that to be nice, it’s the truth, but glitter doesn’t exactly sparkle at nighttime. I could tell from your eyes that you’d seen better days in a past life. …

But for once, I’m feeling human — Information is nothing without context. That’s what I try to remind myself when my brain bombards me with itty-bitty-bits and pieces of everything at the same time. Some things just don’t go well together. Like sushi with a glass of milk…or moments of terror mixed with fragments of deliberate kindness…

When I think about it, it still hurts — The world tells us that predators lie in wait, comfortably camouflaged by bushes, but he was not behind the bushes. The news leads us to believe that steering clear of dark alleyways is steering clear of our assailants, but he was not shrouded in the darkness of an alleyway. All…

Give me a slingshot — My memory is delightfully odd. Childhood recollections elude me, but I can remember the commercial for Cymbalta with eerie accuracy. The wind-up wooden doll, the litany of side effects, and the words, “depression hurts.” Sometimes, I wish depression hurt, but it doesn’t. It simply feels the way I do as…

It was terrifying — I am the Colorado River in southern California. The flow of ideas is a trickle at best, something like the rhythm of a faucet that is only ever mostly off. I am mostly off. Better mostly off than hardly on, despite the fact that both strings of letters describe the…

Therein lies the beginning — Forget Jello. I feel like a bowl of soup. Liquid, Conforming to the shape of my container, I Am limitless in my capacity to take any form, I Am limited by my dependence on external Things. I feel completely and utterly destroyed, my Mind takes me back to days gone by and petite Pirate picture books…