The trigger.

I had been a heavy pendulum, rapidly swinging from lamented fragmentation to utter confusion. I believe my breaking point had been on the hardwood floors, thudding my hands against the lenses of my eyes, trying to take control of my body… his hands on my shoulders trying to ground me.

The Rabbit. Hallucinations haunted me. Fear.

Sometime between talking to her on the phone and peeling myself from his arms, we had wielded a knife in his direction.

My mind was swimming with pieces of a memory I couldn’t grasp. Fleeting feelings would burst before my face, yet the shutter was too slow; I couldn’t capture the emotions nor the pictures.

Finally, the release.

The trigger.

I asked him to scare me. His hands wrapped firmly around my throat, slowly cutting off my oxygen. We had done this many times before… several times… then WHAM! His hand met my face. He had never slapped me that hard before. Instantly, my ears rang and I could hear children laughing in the distance… a playground?

(This has happened once before while we were in the middle of a scene. He had choked me to the brink of unconsciousness and I heard the laughter vividly. A piece of a memory…)

The trigger.

The laughter was fading. Not this time. I couldn’t keep doing this- running away from the trauma. I begged him to slap me again- hurt me- choke me- anything to chase the memory.

He did. My face burned and tears exploded out of me. Gradually… I began to remember.

A flashback: my face hitting the tile, the sound of his belt buckle clinking, the zipper, the feeling of him in my mouth…

Rogue, once strong and relentless, has been cemented in suicidality.

In this moment of rocking shut into a fetal position, the emotion would quickly dissipate until I felt numb. He wouldn’t let me dissociate. This is what I had been wanting. He pushed me and pushed me to chase the feeling, hunt it down, and fucking feel for once.

It was as if the room went dark. There was a sofa. I sat in the middle as a spotlight shown brightly on me. Rogue walked into the room, sat next to me, and looked forward at the memory. In front of us was our 14 year old body on the bathroom floor, being orally raped and thrown against the shower glass.

She showed me what happened as she carefully unraveled the memory from her oenomel. Rogue allowed me time to process one thing at a time- the feeling of his hands, the smell of blood, the sound of the zipper, the event itself… walking me through it with great compassion.

The film was over. This is what she had been hiding from me. I wasn’t ready until that particular moment. She kept it locked away because she loved me enough to hold on to it.

I hugged her and told her I loved her in our spotlight. I suppose, psychologically speaking, I was accepting my pain, myself, and my experience. It was the moment that I looked inward and told myself “I love you and you did nothing wrong.”

As I began to awaken from the flashback, I was guided by his voice behind me, “You are not a victim. You’re safe. None of this was your fault. I love you.”

I felt the flames settling on my skin- sizzling. The sadness melted away and all that was left was us. The system. The collection of immovable, determined persons.

And so I did what any survivor would do after reclaiming their experience:

I laughed and lit a cigarette.



DID- a Personal Interview

I’ve been wanting to write an update, but every time I sit at my keyboard, I lose focus and have no idea where to start.

I’m okay. Things are better. I’m more stable. I have a new psychiatrist. I have a new scrip for Buspirone. My mom is talking to me. I haven’t been feeling the need to swallow a bunch of pills to kill myself. Work is going well. My social life is going well. The system is okay- though we are working through something at the moment.

Everything is okay.

I didn’t want to just leave a paragraph update, so I decided to post an interview regarding DID  that I recently did (which the article itself will hopefully be published within the next couple months!).



California, USA

What’s your current profession?
I currently work in HR. When I’m not bustling around the office floors, I’m writing. I recently published my first book ever! It’s called, Solipsist, and it is a collection of confessional poetry that I’ve been writing during my journey in therapy. (Self promoting! It’s available on Amazon and on Kindle!)

When were you diagnosed with DID? What was your journey up to your diagnosis like?
I was diagnosed in the early summer of 2015. Before that, I had been diagnosed with both Bipolar I when I was 16 and Schizoaffective Disorder when I was 22. I struggled a lot with the latter. I had checked myself in to outpatient services once I was hearing malicious voices. It was really intense, frightening, and confusing. I didn’t know what was wrong with me and the misdiagnoses of SAD really set me back a little bit. It was difficult.

When did your different alters start to develop?
This is a tricky question. I suppose they really began developing around 4-5 years of age. My first alter, I suppose you could call her, was Allie. She’s been my best friend ever since. I’ve been told by friends that even in high school sometimes I would act oddly, or would even introduce myself by a different name.

How many alters do you have in your system? Can you tell me about about each different alter and their character traits?
So far, I’ve come to know 6 main alters. However, I know there are at least 3 more and a possible co-host.

Victoria is 24 and loves to write. She’s the host, typically.

Allie is a southern belle. She manages the system and works time out for everyone. If someone has an issue within the system, she is the go-to.

Goldie, or Marigold, is my protector. She’s from New Jersey, she’s tough, and she absolutely has no problem telling someone how we really feel.

Senka is 5. She’s sweet, loves dinosaurs, and likes to color.

Dee is 16, although I think she may age-slide. She’s a typical teenager and enjoys a good party.

Rogue has no identified age. She was angry abusive, and hypersexual. Now through therapy she seems to just bob around in the background.

Those are the 6. The others are:

Citizen, who is quiet and observant.

Lucy Lovelace, who is a more recently realized alter and I don’t have much information on her as of yet. I know that she was “born” in a mental institution.She has been taking on co-host responsibilities and traits.

Celia. She’s what I call the “emotional accountant” of the system.

How does Marigold protect all of you?
Goldie possesses the quality that I wish I always had: She doesn’t take abuse from anyone or anything. If something hurts the system, she’s usually the first to come out. To anyone who has met her, she’s been described as a little “rough around the edges” due to her brutal honesty. However, she is loving. She offers advice to me when I need it, even if I don’t want it.

How often can you switch between alters? Are you aware of what’s happening during a switch or when you’re a different alter?
To be honest, I don’t know how often it happens. 99% of the time, I don’t think I’m aware. I don’t feel that I even switch. Sometimes, I just feel fuzzy and my eyesight starts to shift. My girlfriend is usually the one to let me know, “so-and-so just came out.” Besides her telling me, I don’t know. However, there are times when they are louder, and there are times that I feel that I may be co-fronting, but I still don’t have any way to confirm that that means I’m switching.

Can you tell me a bit more about your day-to-day life is like?
I wake up, sometimes I’ll have a morning “meeting” with everyone depending on how we’re feeling. I’ll drive to work and Goldie typically drives with me. Every now and then Senka will be in the backseat. I work a full-job. I’d be lying to you if I said it’s not stressful because there have been moments where I’ve switched at work. Senka came out once that I know of- imagine working at your desk and then all of a sudden there’s a 5-year-old and no one knows what to do with you!

When I get home, I like to write. I blog. It’s therapy for me. I’ll spend time with my cat, Rita. I’ll play guitar sometimes. Then, bedtime!

Everyday is so different, but this is basically what it looks like.

When and why did you start vlogging and blogging about living with DID?
I started blogging a little over a year ago. I didn’t begin my blog focusing on DID. I had been battling depression for years, as well as drug addiction and rehabilitating from suicide attempts. My blog was created with the sole intention of helping other people by sharing my story. Then of course, as time went on and therapy opened up my trauma, I decided to spread awareness about DID.

The vlog came about 6 months after.

What are your ambitions for the future?
I have two goals:

1) I want to spread awareness, not just about DID, but about mental health and specifically the stigma against suicide. I’m astonished at the lack of information on the topic of DID and I would LOVE to educate people!

2) I want to continue writing and publish my autobiography.

What are the positive aspects to having DID, is it comforting to have the company of your alters?
Even though it’s scary and painful, my alters have shown me so much about myself, my past, and what I am truly capable of as a survivor. There’s not one boring day with all of us. When I’m really depressed and feeling lost, Allie is there by my side, ready to comfort me. When I feel threatened, Goldie protects me. There are a lot of positive aspects.

How did it feel to be finally diagnosed with DID in 2015? Did you feel a sense of relief or elucidation about yourself after your diagnosis?
I had mixed emotions about it. I think I had just been getting used to accepting Schizoaffective as my diagnoses and I didn’t know what to do with myself. I didn’t do any research at first. Then, slowly after working with my therapist, I realized that DID was not a fluke in brain chemistry; rather it is an adaptive and coping disorder. This is when the relief set in, because I knew there could be an “end result.” Integration. I began delving into books and forums. I picked up the DSM-V for the first time. I was so incredibly surprised to see how textbook my case was! There was definitely a sense of relief. I finally feel confident in the accuracy of my diagnoses.

I think you made a really moving point about how your alters have helped you survive trauma in your life and you hate to call DID a disorder. Can you tell me a bit more about this and describe how your alters have helped you?
I had coined this term in my blog when I first began writing- Glitter Rainbow Imagination, in lieu of the word disorder. I feel that “disorder” implies something that you want to get rid of, something negative and that is harmful to your psyche. My experience is quite the contrary! I had suffered through a lot of abuse, both verbally and physically. If I hadn’t have split, I promise you I would not be here today. Some of my alters, specifically Rogue, carry a lot of intense trauma.

I suppose if you look at it for a more psychological viewpoint, each of my alters are kind of like a filing drawer, and I’m the cabinet itself. Each drawer contains information and memories that are unique to that drawer. My brain has compartmentalized my childhood up until now. Through therapy, I am learning how to unlock the drawers safely, how to read through the files and accept the information.


What happened when Senka came out at work and did your work colleagues realise what was happening?
I don’t think anyone really noticed except for one co-worker. At the time, my girlfriend was working at the same office and Senka asked for her. So, the receptionist called her and my girlfriend took Senka for a drive. I don’t think she’s been out since then; she knows she’s not allowed to be out at work.

What sort of things do you discuss with your alters at your morning meetings?
We do a quick “scan” of how everyone is feeling usually. More recently, we discuss if anyone needs to take over for a while. For example, Goldie likes to drive in the morning and smoke a cigarette. Sometimes Senka wants to color after work. It all depends.

Do you have to buy or do certain things to accommodate all your different alters? e.g do you buy toys for Senka or different clothes for your some alters?
Senka definitely has a lot of stuffed animals. She loves dragons and dinosaurs so we have plenty of those! I wouldn’t say that the alters have different clothes- however, when we go shopping, they will come forward and give their opinions on what we should buy, or not buy. So, you can imagine how indecisive I could be!

What’s the most common misconception about DID?
Well, first of all, I find that the majority of the population doesn’t even know the term DID. They know Multiple Personality Disorder. Unfortunately, the extent of their exposure to MPD/DID is what they’ve seen on screen- i.e Sybil, United States of Tara, etc.

The common misconception is there are wild switches and that’s it. One day you’re Jane, the next you’re Rachel. At least in my own experience, it’s not like this. Sure, I switch sometimes. But there is SO MUCH MORE to it than that. It’s complex, it’s painful, there are so many layers. DID is not a little thing to work through. Honestly, I believe I’ll be working on it for the rest of my life.


The Danger Nextdoor

My anxiety level today: 8
My depression level today: 4
My craving level today: 7
Med compliant? No
Goal for today? To stay sober and safe

I’m a little worried about myself. My lithium runs out tonight. I’ll be alright on my Seroquel for another 3 nights. I booked an appointment for Thursday with a new psych, so hopefully I’ll get a refill then.

I’m pretty sure it’s just anxiety because my auditory hallucinations have been kicking in more than usual. I have to stop and really access my surroundings to make sure that I’m hearing correctly, if that makes sense.

I miss group. I miss having that structure and the freedom to talk candidly about my mental health and whatever was going on in my life at that moment, or talking about cravings to self harm or use drugs. Like last night for example, I was Intervention with my cousin. The new episode revolved around a girl who was using heroin. Maybe I’m just in a vulnerable state of mind, but I started craving it so badly. I almost felt as if my eyes dilated. I wish I could erase part of my memory.

I’m happy moving back into my old stomping grounds. I just wish I could not have the knowledge of nearby dealers around me. I know I have to take my safety into my own hands. I’m an adult. I need to be strong, move forward, and consider the awful consequences if I were to falter and fuck up now- this far into my recovery.

I think moving into the house is also stirring up a lot of past trauma.

I keep suppressing the memories of my cousin, mostly….him having me pinned to the floor in the dining room, taking a knife to chest by the back porch, his hand over my mouth on my old bed, blood and spit spilling onto the kitchen floor… It starts flooding back. It’s just something I have to live with and get through.

I guess I’m using this blog today as a bucket to purge my feelings into: anxious, weak, sick, symptomatic, craving heroin. I also have the constant feeling that my body isn’t connecting to where I am spatially.

As I always say, I’m tough, I’ll get through it.

The Price is Right and Assessment Papers

I bit the bullet and went in for an assessment today at a mental/rehab facility.

Allie sat with me in the passenger seat all the way to the hospital. She reassured me that no matter what happens, no one will take her away from me. So, in that, I found comfort. Although I was beyond anxious about it, the minute I stepped on to the grounds, I felt a little bit of relief. The outside of the facility itself was so calming and soothing.

I called last night and told the receptionist that I’ve been feeling very suicidal. When I walked up to the check in desk, she happily exclaimed, “I’m so happy you decided to come in!” They even gave me hot chocolate- so I was sold right then and there.

I didn’t have to wait for too long. I found myself laughing at the overly giddy Price is Right contestants on the lobby television. Then, my name was called. She took me into this small assessment room with cozy love seats. First, she took my blood pressure and heart rate. Then, the usual questions. What brings you here today? Have you had thoughts of suicide? History of drug abuse? Are you on any medications? Any recent losses?

I found myself tripping over my words. It was incredibly difficult admitting to her all of the gory details of my depression and psychotic episodes. We touched briefly upon my past and present opiate abuse, my alcohol reliance, suicide attempts, psychotic breaks. The more I talked the more I wanted a drink.

I was accepted for an intensive outpatient program, which starts tomorrow for 5 days. After those 5 days, we can reassess my situation and schedule more appointments and such. So, from 9 am to 3 pm I’ll be spilling my guts to my psychiatrist and working with other people.

I’m scared shitless, I’m still sad, I still feel floopered, but I know that tomorrow I will at least have the opportunity to alleviate some of this unbearable pain. By unbearable, I mean just that. I mean I just don’t want to be alive anywhere. The emotional agony is absolutely intolerable. What makes it worse is I really feel that I’m alone; I’m suffering from an invisible and seemingly phantom anguish that no one else can see or understand.

It will get better. I just need to pull myself up by the boot straps. Holy hell, this is a bad ride.

I keep hearing knocking on the window next to me and it’s slightly frightening.

Anyways, readers, thank you for being there. I’m going to try my damnedest to make it through tonight alright. I may come back on here and just write. I can already feel it creeping and weaving through my fibers.

Suicide; an Essay

“Suicide only really frightens those who are never tempted by it and never will be, for its darkness only welcomes those who are predestined to it.”

On a car ride, my boyfriend remarked on my choice of tattoo scripture upon my collarbone. (Here’s my post about it) His argument was how incredibly sad and purposeless it was to have someone else’s suicide story sprawled across my body, permanently. “It must be a cry for help.” In my mind, I did not understand how he couldn’t at least see the beauty in the meaning behind it. Specifically, we were exchanging roundabout palaver regarding Sylvia Plath’s death, the ethics in general of glorifying suicide, and the symbolism of the poem itself, “Lady Lazarus.” Which, by the way, he has never read. I sat there, exhausting my inner poet and literary evangelist, trying so hard to explain that suicide doesn’t have to be this grandiose tragedy.

Therefore, I’m writing tonight about the human obsession with suicide and death. I apologize in advance for any unclear thoughts and nonsensical reiteration.

“To write poetry and to commit suicide, apparently so contradictory, had really been the same, attempts at escape.”
John Fowles

Why do some of us harbor this glorified lust for the mortal expiration, execution of our fleshy prisons? Let us take a break, for a moment, from the usual assumption of suicide as a permanent escape. I’m not talking about the moments before the climatic curtain fall. Nor am I touching upon the seconds before, the wet ink on the goodbye letter, nor the flashing of life before the eyelids.

No, I’m interested in the perpetual avidity for death by our own hands.

Why? What then do we make of this morbid thirst, this appetence for the reaper?

Sexton wrote, “Death, I need my little addiction to you. I need that tiny voice who, even as I rise from the sea, all woman, all there, says kill me, kill me.”

“…I don’t want to live. . . . Now listen, life is lovely, but I Can’t Live It. I can’t even explain. I know how silly it sounds . . . but if you knew how it Felt. To be alive, yes, alive, but not be able to live it. Ay that’s the rub. I am like a stone that lives . . . locked outside of all that’s real. . . . Anne, do you know of such things, can you hear???? I wish, or think I wish, that I were dying of something for then I could be brave, but to be not dying, and yet . . . and yet to [be] behind a wall, watching everyone fit in where I can’t, to talk behind a gray foggy wall, to live but to not reach or to reach wrong . . . to do it all wrong . . . believe me, (can you?) . . . what’s wrong. I want to belong. I’m like a jew who ends up in the wrong country. I’m not a part. I’m not a member. I’m frozen.”
Anne Sexton

I have noticed this macabre archetype in many poets, usually confessional poets.

Though slightly off topic of suicide, I rather enjoy this article regarding the Sylvia Plath Effect.

It is intriguing to me, how many of us go through life fixated on the idea of suicide. What a fantastic paradox! To be alive only to be in love with death.

Is it the unknown? Perhaps curiosity gets the better of us. What’s next? Do we obliterate into the vacuous canyon of black space? Do we reincarnate into lizards, our enemies? Do we become God?

Or is it the sweet release for some of us?  What an idea- to be nothing. To be non existent, free from all feeling and thought.

“To be, or not to be: that is the question:
Whether ’tis nobler in the mind to suffer
The slings and arrows of outrageous fortune,
Or to take arms against a sea of troubles,
And by opposing end them? To die: to sleep;
No more; and, by a sleep to say we end
The heart-ache and the thousand natural shocks
That flesh is heir to, ’tis a consummation
Devoutly to be wish’d. To die, to sleep;
To sleep: perchance to dream: ay, there’s the rub.
For in that sleep of death what dreams may come,
When we have shuffled off this mortal coil,
Must give us pause.”

William Shakespeare

Is suicidal ideation always a result of a mental illness? I don’t think I’ve met a “mentally healthy” person who holds death so affectionately as I do. Personally speaking, suicide has always called me. I’ve figured that one day, I will take my own life. Perhaps not out of sadness, loneliness, or hopelessness. I just can’t imagine death coming for me without my acceptance first. I’d like to invite him over myself to establish a contract over tea. “Suicide is man’s way of telling God, ‘You can’t fire me – I quit!”

(Now, let me make it clear that I’m not promoting suicide as an actuality. In fact, I have suffered through the loss of three close family members via suicide.)

The question of why are some of us so incredibly in love with suicide is much too philosophical for me. But, oh, how I love to visit it.

And now, 1300 words worth of my irrelevant rant, I leave you with some magnificent quotes:

“The so-called ‘psychotically depressed’ person who tries to kill herself doesn’t do so out of quote ‘hopelessness’ or any abstract conviction that life’s assets and debits do not square. And surely not because death seems suddenly appealing. The person in whom Its invisible agony reaches a certain unendurable level will kill herself the same way a trapped person will eventually jump from the window of a burning high-rise. Make no mistake about people who leap from burning windows. Their terror of falling from a great height is still just as great as it would be for you or me standing speculatively at the same window just checking out the view; i.e. the fear of falling remains a constant. The variable here is the other terror, the fire’s flames: when the flames get close enough, falling to death becomes the slightly less terrible of two terrors. It’s not desiring the fall; it’s terror of the flames. And yet nobody down on the sidewalk, looking up and yelling ‘Don’t!’ and ‘Hang on!’, can understand the jump. Not really. You’d have to have personally been trapped and felt flames to really understand a terror way beyond falling.”
David Foster Wallace

“I can’t deceive myself that out of the bare stark realization that no matter how enthusiastic you are, no matter how sure that character is fate, nothing is real, past or future, when you are alone in your room with the clock ticking loudly into the false cheerful brilliance of the electric light. And if you have no past or future which, after all, is all that the present is made of, why then you may as well dispose of the empty shell of present and commit suicide.”
Sylvia Plath

“It was ironic, really – you want to die because you can’t be bothered to go on living – but then you’re expected to get all energetic and move furniture and stand on chairs and hoist ropes and do complicated knots and attach things to other things and kick stools from under you and mess around with hot baths and razor blades and extension cords and electrical appliances and weedkiller. Suicide was a complicated, demanding business, often involving visits to hardware shops.

And if you’ve managed to drag yourself from the bed and go down the road to the garden center or the drug store, by then the worst is over. At that point you might as well just go to work.”
Marian Keyes


I am in a gritty, confessional mood tonight. I just want to write. So, I’m going to write.

Oh, trigger warning. This little number is about my first 5150 hold. For those of you unfamiliar, a 5150, or 72 hour hold, is defined as an involuntary psychiatric hold which authorizes a qualified officer or clinician to involuntarily confine a person suspected to have a mental disorder that makes him or her a danger to themselves, a danger to others, and/or gravely disabled.

This post includes mention of suicide. Ladies, gentlemen, take your seats.

Before I begin, I must admit that certain pockets of my memory have been erased- either from trauma, meds, both…? Bear with me, here.

My downfall leading up to this moment began in July of 2010. I was in the process of transitioning into college. It was my first time truly on my own. I had everything going for me. To quote Kate Winslet from Titanic, “Outwardly, I was everything a well brought up girl should be. Inside, I was screaming.”

I am unsure of how I ended up here. I was a hot mess from September to October. That’s when Morris had taken over my life. I had grown a love for heroin, alcohol, and promiscuity.

The 5150 came about from either 1 of 2 instances. The first instance:

I had theater rehearsal that night. I remember it being very cold. I had been feeling very mentally unstable for at least a week. Suddenly, while in the middle of rehearsal, I heard someone say, “She jumps.” What had prompted me…I don’t think I’ll ever know.

I just left the classroom. I pushed the heavy doors of the theater wing open and fled. I mean, I ran. I ran fast through the dark trees and shadows of students meandering through the campus. As I ran, it grew louder. I truly and genuinely accepted that I just couldn’t live anymore. I felt insane. Something breathed inside of me and I couldn’t throw it out of me fast enough.

Frantically, I stopped at one of the buildings on campus. There wasn’t anyone around. I climbed the steps, which I remember to be about ten stories high. My lips were frozen, tears cascading down my cheeks, leaving sad puddles on the corners of my mouth. Finally, I reached the top. I leaned over the rail, looked down and thought to myself how unafraid I was.

I really would have jumped.

Suddenly, my two friends grabbed me and pried me off. My then best friend collapsed on my body, wailing. As Mary collapsed to her knees, holding the son of God in her arms, weeping and howling, she held me. I wanted to cry, to show her how much I loved her and appreciated her saving my life (literally), I had nothing left in me. I had been depleted of basic human emotion.

The second instance:

Perhaps this was the night after my first attempt. Without too much detail, I had promptly ingested, to my clouded thinking, 2 bottles of medication. In reality, it was much less than that. I had called my friend at the time to please stay with me in my last few minutes of life. I hardly remember anything from that initial phone call to the whirring sirens of an ambulance.

The next thing I knew, I was in the hospital. On lockdown. My body was puffy and bloated. I was strapped down with blue cloth to a metal-braced bed. I was coughing up blood- lots of blood- due to a torn esphagous from vodka. One of the male nurses looked down at my legs and commented, “Oh, she’s a cutter.”

Even though I as very out of my body at the time, I thought to myself how cruel it was of him to say that in front of me. I wasn’t stupid. I was suicidal.

The hours blended into one another. I had no concept of time. I woke up to convulsions, followed by the excruciating pain of Ativan being pumped into my veins. Every 4 hours I would have a dose injected into me. I would scream as the liquid creeped up through my arms, soaking into my chest. I pleaded to them to please dilute it. That was the most unbearable part.

I remember people visiting me. Some of them later said that they visited and yet I have no recall of them.

To quote my Facebook statuses from those very nights:

“day 4 in the hospital-being woken up at 4 am to take a blood sample. just keep sing “three little birds””
“3.21.92 – 10.14.10”
“Is spending the night in the hospital again “
“is currently in the emergency room. fuck this IV in my arm tho”

The days went on, full of visits from psychologists and social workers. I’d mark my mental state on a clipboard from 1-5, 5 being postal. The TV would drone on with reality programs and the news, of all things. The flowers by my bedside had died by the 4th day.

That was a terrible experience. I felt like an experiment. The day I was released, I couldn’t even bend my arms, my veins were so badly beaten. I felt that I really had died.

Even afterwards, I felt like a zombie. I saw halos constantly around the street lights. I tell you now that it was hell. I was stuck in a psychotropic limbo. The only time I found release was through sleep, and even then, I was tortured.

That’s mostly the blood and guts (no pun intended) to my first hold. A devastating time in my life.

On another note, for anyone who has gone through similar, or who is going through it, I love you. I may not know you. But, God, do I love you. You have made it so far in life. You’ve made it past the bullshit, the heartbreak, the relentless lust for eternal sleep. You are amazing. I love you and if I could, I’d hold you.