New piece on Thought Catalog

The cracks in my ceiling are a mountain range, but I’m not sure which one. The dust above is fog, crawling in to obscure the view of stars, made of smaller cracks in the plaster. The smoke detector is just some random UFO, nothing to worry about, nothing to be alarmed about.
On the days I call myself a writer, I invent stories. And like the world living above my bed, I memorize them, add to them, edit them and invest in them. But the dusty world above me has been my greatest material these days, as I fight anxiety when I long to sleep.



The past two days have been hellish. Travel always wreaks havoc on my body. And the past two nights have been no different. I sedate myself but to no relief. I'm barely conscious, awake enough to know pain.

This morning I drove to the pharmacy at 6am, just as it opened. I am desperate for relief. I am so done with this body, with this pain. But I'll never be tired of my life, and the joy and beauty that sustain me through so many awful days and nights. 

I am too attached to this life and this love to ever give up.


Tough Shit

Maddy told me to show my muscles, so I did.

I am living a full life through the pain.

I am living.

And that's how I earned these muscles.