Off the sauce

Today I celebrate six years sober. I started drinking when I was 11, doing drugs at 19, and continued until I was 25 years old. Many people like me have long histories with alcohol. We drink to erase our childhood trauma, to evade our pain, our suffering. We drink and use despite the pleas of our friends and families. This year, I’m thinking to myself, what could have helped me get sober sooner? I’m sure many people in my life have asked that same question. And the answer is not one many people like. There is nothing that could have helped me get sober sooner, nothing at all.

When I was 11, I of course wasn’t an everyday drinker. I snuck sips and glugs when I could, usually early in the morning when everyone else was asleep. I’d fill our glass Disney cups with tequila and drink until I felt lightheaded, buzzy, while watching soft core porn on TV. There was a lot I was going through at that time, a lot that I still struggle to vocalize. But when I did drink, all of that melted away. I felt electric, wired, like if something touched me it would die.

At college, I vowed not to have another drink. I was 17, and decidedly said to myself that future doctors can’t be alcoholics. So I had stopped by August of 2010. But by October, my 18th birthday to be exact, I was on the sauce again. What alcohol did for me, back then, was make me come alive. I danced and smoked weed and was the life of the party. I got drunk and had sex with whoever I wanted to. I felt in control of everything: my drinking, my body, my life. But I barely graduated college. I think some professor went to bat for me because I was set to not graduate days before I was supposed to walk across the stage. When life handed me lemons, I grabbed a glass and licked the salt from the rim, let whatever liquid inhabited it slide down my throat.

After college, my drinking got worse. I was finally 21 so I could buy my own shit for a change. I bought the 75 ml bottles of Sutter Home red wine, cheap whiskey and bourbon, occasionally tequila or rum. Friends supplied me with weed and Xanax. If you gave it to me, I probably did it. I mixed mediums, didn’t care that it was dangerous. I wanted to be high. Being high was like being as close to dead as I could get. Like a heaven that made sense, that blissed out the blood coursing through my veins. Being high was a perfect storm. I couldn’t feel my emotions but my body was so sensitive to every stimuli. Every touch, every light, every color was amplified.

Getting raped by the man that often supplied me with drugs did not help me get sober. Disappointing my family and friends did not help me get sober. I lived a life governed first and foremost by desire, my desire to die, to touch the grave but not be buried under the weight of the earth. I’ve heard other drunks say it, but I was too cowardly to die. I wanted to, desperately, but I had tried before and survived. I didn’t believe I could die. So I drank until I was comatose.

When I say nothing could have helped me get sober sooner, I mean nothing that anyone said or did, no consequence I was faced with, made me want to stop. I had to get sober on my own time, my own internal clock had to plead with me, to bleed for me, in order for me to see the destruction I was causing. I had to hurt so terribly that not even drugs or alcohol could take away the pain.

If you know someone that is struggling with substance abuse, and you want desperately for them to get sober, you might think there is a right thing to say or do to help them. For a lot of alcoholics, there isn’t. More than anything, you need compassion and patience. Which you can do from a distance. You don’t have to stay directly by the side of an addict who is hurting you. You can love them from afar and hope they get better.

If you are dead set on helping, just know it won’t be on your timeline. No ultimatum or imposed clock will make it so the person you want to get sober will get sober. Have patience, have heart, be kind. We will get there when we get there.

If you are struggling to get sober, just know you are not alone. Many people have gotten sober before you and many will after you. When you are ready to join the community of ex-drunks, we’ll be waiting for you with a soft place to land.

Dirty Thirty

On October 30, I turned 30. I wrote a piece for Autostraddle about this milestone where I talk about suicide and self-harm, and the freedom I feel in being alone. You can read it at the link above. Now that I’ve been 30 for a couple of days, I’m ruminating on joy. I am incredibly grateful and lucky to have made it to this age. I didn’t think I would be here, in the days leading up to my birthday I was afraid to leave the house lest something fall from the sky and crush me.

I made it, I’m here, I’m 30 years old. My twenties were a fraught time for me, filled with mental health crises and bad relationships, but maybe it’s that way for everyone. I didn’t start feeling like myself until I was 28, and then a pandemic came to ruin the progress I had made and the community I’d built. We are still in a pandemic, but reaching 30 feels like an emergence from something else. It feels revelatory and freeing.

People have asked me if I feel any different, and to be honest, I do. I feel more grounded in myself and my body, feel more ready to tackle issues as they come up. I feel like I know what I want out of my life now, and that I have the means and the tools to get there. Since my move, I’ve been checking out the dating scene and not falling victim to old habits: obsessing and settling. When I used to hit it off with a person, I’d obsess over every little detail, real or imagined. When I didn’t like a person, I often settled for them because I thought who am I to ask for more?

I also spent half of my twenties drinking, and, god willing, I’ll have 5 years sober in February. Half a decade out of addiction feels so monumental yet small at the same time. Being sober at 30 is such a gift, I couldn’t imagine a better life for myself.

I spent my 30th with my brother and his family. We watched movies, ate cupcakes and great food, and then I got home to my new apartment and slept for hours. I felt so full of love for myself and for my chosen family. When I was ten and struggling with suicidal thoughts, I couldn’t have imagined that I would be grateful to be alive as an adult. As much as being an adult is filled with shitty realities, bad people, and less-than-exciting responsibilities, I am so happy to be here. In my 30s, starting a new life in a new city, and becoming the woman I needed to see growing up.

For my birthday, I bought myself a beautiful bouquet of purple flowers. A little nod and a gift for my child self that loved dressing head to toe in purple. I’m excited for whatever secrets and surprises 30 has for me. Cheers to another year!

Everybody Wants To Sin

I recently had a poem published, and the poem details the weeks during and after the period where I had taken the man that raped me through the court process. The poem focuses on my violence in the aftermath of the violence that was forced on me. It’s been making me think of what makes harm justified. I had so many fantasies about maiming, hurting, killing things and one person in particular. If I had retaliated using violence, would it have been justified?

I read a friend’s poem recently and so I’m thinking about sin. Killing is a sin. If I had killed in the name of my hurt I would be tried to the fullest extent of the law. Some people believe that after my death I would be met by God’s judgement and damned to a life in hell. The press would have made a meal of me. So many women go to prison for killing their abusers, and I would be one of them. Knowing this, I outsourced my harm. I directed it to things that wouldn’t get me in trouble. In the poem I wrote, I remember really fantasizing about the death of the mouse, its bones crushed by steel, blood everywhere.

Mostly, I did unspeakable things to myself. Things that would have resulted in my death, and that was the point. I really wanted to die. I felt that my abuser had gotten off easy, and had told myself before the trial that if that happened I would kill myself. I took the slow route, drinking and drugging my way to a lonely death. I entered relationships with people who were not good for me. I rode my bike around the city in the dark, daring someone to hit me. I felt unkillable but also welcomed death. I dared it to find me and come take me.

I think everyone has violent fantasies. Everyone has one person they would kill if they could get away with it, at least in my opinion. We all sin in our own little private ways. We cheat, we covet, we lie. There is a void in all of us that can be temporarily filled with sin. Let’s face it, it feels good to do bad things. I used to relish being “the other woman” in relationships. It titillated me to be a little evil, to not care about someone else’s feelings and the hurt I was likely causing them. I’ve grown out of this phase now, and mostly look back on it with a twinge of shame. But where did that impulse come from in me?

My evils feel small in the face of real violence that occurs in the world. I think of what happened in Buffalo, what happens in Palestine, everything spurred on by the evils of white supremacist violence. These evils are not the same. Cheating on your spouse is not comparable to killing an unarmed journalist, or people grocery shopping. But there is something to be said for the potential in all of us to make our sins much bigger, almost insurmountable and incalculable in their scope and damage.

Most of us know not to act on our violent impulses. In the poem, my friend takes the mouse to a nearby park where it will find food and others of its kind. I felt at ease after learning this. Someone who was not me had the sense to reach toward kindness and not the “quickness of violence.”

I wish I had come to some grand sweeping generalization at the end of this, but I’m mostly just thinking out loud. I’m saddened and scared by the fact that Black people have to live in fear of leaving our houses to do everyday errands. I think the shooter goes beyond being a mere sinner and moves toward something much greater and more evil than I can fathom. There is no likeness in he and I, and yet, I still wonder what I am capable of when fueled by a force that feels much greater than me.

If you want to read the poem I will link it here and also it is now under the Writing section of this website. Wishing you lots of love and pleasure

DJ

Something For The Girls

Hi friends,

It’s been a long time, but I’ve decided that now is a good time to try and reconnect with my friends and readers via blog post. Why? Because I miss this medium. Also, social media is fickle. Billionaires own or buy platforms and can change the way we interact with the people we care about at any second. So I’m here, giving you an update on my life.

My GoFundMe reached its goal today, which means I have the funds I need to move later this year, and I’m so excited. Moving has been the topic in every therapy session, every talk with friends, and its so exciting to have one aspect of it settled, the financial aspect. I’m still looking for a job and still writing a shit ton but money is still scarce, so the fundraiser has been a huge help. Thank you if you shared, contributed, or spread the word in any way.

While I’m so excited to move I’ve also been experiencing a sense of deep sadness. I want this move to be over with already. I want to be the woman I want to be already. I wanna be thirty. I want to have a lover. So many wants. This deep sadness, I think, comes from mourning the life I had here. I’ve been many people in Pittsburgh, mostly people I haven’t been very proud of or liked very much. A liar, a drunk, kind of a player. Its been a rocky 29 years. I mostly mourn for myself age 22, which I have written about. This city feels so emblematic of what I was like at that age and what I went up against and I can’t stand in the shadow of that woman anymore. I have to step away.

I’m not running from my problems. I know things will follow me. Things trail behind you like ghosts. It happens. I’m not looking to escape in that way. I just want to be better and I don’t think I can do that here. I’m sad, but I’m also looking toward something so beautiful. I can’t wait to be closer to my brother, and my niece whom I love so much. She’s definitely the light of my life and talking to her brings me so much joy. I’m excited to start a new job and continue growing my writing portfolio. I’ve got so much to mourn but even more to look forward to.

I can have a little happiness in the wake of my despair, a little something for the girls so to speak, a little treat. What I’ve been consuming lately that has brought me joy, I want to share it with you:

• Podcasts:

  • Stay F. Homekins with Paul F. Tompkins and Janie Haddad Tompkins

  • Comedy Bang Bang

  • Threedom

  • I Love A Lifetime Movie

• Youtube:

  • RawBeautyKristi

  • The Welsh Twins

• Music:

  • Orion Sun

  • Sunni Colon

  • Reyna Tropical

  • Remi Wolf

  • Toni Braxton

  • Bartees Strange

  • Lomelda

  • Sun June

  • Mini Trees

• TV/Movies

  • All Of Us Are Dead

  • Our Flag Means Death

  • Station 11

  Thanks for reading, hope you found something you could use!

  xo

  DJ

Five Years On

I have read so much over the past two years about how the body remembers the things we want to forget, how even when the dates and details are fuzzy, we can feel aches and sorrow in our hearts. This year is five years since I made the decision to face my rapist in court, and I have felt it more than ever in the past few years since that day. Maybe five years is a milestone year, a true anniversary, I don’t know. But I’ve been writing about it. Been revisiting the court dockets and my own memories to interrogate what the courts have called justice.

I didn’t have great plans for myself or my life at 23. I was happy with the smallness of my life, job hopping, drinking the days away, and more. I was in a new relationship then, I was in love, but that didn’t give me much hope for my future either. All of my life was defined by the hurt I experienced.

About a week before the man I had called a friend raped me, we sat on his couch and made music together. I was drunk and high, and he made me sing Karma Police by Radiohead. He seemed enraged when I sang quietly, he pushed me to be louder and braver. I didn’t understand where the emotion came from in him and I wanted to go home. That experience was one of a couple of experiences I had with him that made me uncomfortable, but this one stands out in my mind as particularly hurtful and odd.

The next week when he text me to hang out, I hesitated. I was with good friends, I felt safe and happy, but he told me he had been sad over his ex wife and needed a friend, so I went to him. He brought me pills, brought me drink after drink until I was woozy and slurring my words. He led me to his bedroom and stopped to say

“I know it seems like I’m trying to take advantage of you, with all the drugs and alcohol, but I love you and I’d never hurt you.”

I would gain consciousness to him raping me later that night.

When the case was going to trial, my rapist and his lawyer proposed a plea deal. I remember getting the call from the detectives and crying. I didn’t know. I didn’t know what I wanted to do, I was angry that someone wouldn’t just tell me what to do. I cried and cried and lost complete control of myself in the breastfeeding mothers room at work, all because I was presented with an “easy out.”

I didn’t take the deal initially, I wanted to fight. But sitting in that courthouse months later, listening to the questions I was asked by my legal team as the prepared me for the defense, I felt gutless. My throat was ripped out. I couldn’t think or speak. All of them crowded around me with furrowed brows and upturned mouths. They were worried I wouldn’t be able to do it. And I couldn’t. I didn’t. This day five years ago I took the plea deal and walked out of the courthouse into the October wind and sun, got in an uber, and went home.

Five years on, this story still hurts me. I still cry over who I was then, the pain I endured, the suffering and sadness I felt as a victim of rape. I couldn’t believe it had happened to me, again. My plan back then was to kill myself the next day, and I haven’t done that as I am telling you this story right now. I still struggle with being alive, but instead of killing myself, I’m writing a book about this experience. I haven’t seen any books of poetry written about my experience, and I want them in the world.

For years after my rape I went on not knowing my body. My drinking got worse, I disappeared into drugs and alcohol. I hurt myself every day. I didn’t get sober until 2018, and that changed things immensely for me. For one, I’ve finally had to face that day in full clarity, what happened to me. I finally have sat down and remembered every detail of my assault, the whole ugly thing. I’ve had to be alone with my body and my memories, and it is incredibly painful, but I believe there is something beyond that pain.

One of the beautiful things that came out of my assault was my friends who stood beside me through it all. My best friends came to my aid, cooked me meals, lent me money. When I was on my knees they hoisted me onto their shoulders. My gratitude is for them always, so thank you to Shanai, Cale, Lori, Diehl, and Eliana most of all.

When I think that these people could be grieving the anniversary of my death instead of me grieving the anniversary of this trial, it pains me. I almost left this world. I almost gave up. It makes me so sad for the woman I was, the world of hurt I lived in. I don’t know what my rapist is doing now and I don’t care to. The fact that he is a father now still haunts me enough for all these years removed. Some days, I am happy that I’m alive. Somedays, not so much. Today is one of those days, I’m struggling with my depression a lot lately, and I know that though my mind can tell me I’m better off dead, that doesn’t mean its true.

One day at a time, I’ll be okay. I’ll find my way back to my joy and my passion for living, growing, and making. I love being a poet, that has saved me more than anything. I’ll listen to my sad songs and cry for myself but I’ll be alive at the end of it.

Coronavirus, Black Grief, and Writing Through a Revolution

Hi.

It’s been a while.

Since I last sat down to blog in January, the world has seen drastic and violent change. In March, coronavirus began to devastate communities around the US, specifically black populations and our immuno-compromised neighbors and friends. Many countries have imposed shutdowns to the public, small business and artists have been devastated, and unemployment rates are at an all-time high. To say that times are hard would be an understatement.

Coronavirus has changed a lot for me. It has changed the way I interact with friends, the way I grocery shop, the methods by which I go and come from work. The way I work. As a poet many of my events have been canceled or moved to online platforms like Zoom. Things that I’ve been greatly looking forward to have been postponed. This is the story for many of us that work and live in artists communities, It has been devastating to watch my friends lose their jobs and struggle to make rent while corporations get massive bailouts and CEO’s and celebrities remain unscathed and insulated by their millions.

If one thing has happened through these times I have definitely become more radicalized. One thing that I’ve found myself questioning is the idea of reform vs. justice. Reform is based on the principle that our current system can be fixed. An American system built off of anti-blackness, white supremacy, and capitalism cannot simply be “fixed”, it must be dismantled. We will only see justice when this dismantling occurs.. This means a world where healthcare is affordable and accessible to all, one where all essential workers would have gotten free COVID-19 testing and appropriate amounts of paid sick leave to deal with themselves or loved ones. This pandemic has illuminated how we care for capital more than the lives of citizens. Terms like “essential worker” are only endearing phrases, like when your employer calls your team a “family”: a way to pacify you as you are robbed of rights and wages. COVID has shaken a lot of people to their core, some for the wrong reasons. Many cities have seen lockdown protests. I inadvertently walked into one myself and saw as Trump and white supremacists flags flew, horns honked, signs demanding “reopen PA” hung out of car windows. Many protesters armed themselves and demanded access to capital buildings and elected officials. Crying tyranny, they demanded we reopen so they could go to the gym or get a haircut. None of these protests were met with violence from the police, the same cannot be said for the Black Lives Matter protests that have occurred over the past week.

After the shocking and violent deaths of Ahmaud Arbery, Breonna Taylor, George Floyd, and Tony McDade, Black Americans cried enough. It was too much death for us all to carry in one month, too much injustice during times of mass deaths due to COVID across our nation. Protests started in Minneapolis, the city where George Floyd was choked to death for 8 minutes by a city police officer. There is a video of the murder that you can watch, I have not save a few seconds from autoplay scrolling on certain social media platforms. Breonna Taylor was asleep and the police had entered the wrong house. Ahmaud was running for his life. These murders and the lack of justice around them have led to violent protests across all 50 states. Many brands, organizations, and companies have issued Black Lives Matter statements, there was a #blackout on social media this Tuesday. The question of the value of Black lives seems to be on everyone’s lips these days. But what is being done?

In every instance where protest erupted into violence, police forces were the instigators. Cities across america have seen million dollar increases in police budgets over the years, leading to local police forces having military-grade gear and weaponry. When a group of cops comes to a protest decked out in riot helmets and shields, toting tear gas and batons, only one population has come ready for violence. Just the other night in my city, peaceful protesters were isolated and attacked with tear gas by police while snipers sat on top of a nearby Target. This is the America we are living in right now. Where cities are imposing curfews on citizens and SWAT vehicles and military personnel patrol our streets.

Let me be loud and clear here: the only way to stop police shootings is to not have a police force. This evolution of the slave patrol will never and has never been about justice and protecting people. At least 40 percent of households where police live experience domestic violence. If they can’t even protect the people in their households how are they supposed to protect us? They weren’t made to. Protect and Serve is an empty phrase. The idea that there are good cops is false. Your favorite cop shows and movies have lied to you, they have conditioned you to believe everyone who tries to hold cops accountable are the enemy. The people in the streets, whether they are laying down or breaking windows, are on your side. Never forget that.

Black people are grieving and raging, I know for certain I am. Part of my duty as a writer is to document that rage and grief and frustration. Even as my own tears fight to come to the surface, I must document the blood and tears of my friends and comrades. Many of us have not been able to write through this. I am fortunate enough to have the fire in me to continue writing, whether that be personal work or political work. Part of my practice is letting the word come however they see fit. I don’t try to editorialize myself or dull down my edges. If I want to say fuck the police I say fuck the police. I normally don’t curse in my poetry or mention certain words but now feels like a time for such bluntness. Of course, I revise and make better, but I allow the rawness of my emotion to be captured in its moment. This blog post is such a space. My grief feels like it expands light-years through and beyond my body. It cannot be contained or coraled. My heart is broken again and again for every black person I know and love, and even those I don’t. To live under these conditions is breaking. If I don’t write, the shards of me float away, they cause harm, get in the eyes and gums. When I write I get to center those pieces again, reorganize them without sanding their edges. They make a strange patchwork but one that I find myself in, one I find pride in.

If you are a writer, don’t feel obligated to be productive during this time. Remember that pushing yourself to makemakemake through grief is a pressure of capitalism. You don’t have to create, you can just be. Sometimes just breathing is enough. If you are writing, especially if you are a journalist, don’t let up on that pen. In a time where we get our news in real-time through live feeds and twitter, It is crucial that journalist keep their integrity and report on all the facts, not just what political figures or police are reporting. Remember to love who you love with all of your heart, don’t shy away from showing it just because you’re shy or afraid. You never know when someone could be gone from you.

Rest in Power to George Floyd, Breonna Taylor, Ahmaud Arbery, and Tony McDade.

None of us are free until all of us are free

Until next time comrades

x

DJ

Strike a Balance

My life as of late has been, in a word, hectic. I’m balancing a day time job, my own business, being a creator and performer, a podcast, writing for Autostraddle and the everyday demands of being a human being. Most days I am tired and have no room for the things that bring me solace, relaxation, or joy.

Don’t get me wrong though, I have built my life this way. There is nothing that gives me more pleasure than to live a life where I get to be on stage sharing my work with others, or sitting down with friends to talk about their creative endeavors. This is a busy but blessed life. Where I’m at right now, if I’m being honest with you, is trying to strike a balance between all that I am and all I’m trying to be. For me, that looks like many different things, but mostly having the freedom to take a step back and look at my life and my schedule.

I don’t necessarily buy into the whole new year’s resolution stuff, but one thing I want to do more of this year is keeping my word, part of that is using this blog space way more. What I’ve started doing is writing down just about everything and making room for what I can even when it’s only half an hour a day. I include me time in this equation because like many introverts, I require a ridiculous amount of alone time. The trouble with this is during that alone time, not spending all of it on my phone or binge-watching something on Hulu. The second thing I’ve been doing a lot is making time for real meditation. I make a gratitude list every night and try and meditate on the things I love and am grateful to have in my life, and there is so much to take pride in! I have beautiful friends and a career that most people would envy. It is when I take the time to remember these things that I can truly value them and give them their proper attention.

So what have I been up to lately? Lots of workshops! I just did a workshop with the Warhol for their youth group on poetry. In late winter/early spring I will be hosting a workshop with the Center for African American Poetry and Poetics on a topic that is soon to be revealed. The FigWidow Reading Series is coming back and will be far more regular than it was in 2019. I’ve been reading a ton of books and writing some really great poems. I can’t wait to share more with you, but again, I’m pressed for time!

See you in a couple weeks

xoxo

A Year of Reading

I have always loved reading, but as I’ve gotten older and taken on more responsibility, I find myself reading less and drifting into the land of my cellphone more. There is no place like a book, as a child the library became my second home, a place of reprieve, and this year I wanted to get back to that love of literature, so I embarked on a challenge to read 50 books in 365. Granted, the year is not quite over yet and I still have time, but I did not complete my goal. Capping in at just 29, I feel invigorated and satiated to complete the goal next year. Of the 29 books I read this year, I will list my top five here and why I chose them.

1. Marilou is Everywhere - Sarah Elaine Smith

2. American Sonnets for my Past and Future Assassin - Terrance Hayes

3. Odes to Lithium - Shira Erlichman

4. One Earth We’re Briefly Gorgeous - Ocean Voung

5. Sing, Unburied, Sing - Jesmyn Ward

What these books did for me this year was to introduce me to characters and places that I could not shake. In Marilou is Everywhere, I was introduced to Cindy, who, while I did not agree with many of her decisions, I empathized with greatly. Her hunger for a life that wasn’t her own drove her to do mad things, a sin I am definitely guilty of. I even met Jude and Bernadette, a mother and daughter simultaneously pulled together and torn apart by the lives they lead and the town they live in. The prose in this book is inescapable, meaning it grips you and won’t let go. Even when you’ve stopped reading, even when you’ve gone to bed.

In Odes to Lithium I found a voice for a fear I couldn’t describe, I found kinship and hope and wonder, I found that just because your mind is a trickster doesn’t mean you are untrustworthy or unloveable. Erlichman writes in poetry that is expansive and chilling, she is generous and practices a profound pleasure for the life she is able to lead.

In On Earth We’re Briefly Gorgeous, I found myself and a familiar pain. An intimacy that reaches into and graces the small beast of your heart. Even though I know the letters are not written to me or for me I can hear them, their gentleness and exploration. I can see Little Dog, his hurt and longing, his devotion to his mother who’s pain is so consuming she becomes it.

In many of these books, I found a language that I thought inaccessible to me. As a writer, it is through reading that I understand my own voice even more. I am eternally grateful to the authors of all the books I read this year, even the ones I didn’t necessarily enjoy. Not to sound corny but reading gives me wings, it is through it that I am able to step outside of myself while climbing deeper into my own humanity.

I did a podcast about the books I read this year which you can listen to here.

No Room for Doubt

I used to think I was born into self-doubt, but I’ve learned that I was taught it. Taught to view myself as inherently unworthy, undeserving of love, success, basic care, and generosity. When confronted with that doubt I often make a joke of it so that everyone is laughing instead of looking at someone who is deeply insecure.

Over the past year, I’ve garnered some recognition and success in my field that I could only dream of years ago. Much of that is due to my sobriety and living a life not dependent on substances that deliver a temporary “feel good” response. More of it was due to exploring where my self-doubt comes from, what feeds it, and why it doesn’t serve me to feed it.

My self-doubt is a voice that is a combination of my own and those that have abused me. Its primary goal is to back me out of a place of assurance and safety and wield me over the ledge of danger. She says:

of course, you didn’t win that prize, you’re so arrogant and stupid.

why would she want you, you’re fat and disgusting

this has been written before, no one cares about your perspective or words, why move, why breathe, why go outside.

in a conversation with one of my therapist, she asked me how it would feel to be rid of this voice that plagues almost every waking moment. I answered with honesty that when I tried to envision that life, all I saw was black. We came to the word “lonely.” This voice, no matter how cruel, has become a constant companion of mine, one that is there without fail while others come and go. You might find that this is true for you as well and it is a painful truth to face. How could anyone miss being hurt? When your loneliness becomes a friend or even a lover it is easy to be so tied to a cruel thing. My self-doubt comes from my lonesome being the only thing I’ve been able to trust in my life. Friends leave and die, lovers lie to you, family disowns you, what’s left is the space they vacated, so willingly filled by melancholy.

Recently when I was confronted with an opportunity I’ve been dying to have, my immediate reaction wasn’t “how did this happen?” but “this is happening at its right time.” Right now I have four jobs and I work hard at each of them. Right now I am booking readings as my manager, promoter, and publicist, as well as hosting workshops to share my knowledge with people young and old. Without veering into arrogance or an inflated sense of self, I know that the things I’ve learned can help other people who have struggled in similar ways that I have. People who are writers and authors that are trying to connect through our shared passion for poetry. I’m so excited to sit in a room with these folks and share what we already know and what we are willing to learn.

I cannot make a sole companion of my loneliness if there are other, kinder companions in my life. If I value my friendships and only spend time with those people that I have a symbiotic relationship with, malice becomes less appealing. If you chart the path of your doubt, you can attack it at the source, which will open up your life to occurrences you are afraid you deserve.

When the details of these events are finally released, I’ll post them up on my event page. I hope to see you and those you love there.

spooky season

Hello all!

I know I haven’t posted on the blog too much this month, but October has been a wild month. I turn 27 in 4 days, I’m going on my first solo vacation, I’ve been met with so many wonderful career opportunities that I’ve barely been able to breathe. It’s wonderful but exhausting.

I do have some awesome news: Fig Widow Reading Series will be back in 2020. If you know and love somebody who would be a good fit, feel free to contact me.

I also started writing for queer media legends: Autostraddle.

I have two pieces up so far, so look forward to more of me being horny for monsters and talking about poetry nonstop.

Check out my instagram and twitter for beach thirst traps; I’ll be back and keeping up with you when I return.

Love

DJ