my broken sister

how many times have i written about my broken sister? too many times?
no matter how many times i write about her, nothing helps. it’s not helping her,
at least. does it relieve me of the guilt i feel? like look at my pain, my suffering
as the sister of this fabulously broken woman.
fuck me.

another exploration of the futility of my naval gazing masturbatory behavior via blogging & art journal…. but i just keep swimming, because it is all i know…and because if i stop swimming, i sink.

a muse ing

mental health
is a loyal muse
she never wanders
far
away
& seemingly
is quite easily
summoned
sometimes just
by a song on the radio
or a careless word
mental health
is an accommodating muse
willing to wait
with open arms
for you
to
crawl
back to her.

i have a friend who got a mental health diagnosis &, fortunately, has herself submerged in a writer’s workshop…so she immediately wrote it into a story.
i love that.
i love people using what could knock them over to, instead, create.
which is one reason i am starting a group of creators (writers & artists) to come together as a community to support & encourage & listen.
i am pretty excited…or, rather, terrified about it.
but i’m doing it.

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