the surgery… didn’t go well.

but don’t worry. it’s okay. we’ll figure it out. find a way to patch your tired heart back together, and get you out of this hell...

and so i’ll trust you. because i have to. bite my lip, just like mommy taught me, because all you have to do is try and focus on the pain, on the little things you can control. and not the blinding light at the end of this tunnel, pulling me in for a kiss. again, again, again…

so just make sure you tell all the little ones to avert their gaze. you understand? because i don’t want anyone to have to see me this way.

even after you tie off the stitches. send me home in crutches. trying your best to ignore the little demon scuttling along beside me, that even you could not chase away.

but honestly, maybe it’s all right. because on lonely nights, it talks to me. and i let it stay.

I just get so tired of healing sometimes.

Honestly, it’s boring. And tedious. Nowhere near as sexy as the movies make it out to be. It is long nights spent crying alone about shit that happened years ago. It is struggling to remember all the things you learned in therapy in the moments when you need it the most. It is fucking up.

But, I mean, there are little good things. Amidst all the drudgery and pain. That feeling you get, when you remember your coping mechanisms, and you know that your therapist would be proud, and maybe, just maybe, you’re proud of yourself too. Or… going to bed early, and not waking up feeling exhausted–which is probably normal for most people, but barely ever happens for me, so it feels really good when it does, and I text all my friends to tell them about it. It is spending an afternoon sewing, or writing, or baking bread.

It’s boring, and hard, and painful, and slow, but it’s worth it. It is so fucking worth it.

Lots of love,


when it rains, it pours

we’ve got five seconds. until we’re going overboard.

and my heart… my heart is wound up in string. it is the pelican on tv, caught up in discarded fish netting. yet another fucking sign the world is ending…

we’ve got four seconds, now. so please just know that i’m sorry. and i’ll fix this. i promise… just be patient with me…

three seconds. time is running out now, and i can’t stop hyperventilating. i thought we were safe now, but i guess the times are changing.

two seconds. the water rises. and i can’t speak clearly. so i’ll scream, goddammit. so i’ll flail about in the ice-cold water frantically. because whatever happens, i won’t go out silently.

one second. you’ll offer me a lifeboat, but i can do it myself. and i refuse to let anyone help me.

so when it rains, it pours. and when i wash ashore, completely numb, please don’t make a big deal out of it. i know what i’m doing.

These days, it’s hard not to feel like the world is ending.

I grew up on a steady diet of financial dramas, BBC documentaries, and climate change films. I’ve seen so many, it’s insane. If you ever want to just talk to a walking directory of climate change documentaries, feel free to hit me up.

And partially as a consequence of seeing these so young, I’ve always grown up with the vague assumption that I am probably not going to live past 30. Whether it be because of food shortage, or war, whatever, you name it. Whether or not that assumption is true or not, I don’t think it matters. The point is, that’s how, in the back of my mind, I have always planned my life. Doesn’t mean that the prospect of my premature death makes me happy, but I still think it’s likely.

Maybe that’s why I’ve pursued success at such a young age. Because if I’m not a global sensation by the time I’m eighteen, I mean, what’s left for me? I’ve failed. Even if all along, I was set up for failure, I failed. As I see it, I’m already halfway through my lifespan.

I think in so many ways, young success is Gen-Z’s ideal. Our influencers on social media, our musicians, the activists we might look up to… how many of them are under 25? Maybe it’s just who I follow, but a fair majority of them aren’t far over twenty, and older creators generally favoured by my generation feel like the exception, not the rule.

In no way am I saying that those people aren’t absolutely badass and amazing, or that honing your craft at a young age isn’t impressive and wondeful, because as a young creator, however small, I’d be a hypocrite to say that. But I also feel like when no one ever acknowledges it, it can be toxic; and it’s also just a very interesting part of my generation’s culture to me.

I don’t know how much of this is a girl thing, how much of this is a teenager thing, and how much of this is a Gen-Z thing, but, I don’t know, it’s something I felt like unpacking.

Lots of love,


there is a mouse in my attic

i hear it, skittering around at night. feel it gnawing on my fingers while i sleep sometimes. and when i wake up, there is blood on the sheets. but it’s all right…

i see it, out of the corner of my eye. its teeth sharp; red eyes glowing in the dark. it is quiet, and polite. and it reminds me of myself sometimes.

on those endless, burning summer nights. when i stare into the mirror, and i look like someone else. but maybe i’m tired… maybe it’s just a trick of the light…

i can feel it. as the the mouse scrambles up onto my shoulder, and stares back at me, smiling crookedly.

and i hate it. as i lie still as a statue, allowing it to deconstruct my body. tunnel swiss-cheese holes into my chin, as it chatters happily.

but… maybe i can’t help but love it, too. in all honesty.

I feel so broken, sometimes. And I think the worst part is, that in all honesty, I’m not good at hiding it. In theory, I’m sure I could–but I’m too busy for that, and also a shit liar.

In my mind, though, I am a careerwoman. A beautiful, golden success. I am professional, kickass,, and okay, and keep mental health as far away from my work life as possible.

In reality, though, I mean… I did a little gardening gig for a family friend a few weeks ago, and he would always offer me water, on these really hot days when I’d been in full sun for hours on end. And I’d always say no, until I literally thought I might pass out. I worked faster and faster, out of fear of costing him too much money. I purposefully put out my back one time. And I couldn’t help but get obsessed over these little things that weren’t quite right, and what started out as “attention to detail” quickly became toxic perfectionism. I don’t know if he noticed or cared; could see my mess of a mind peeking out from beneath the paperthin mask, but it made me feel awful.

You know, it’s funny. I’ve only cried in front of my best friends a couple of times. I cry in public a fair bit to be honest–potentially more than I cry in my house. (By public, I mean at nine o’clock on my street with two people in sight, but still.)

And yet in front of friends or family; people who could actually hurt me in a meaningful way if they wanted, while I’m in that state of vulnerability–that’s what scares me. That’s why I never let it happen, and why I always try to brush it off, say I’m fine, even though I know perfectly well I’m not fooling anyone.

Despite how far I’ve come in terms of dealing with my own internalized stigma, despite all of my inner circle of friends knowing about my mental illness, I still desperately want to come across as fine, and healthy to them. No matter how obvious it is I’m not either of those things.

Lots of love,


in the end

you know / when i was eleven / i was scared to leave the house.

you know, when i was seven, i hated myself.

when i was thirteen, i put on the kettle to make tea and doubled over, unable to breathe. and i cried, and i cried, and i cried, because it all just felt like too much back then…

when i was six, i sat out in the hallway until the counsellor was there to put me back together again. but that’s not how it works. and i never really felt safe with her, in the end…

and / when i was eight / i almost ran away / because i broke one of our dinner plates by accident / and i thought you’d never look at me the same…

and so, you see, now we lie here. vintage ceramics and broken silverware, rotting away in the basement. where maybe just maybe, they’ll leave us be.

and / then i’ll be happy / really, truly happy /the sunlight flitting across my arms / telling stories of a past / that didn’t even happen / but i don’t care.

when i was ten, i think i finally started to understand. that life isn’t fair.

let them be happy

imagine my brain… like a tourist trap. with cheap gift shops, and a couple rollercoaster rides; the tracks encased in layers of neon rust.

imagine my skull like a dust bowl. forged from years without rain, as you build me up on blind trust, just to tear me down again. and i swear to god i’m gonna make it. but what price will i pay?

because i have to eat. i have to sleep. and i can’t just spend the rest of my life, fueled by desperate wanderlust. crafting a house of bone, and calling it a place to stay.

because it doesn’t matter. that when i was little, people were shitty. or that maybe i spent a little too much time alone. or how if i screamed loud enough, i always got my way. because maybe i’m just a broken fucking girl, okay?

just… let them go on. let them be happy. let them bask in their own normalcy, and pretend the world isn’t ending for just one more day...

The side affect of writing deadine-to-deadline, and very much teaching myself how to work on that last-minute kind of structure is that every week, I tell myself… this is the last time I’ll sacrifice my sleep schedule, or not leave the house for four days trying to finish a project, or procrastinate on something until those measures are necessary.

But it never is. I get so caught up in myopic, week-to-week things, that I lose sight of the bigger picture. Forget that I can’t just put my mental health and general sanity on hold forever. That you can’t create in a vacuum.

And as much as I love writing, it gets tiring after a while. Not the actual creative part, but the spending hours on a screen alone, and the constant vague stress of making sure I’m on top of everything at all times. Self promotion and social media and all that stuff.

I guess in a lot of ways, it’s just human nature, to automatically want to ignore the problem until the problem becomes a crisis, isn’t it? God. I need to figure things out. I need to take better care of myself, so I don’t feel so damn exhausted all the time.

It’s just… hard for me to look at all these beautiful things I could make, and still be able to turn it down for something as smal and insignificant as spending an afternoon at the beach.

Lots of love,