I'm sitting here at my keyboard, sipping on a Tito's and grapefruit juice, having sent the next chapter of Michael's story to my proofreader. As I've written on here before, the story is a loose retelling of my story with a happier twist. Different characters are me, or the me I might have been without the trauma. Telling the story has been a healing process, but in some ways, it is like addiction. It is a never ending, day-to-day struggle. There are good times and difficult times. The hardest part of it all is admitting "I'm not alright."

The biggest trigger for me is security and threats to my security. I've been through a lot and worked harder than anyone to get myself to where I am in my career with the intention of being able to work a normal work week and not feel at risk all the time. It's a very triggering for me to feel at risk. Changes at work, the insanity of the world, the coming economic chaos, and other factors started the spiral. I realized I couldn't bring myself to write, play music, or do the other things I enjoy in life. Scrolling through social media, a fall back from engaging in the things I enjoy, I found a post talking about functional depression. Checking in with a therapist, I came to the realization of just how far and had stumbled.

Coming back to my writing, I realized I'd been reflecting my own drift into darkness in my writing about MIchael's as the anniversary of his move to East Harbor approaches.

I'm regaining my footing. I'm trying to get back into the things I enjoy. Writing is still a struggle and I appreciate everyone's patience.

Peace and be well.