Since we moved into this place in November, I’ve felt somewhat free for the first time. I have space and many gifted supplies to work on writing and painting. I’m resuming therapy and pursuing treatment for my chronic and mental illnesses. I’ve had to restart this process too many times. It takes years to make small amounts of progress, especially when fighting to stay housed while trying to recover.

I appreciate the stability I have now because for most of my life, I was not secure. In my parents’ house growing up, my survival was dependent upon my obedience. Then as an adult, it would take years to find my footing. I am extremely lucky. I faced relatively mild housing instability from time to time, at least having a car or garage or spare room to sleep in when I couldn’t afford a place. Now I am called radical because I speak up often about the idea that it shouldn’t be this difficult for survivors to get away from their abusers.

It’s difficult for me to conceptualize my intention and expectation with my writing. There are so many intertwined issues involved in what I talk about here on this blog. Almost every aspect of my life growing up was in some way an alternative to the mainstream culture.

People are dying and falling through the cracks now, every day, all the time, and it weighs on me so heavily that all my artistic and emotional output goes into it. The people I love are being failed by a neglectful society. I want to imagine that the world can improve, but I am impatient. It seems like all the change that happens is so gradual, miniscule.

Part of recovering from instability is the fact that safety feels temporary. I will do my best to take advantage of the time I have to keep getting better. Thank you all so much for providing me with this opportunity to keep living and writing about it.