A Fleeting Kind Of Madness
This week — October 7–13 — marks Mental Illness Awareness Week.
For me, it marks 18 years of elusive but persistent depression. And anxiety.
Throughout my life, since I was about 17, it has crept into my mind’s field of vision like black ink or a very feral, frightened dog — wet, miserable, howling, its eyes red and leaking.
I can always see it coming. My sadness — whether it drifts into my throat like Indigo dye or a lonely wolf — is kind enough to flash its teeth and signal its arrival before it descends upon me, giving me a few days to brace myself for days of terrible, terrible thoughts.
Every time I tell strangers or new friends — I’ve wrestled with depression since I was a teenager — they scoff a little, unbelieving. I’m loud, sunny, brimming with stories; I’m a giantly friendly extrovert with a huge capacity for joy.
I do not seem capable of such sadness.
I suppose the way I’ve always framed it to myself is that this is the price I pay for the joy I experience. If I believe in anything it is, perhaps, in balance, so why should my heart get to soar and not also be torn asunder?
No one is that lucky, are they?
Last night I tasted my fleeting madness as it settled on my tongue and start to brim behind my eyes; my new boyfriend was upset and a little frightened, which only made me sob harder because I feel so goddamn ugly and lost and irrational when my cries start to barrel through my chest.
This is all to say — maybe you know what I’m talking about? Maybe your brain is a bit of an enemy too or maybe someone you love suffers at the hand of their own wiring.
I have a village of humans who I feel safe enough to explode in front of — they hold my hands and make me dinner and go on runs and play me music and love me very very hard — until I can scoop my guts up back inside my body and get on with it.
I hope you have someone you trust like that — I hope you have 50. Or I hope you’re the person who is helping to scoop. And I thank you because I know all that blood is hot and heavy to maneuver.
Thank you for being part of my village.
With love + rage,
Co-founder | Creative Director
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The fear men have to speak the truth about power in this country, who has it and how they got it, ultimately bolstered Kavanaugh’s “twilight zone” case for the Supreme Court. He knew it and Trump knew it.
Misogyny is at the very least as American as beer and baseball.
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Is that the type of man you want to be?”
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- Keep your business within the stall under two and a half minutes. Any longer and the Cisgendered person becomes suspicious. If you still need to go, use a different bathroom.
- Be as quiet or still as possible. They can’t see movement.
- Use as little toilet paper as possible.They don’t want their taxpayer money going to a Transgirl’s ass.
WERE YOU ONCE A MEMBER OF THE ESTABLISHMENT (THROUGH MEDIUM)?!
THAT PROGRAM ENDED. (EXPLODED!!!)
BUT. WE HAVE A NEW WONDERFUL WAY TO BECOME A MEMBER.
We love you and need your support.
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