just another genderqueer femme with a cane

I got a cane today! I’m pretty excited about it because it’s already making walking a whole lot easier for me. My chronic pain condition has been progressing, and I knew this was inevitable, but I kept putting off buying a cane for all kinds of reasons. Despite having days where I literally cannot walk, I still thought maybe it’d fade and I’d go back to regular old wrist pain, instead of this spine-neck-hips-knees-tailbone mess, thought I’d just keep taking my painkillers and blot it out. But last night, coming home from the Heels on Wheels Glitter Roadshow Toronto tour stop, I had to use my umbrella as a cane, and I’m not sure how I would’ve gotten home without it. It was extremely difficult to walk from the nearest bus stop to my front door, and I kinda wished I had a friend with a wagon to pull me home. As I walked along the edge of Trinity Bellwoods, a racoon walked alongside me, and another racoon greeted me at my door. They’re good luck for broke fuck-ups, right? (They are to me.)

I’ve been hiding my limps from my friends, and nobody but my sweetheart has seen my crooked hobble-crawl I use at home, or all the dirty dishes stacked up in my sink because I can’t stand pain-free, or at least pain-lower, long enough to do the dishes. One of the reasons I don’t go to shows anymore is because I can’t stand or dance, and seats are often not provided. Chronic pain affects every moment of my life, every decision, every mood. Sometimes my legs give out beneath me. Sometimes I can’t afford transit and I can’t walk so I stay home. As I write this, my spine has tingling needles & pins, and a soreness beats through the right side of my tailbone, hip, knee, and shin.

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I also worried (and still worry) about how folks on the street’ll treat me, or at events, or whatever. I’ve identified as disabled for a few years, and I’ve written extensively about my mental illnesses and chronic pain. And I still feel like I’m annoying buzzkill when I make accessibility requests. In fact, I’ve tabled at zinefests where I made an accessibility request due to my chronic pain condition, and arrived just to find that my requests hadn’t been fulfilled after all. I don’t go to those zinefests anymore.

Now that I use a cane, and sometimes use knee braces and wrist braces as well, I’ll be among the visibly disabled, and that’ll be a new experience for me. I’ve often felt like conversations about invisible illnesses have shuffled conversations about visible disabilities under the rug. Sometimes it feels like one group is given “visibility” over another. I want both of these conversations to continue, and I’m grateful to be a part of them. (Grateful for pain and illnesses? Yep!) It took me a long time to decide to identify as disabled, but now I do.

As my condition worsens, I’m becoming aware that some of the spaces that are physically accessible to me today aren’t going to be in the future. I’ve been mentally preparing for this, but haven’t talked to anybody about it much because I thought somehow I could sneak away from that part. But I can’t. It’s already happening.

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I want my cane to be my magical wand that grants me the ability to walk when I want to. I hope it’ll feel good by my side. My cane is foldable, so I can carry it in my backpack, and of course I’ve already got Hello Kitty and Lisa Frank stickers on it. I created a ritual to welcome my cane into my life, and to welcome myself into this part of my life.

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Caningly Yours,
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P.S.: If you’ve benefited from my writing in any way – if my words have inspired you, helped you feel less alone, or sparked some weird feeling within you; if you’ve felt encouraged, or curious, or comforted – please consider compensating me by offering a donation of any amount. Whether you’ve been reading my writing for years, or just stumbled into me this afternoon, I invite you to help me sustain the process!

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Things I’ve Tried to Stay Alive

content warning: self-injury, suicide, overdoses, sexual assault

I’ve made myself extremely vulnerable over the years with the details & stories I’ve shared in my zines & on my blog. I feel like I’ve over-shared to an immense degree, but it felt crucial at the time; it’s kept me alive thus far, and it’s inspired friends & strangers to share their own stories, to practice vulnerability and embrace their own weirdnesses, and perhaps it’s inspired conversations, changes, actions, etc. But lately, it feels so dangerous. I’m not sure if all this over-sharing is helpful for me anymore, or harmful. All the encouragement & kind words from strangers have been amazing, but I’ve also been dealing with a lot of stuff that feels like it’s destroying my psyche.

When I started my blog, it was meant simply to encourage us to be weird, to share; it was just a simple act of encouragement. One of my favourite things to do is encourage others. That’s what I wanted. When I started this blog, I was living in a different city, I had different ideas & experiences than I have now, and fuck, I was living as a different gender. This blog actually brings me a lot of negativity, though; the comments are moderated because people write mean shit in them, and I don’t want them to be public, I don’t want them to harm anyone else. But they hurt me. I remember each and every one of them. I remember the people who told me I’m not allowed to be a feminist, the people who told me that I have contributed absolutely nothing tangible or intangible to the world, and folks who have told me that it’s not okay to ask for the help & support that I need; I know those words are untrue, but they stay with me.

I’ve been chronically depressed and chronically suicidal since I was 8. I started self-injuring when I was in Grade Four, and it hasn’t stopped. Writing about all of this publicly has been necessary, but it also means I’ve opened myself up to the opinions of folks with such a dangerous lack of compassion, such a lack of positivity, that I don’t want to do it anymore. I don’t know what my future writing is gonna look like, or how I’m gonna share it. I’ll find a way; writing is the only thing keeping me alive. I’m about to share a whole bunch of personal shit below, and then I’m gonna stop. I’m sharing it because I feel like I need to, and I’m sharing it in the hopes that maybe some of the more kinder, delicate, crazy people who’re reading my blog might have more ideas. I don’t want to to kill myself; I want such intense changes in my life that I do not know how to begin. But I can’t avoid it anymore.

Thanks for reading.

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My diary, with pressed flowers, August 2013

Things I’ve Tried to Stay Alive

– 15 different psych meds (ages 11-28, excluding ages 14-18) (including single-meds and multiple cocktail-meds)
– longer-term (2 months) & short-term (1-3 weeks) inpatient hospitalizations
– no meds, several times (cold turkey)
– alcohol (currently approx. 1,000 days sober)
– various therapies (CBT, DBT, group, individual, short-term, longer-term)
– psychiatry
– seeing a neurologist (who ended up sexually assaulting me)
– massage, reiki, physical/naturopathy treatments
– self-help books
– art & creativity books
– mental health workbooks
– on & off various birth controls (Alesse pills & Depo-Provera shots)
– on & off pain meds (Tylenol 3)
– anxiety meds as needed (Xanax)
– sleeping meds as needed (Zopiclone, Trazodone)
– multiple overdoses (Trazodone, Lithium, Seroquel)
– pot
– tea
– coffee
– walking, spending time outdoors
– learning about plants & herbs
– various vitamins & supplements (B12, D, valerian, Devil’s Claw)
– Rescue Remedy
– writing: zines, diaries, letters, fiction, blogs
– self-injury (cutting, mostly my arms & legs, sometimes my stomach, once my face)
– changes in appearance (shaved head, unshaved body, tattoos, femme, tomboy, goth, etc…)
– multiple emergency rooms
– crisis lines, crisis counselling
– weird, possibly traumatic therapies in my childhood
– too much time online & also quitting the internet (deleting accounts, discontinuing internet access, etc.)
– mindfulness
– meditation
– writing workshops
– radical / disability / self-care / etc. workshops
– stretching & exercising
– bike-riding
– painting
– starting mental illness discussion groups
– practicing vulnerability
– femme as self-care & magic
– changing my gender
– traveling, touring, reading my zines out loud, tabling at zinefests
– speaking on panels
– (self-)publishing two books
– making crafts (knitting, sewing, screenprinting, making bike streamers…)
– crafternoons
– fucking everybody & fucking nobody (being a slut & being celibate)
– being vegetarian, then being vegan, now eating everything ever
– living alone, living with roommates, living with partners
– moving a lot (31 places in 28 years, including detention centres, group homes, & psych wards)
– living with 2 cats, and living with no cats
– witchcraft, reading Tarot cards, prayer, etc.
– volunteering, working, being on disability
– organizing
– online dating
– Y membership (yoga, water aerobics)
– mad pride
– Alcoholics Anonymous, Narcotics Anonymous

Things I Haven’t Tried (Yet)

– murder
– acupuncture
– traveling further away, traveling within Canada
– long-term therapy (preferably queer-friendly, trans-competent)
– staying in one Home for an extended period

Things I’m Currently Trying

At the moment, I’m in short-term therapy at Planned Parenthood. I’ve been given five free sessions. I have three sessions left. It is scary on so many levels. Mostly it hasn’t been helpful at all, but it has been radically better than every other mental health care treatment I’ve had access to thus far. I’m hoping they’ll be able to put me on a waitlist for long-term therapy. I’m taking a bunch of meds, a bunch of vitamins, I’m creating a new daily life in my new home, I’m attempting some really difficult changes. I feel so fucking desperate, angry, sad, hopeful, violent, scared. I feel completely unable to take care of myself, but I’m trying anyway. I want to be quiet, I want to take up less space in certain circles, I want to be by myself, I want…

Know Hope,
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P.S.: If you’ve benefited from my writing in any way – if my words have inspired you, helped you feel less alone, or sparked some weird feeling within you; if you’ve felt encouraged, or curious, or comforted – please consider compensating me by offering a donation of any amount. Whether you’ve been reading my writing for years, or just stumbled into me this afternoon, I invite you to help me sustain the process!

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Introvert Studio, know home

(content warning: self-injury, suicidal ideation, all the stuff i write about always)

Hello, hello, I went on tour and then I came back to Toronto and I had a mental health suicidal-feelings crisis, narrowly escaped the psych ward, and moved into a bachelorex (my genderqueer word for bachelor/ette) apartment that I’ve named Introvert Studio and now I am mostly being slow, quiet, self-reflective, casting spells & setting new-year-new-home intentions, and recovering from burnout and an almost nervous breakdown. I’d like to catch up for a bit, and then go back and hide in my little cozy corner again.

I’ve been telling folks that I write about “the illusion of community.” I have a hard time trusting that community can be real. I still wanna keep on trying to create my own little weirdo artist introvert community, but I’ve had a really hard time, especially over the last few months, with just feeling really exhausted with organizing, and punx, and feminists, and everybody, and I’ve been trying to figure out what/ where/ who my community is, trying to create a personal definition of what “community” is to me. There are a few communities in which I can participate but don’t actually feel like I belong: queer community, zine community, etc… But I don’t know if I want to, or to what extent I want to.

When I went back to my hometown after tour, the contrast hit me really hard and I broke down. In my doctor’s office, I burst into tears, told him that doctors & landlords have too much control in my life, I want to kill myself, blah blah. In my diary, I wrote, If I hate doctors and landlords and cops so much, but I also hate punks and anarchists and feminists, so much, what’s left? I started writing a list (of course) of which “communities” I could be a part of, & what made me not want to. On tour, I whined about all the mean shit riot grrrls have said to/about me, and felt better when folks came up to me after the reading to be, like, Yeah, I used to think they were cool, but now they just seem gross, and so on. I talked about nostalgia as violence. I talked about the feminists who called me misogynist and “denying-my-womanhood” and told me I wasn’t allowed to be a feminist anymore, and how I’m still bitter and angry about it, and how I lost A LOT of friends when I came out as genderqueer, and how tiring & disappointing it is. I didn’t know if I wanted to keep writing or quit everything.

I asked myself if I could consider myself part of a “Writer/Literary” community, but decided, no, because lotsa those folks lack the class analyses & gender analyses that I need in my daily life, and lotsa capital W-Writers have a big hate-on for self-publishing. I decided that Punk / Anarchist / Organizing / Activist communities are sooo extremely unwelcoming & inaccessible to folks with mental illnesses, and have been thinking a lot about how they are structured to prevent folks with mental illnesses from being able to participate.

I got really symptomatic over the last few months and felt unable to talk about it or do anything about it. I wanted to die. I felt like there was a ton of visibility for zines about “self-care” and “vulnerability” and “mental health,” & that’s nice, but when I am actually experiencing the symptoms of my mental illnesses (paranoia, especially, but other things, too, like all the destructive & self-destructive things), it wasn’t cool to talk about it, and when I actually tried to take care of myself and set boundaries, nobody actually wanted to give me time to take care of myself or respect my boundaries at all, and it was so very overwhelming. Every time I got a message on Etsy that a zine was taking longer time than expected to arrive via snail mail, I wanted to set all my zines on fire and just quit it all forever.

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Fun-A-Day 2014. The Daily Doily. Ten of Keys via The Collective Tarot.

Being on tour mostly made me feel really good, and I was very very very lucky to be with these new friends of mine who I really like and feel comfortable talking to and like I don’t have to hide so many parts of myself from. But coming home was so hard, I got so burned out. I forgot about post-tour depression. One day, I hid myself in the bathroom with a razorblade and cut up my arm 213 times. When the cuts started to heal, I went back to the bathroom and cut myself 119 times. It never feels like enough. I keep staining my favourite clothes with self-injury blood. And it feels like it’s not okay to tell that to anybody when all the “mental health zines” I’m finding seem to just be about, like, growing herbs and things-in-jars in your kitchen, and Mindfulness, and stuff that doesn’t help me anymore.

I got out all my books about Borderline Personality Disorder and Recovering From Self-Injury, and all that stuff just seemed like such impossible bullshit, and they felt like they were written to shame me; they had lists of reasons not to cut yourself that contained things like, “You might make people around you feel bad,” and “You’ll have to wear long sleeves on the beach.” I want you to know that I don’t care if I make people around me feel bad anymore, and I feel safer when I’m with people who have visible scars. I wish my friends didn’t have to wear long sleeves everyday to avoid dealing with the daily bullshit we get when we have visible scars.

Things I’m Exhausted With: exhaustion, bullshit white cis feminism, folks who don’t understand that my mental illnesses & chronic pain are real disabilities that make me incapable of doing a lot of things that they (you) do, organizing, capitalism, anarchism, white cis people who think art should be free or trade-only, folks on Etsy who think I can go to the post office every damned day, passive-aggressive criticism that seeks harming individuals over valid criticism that seeks to create positive changes, acting nice when I don’t want to, folks who don’t respect my boundaries when I make them very clear, call-out culture, unheated apartments…

Things I’m Excited About: my new home, meaningful friendships & one-on-one friend dates, alone-time, writing, JazzFM all day everyday, artists who are alive & making things, continuing to make zines but in different ways &/or forms, my lavender pea-coat, nail polish in every shade of purple, art art art, tea, context, fun-a-day, silence, solitude, friends who know that not all silences are awkward, creating a forever-home, cozy punx, winter survival…

I’m recovering now, again, and finding ways to deal with the messes I just wrote about. I’m changing my priorities. I’m really happy to be in my new home, and grateful for the queer community connections that made it possible for me to find a really dreamy place that I can actually afford. I want to get a lot of this negative stuff out, to write out my frustrations with various subcultures & communities and all their double standards and un/spoken rules and inaccessibility, etc. I do feel more hopeful today than I’ve felt for a while. I’m working on various projects, but doing so in a way that I’m not exhausting myself like I did throughout 2012 & 2013. I want this year to be different. My Etsy shop, schoolformaps.etsy.com, is open again, and I did this rad interview you might wanna read. I told my pals that my plans for 2014 are to make no plans. I want: silence, solitude, care, & art.

My goal is to be still long enough to let my nail polish dry.

Introvertedly Yours,
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P.S.: If you’ve benefited from my writing in any way – if my words have inspired you, helped you feel less alone, or sparked some weird feeling within you; if you’ve felt encouraged, or curious, or comforted – please consider compensating me by offering a donation of any amount. Whether you’ve been reading my writing for years, or just stumbled into me this afternoon, I invite you to help me sustain the process!

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How to Support the Writer & Artist In Your Life

{An extended version of this piece is available as a zine!}

1. Respect Our Time. Writers and artists work hard, but unless you’re a writer or artist yourself, this may be difficult, or even impossible, to see. Some writers or artists will tell you that a Higher Power or Great Creator works through them; others will tell you that it is all hard labour; still others will tell you it’s a little bit of both. For me, it’s a messy combination of hard work, self-discipline, and desire, with inspiration, anger, and caffeine. Only a very few, if anyone at all, has witnessed my writing process from scratch to completion. Without being a writer or artist yourself, you can’t understand the hours, moods, or frustrations that go into writing the smallest things, like a blog entry, to the bigger things, like a novel. Writers and artists are used to being interrupted with requests to do the laundry, cook dinner, tidy the apartment, talk about nothing, etc. Don’t do this! The slightest intrusion in our thought process, a hand on our shoulder when we didn’t know you were standing behind us, can distract us from the story we’re trying to tell and scare off our words like a swarm of chickadees being chased off by the neighbourhood cat. We don’t call you when you’re at work. We don’t come into your office or your storefront and remind you to take out the garbage and respond to your emails. So, respect our time; sometimes you just need to leave us alone!

2. Pay Us For Our Work. Most workers get paid for their labour; we frequently do not. We accept writing and art-making as our full-time/overtime job with little to no pay, no benefits, no vacations, no holidays. Many of us work psychically destructive jobs to pay the bills and we make time outside of those jobs for art; others of us, myself included, are on social assistance, and struggle to pay the rent and get some food; we’re lucky indeed when we’re able to buy books, zines, and other arts from our friends and community members, and we do it whenever we can. Money is complicated; we struggle to make our art available at a price that is both fair and worthwhile to us as creative creatures, and fair and accessible to you, our oft-broke friends, acquaintances, and lovers of words. Many writers and other artists whose works are online, including myself, have a donation button on our websites – if you’v got the cash and you’re feeling generous, donate! I like to think of it as online-busking; here I am, sharing my words, hoping for some spare change as you pass by. When you pay us for our words, we write more! When you pay us for our illustrations, we draw more! Spend your money with intention and care; make your art with intention and care. I have a mantra: Will Trade For $$$.

3. Introduce Us to Other Writers and Artists in Your Life. Writing and art-making can be unspeakably lonely! (And unspeakably lovely – I frequently typo the two.) Our communities of writers and artists are splintered and fragmented, not only because of geographical distances, but also because cliques and social power/capital (& lack thereof) exist, mental illnesses exist, shyness exists, and poverty exists; insomnia and fatigue and fear and illnesses exist, inaccessible spaces exist; these experiences and more affect the way we relate and interact with other writers and artists, within our own cities and without. We do indeed need to spend plenty of time alone, but we need to spend time with other writers and artists, too! We need to talk, plan, daydream, organize, collaborate, and encourage. So, set us up. Exchange names, emails, snail mail addresses, ideas. Bring us to events. Invite us into your homes. Tell your friends about us. Have a Quiet Party. Help us build and sustain our oft-disconnected communities.

4. Share, Stock, and Review Our Work. Many of us spend the greater portion of our days in quiet, lonely corners, working away without any kind of immediate feedback or encouragement. It can feel like we’re writing and art-making within a vacuum. It can feel like nobody cares. And for those of us who are self-publishing or working with extremely DIY endeavours, we need lots of support; not just kind words and respect, but tangible support. Not only do we need you to pay for our work, we need you to share it as well. How can you do this? There are so many ways! You can post links to our blogs, Etsy shops, and Facebook fanpages; tweet with us or about us on Twitter; write reviews on your blogs, GoodReads, and Amazon; request our books at your local library; donate our zines to zine libraries or buy them for zine libraries; contact us for interviews; tell your local indie bookstores about us; if you work at a library or bookstore or have connections with them, get our work in stock and promote the hell out of it! And remember to always credit us when you share our work!

5. Organize! Book Events For Us. Attempting to find accessible spaces and contacts to book events can be a frustrating process, and interrupts the time usually devoted to writing and art-making; also, many of us weirdo artists are simply not good at what is commonly referred to as “networking”. Thus, we need help. When you help us organize events, you provide much-needed support in the form of time, energy, and talking-to-people; the events you organize for us create an important gathering spot for writers, artists, and our friends and community members, they help us “make a name” for ourselves, and they help generate an income and new supporters of our work. Organizing events is crucial! It’s a bothersome task, for sure, and sometimes discouraging, but it can also create genuine magic. If you can’t organize an event, but you can give us a couch to sleep on when we’re in your town, fill up our thermoses with coffee, or give us a ride to the bus station or airport, please do so!

6. Respect Our Boundaries. This is similar to respecting our time, but needs its own note because I cannot emphasize it enough. Much talk within the zine & art communities I participate in has been given to setting and respecting boundaries, but when you get right down to it, a lot of us are good at discussing & intellectualizing & philosophizing about boundaries, and not so good at actually creating and respecting them. Sometimes it feels like no matter how many times I clearly state my boundaries, my pals wanna break them; they expect more than I can give. An example of one of my boundaries is this: When you email me, a) don’t expect me to respond right away unless it’s an emergency, and b) don’t message me on any other social networking sites to tell me that you emailed me. Message received. Be patient. Another one of my boundaries is this: If you accidentally misgender me, apologize once and then shut up about it. I don’t care if you feel awkward or sad about it; I feel worse. I don’t talk to cis people about gender unless I’m being paid for it. Go talk it out with somebody else if you’re still having feelings.

7. Take Us Out or Cook Us A Meal. Sometimes I get lost in my writing and it’s not until I allow myself to pause and think that I realize I’m really hungry and I have to pee. It’s easy to forget about these mundane body things when we’re working; it’s equally easy to remember and just not take care of ourselves because we think our art is more important, and we must be at least a tiny bit self-destructive to keep making good art, right? We could discuss that question forever, but what I really want to say is – I like burritos and pizza, so feel free to take me out! If you have a roommate who’s an artist, or you live with your sweetheart who’s an artist, cook them a meal! Make lots so we can heat up leftovers! Make yummy things like kale and quinoa and fish that’ll be good for our bodies and brains! Pour us a tall glass of water to remind us we can’t live off coffee alone! The recovering alcoholic writer/artist in your life also appreciates a fancy root beer!

8. Tell Us You Love Us. Many of us writers and artists are miserable creatures; we are self-absorbed and self-hating, we feel dissatisfied with everything, and we are constantly asking ourselves, “Why bother?” Last week, I wrote about 10,000 words of my next novel and contacted spaces in California in which to do zine readings and workshops, three days ago I proposed a new collaborative workshop project with a dear friend, yesterday I thought about giving up writing altogether and swallowing all my psych meds, and today I’ve written 2,000 words and begun planning a Winter Survival Freaky Queerdo zine reading tour; “ups & downs” is too small a phrase to communicate how my artistic messed up brain works. The truth is, we need constant reminders that we are loved and appreciated, that our art and our selves are valued and cared for. It can be hard to say, “I love you,” especially to friends, but try it! Write it on a postcard, sign it on an email. Practice saying it out loud, perhaps while you are sharing a hug or talking on the phone if eye contact makes you feel uncomfortable. Practice accepting love and feeling loved, too.

9. Ask Us How You Can Help. Asking for help is hard. Many of us simply won’t do it. Try asking the writer or artist in your life what kind of help we need. Maybe we need a bunch of bananas and yogurt but can’t make it out to the grocery store today; maybe we need you to read a draft of the zine we’re working on and tell us if there are any typos. Make your support visible and tangible (at the same time, be sure to make your own boundaries clear – you don’t want us to rely on you for everything!).

Tip for Writers & Artists

Define “support.” Nobody can offer you support if they don’t know what that means! When you’re feeling unsupported, as many of us often do, try to write a list of what you need. Try to tell your friends what you need. Maybe you want someone to email you and check-in with you to make sure you’re still working on your project and feeling good about it (or maybe you want the opposite); maybe you need a coffee date with a friend as an excuse to get out of the house and generate new inspirations; maybe you need your friends to show up at your events instead of just telling you it’s a good idea and then staying home the day of. What does “support” mean to you? Write it down and share it.

None of us can survive without writing and art, so treat us well, support us, and pay us for our work!

If you have any other tips, please share them in the comments!

Supportingly Yours,
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P.S.: I have new zines! Telegram #’s 30 & 31 are now available at schoolformaps.etsy.com. Issue 30 is about making stories tangible, finding reasons to live and not join The 27 Club, and my stuff being stolen when I was in Seattle. Issue 31 is about broke-femme identity, self-care & magic & ritual, chronic pain, glam rock, and winter survival.

P.P.S.: I’m going on tour! Two tours, actually.

In mid-December, me & a few pals are doing a Winter Survival Freaky Queerdo Tour; we’ll be reading zines, singing songs, and having discussions throughout Ontario and Québec. We’re gonna do an event-a-day in Toronto, Hamilton, Kitchener-Waterloo, Kingston, Ottawa, Montréal, and Peterborough. Stay tuned for details and/or contact me at schoolformaps@gmail.com if you wanna book us for a house show.

In February, I’ll be touring California! I’ll be reading in San Francisco on February 13th and tabling at LA Zinefest on February 16th. I’d really like to spend more time in San Francisco, as well as do readings and/or host workshops in the Bay Area (between February 10th-14th before I head to Los Angeles) so, again, if you wanna book me for a zine reading at your house or in your event space, please contact me at schoolformaps@gmail.com.

P.P.P.S.: If you’ve benefited from my writing in any way – if my words have inspired you, helped you feel less alone, or sparked some weird feeling within you; if you’ve felt encouraged, or curious, or comforted – please consider compensating me by offering a donation of any amount. Whether you’ve been reading my writing for years, or just stumbled into me this afternoon, I invite you to help me sustain the process!

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Writing = Working / A Discussion of Support & $upport

Okay, let’s talk about MONEY! It’s awkward, I know. But I’ve got a lot of feelings about art, work, and money, so here we go…

I need support to keep on writing: Many different kinds of support, and that does indeed include the financial kind. I recently added a donation button to the right sidebar of my blog, with a note:

♥ WRITING = WORKING ♥

WRITING is ART & ART is WORK. I spend all day every day writing, and it keeps me alive but it doesn’t pay the bills. Please consider supporting my work not only by reading, commenting, & sharing, but by contributing a little bit of money as well. As always, I am immensely grateful & appreciative of your support!

$upportMarandaElizabethbyBriannaDearest
$upport by Brianna Dearest

I believe artists should be paid for their work, and that we’d be capable of making MORE and BETTER art if we were reasonably financially compensated. I don’t like feeling obligated to give away my words & energy & time for free, and I don’t like being expected to do so when I’m just barely scraping by on my disability cheques. I think it’s okay to want things – coffee, books, trinkets, art, yummy food, etc. – and that we shouldn’t be shamed for wanting/needing things, or for wanting/needing the money to acquire these things. My writing doesn’t provide a predictable, steady income, but it does indeed give me just a little bit to keep on going.

Life as a disabled writer without a formal education can be really difficult, pals! I’ve had a lot of bad luck this year, which has gotten me much deeper in debt than I could’ve predicted – but I’ve also had a lot of truly amazing experiences, and begun new creative projects, new chapters of my life, if I may use that terrible cliché. Chronic pain and major depression have been getting me down, but I’ve been continuing to write anyway because there’s absolutely nothing else that I want to do. I’m feeling ridiculously inspired, and hardly have the time to work on all my ideas, but I’m figuring it out. Unfortunately, it’s often a lack of money holding me back. Monthly disability cheques keep me way the fuck below the poverty line, and I can’t dig myself out.

I spend my money with intention. I buy food that makes me feel good, and books that inspire and encourage me by folks who I believe deserve my money; I buy art directly from artists when I can, to make sure they make as much as they can. I contribute money, even in the tiniest amounts (I recently gave $3 to a fundraising campaign for a book because I really wanted to donate but that was all I had) to crowdfunding campaigns, I buy lotsa zines at zinefests and through Etsy and snail mail, I write a lot of letters, and I try to share my visibility with other writers & artists who need it.

Friends and strangers have been so generous! I’ve spent much of my life, more than a decade, involved in various zine communities. It’s kept me alive, for real, but it’s also filled me with guilt about my need for cash – I’ve been surrounded by a lot of zinesters who tell me the ‘Art Should Be Free’ speech (as I’ve written about in previous blog entries). Cool story, yeah, but lots of us cannot afford to give our art away for free. I can’t! Not often, anyway. And now that I find myself involved in other literary & artistic communities, I find it more and more problematic to expect things for free. I think it’s way better to offer support in the form of cash whenever possible. I don’t think you owe me anything, no, not at all, but here we are stuck in a capitalist society where, despite the value of our art and our politics, despite the ways we are indeed working hard to change the world, we need to eat, pay bills, send mail, and take care of ourselves.

Money is not inherently bad! We can spend it with intention, and save it with intention. We can support one another with cash when hugs and letters and kind thoughts aren’t enough.

Supportingly Yours,
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P.S.: If you’ve benefited from my writing in any way – if my words have inspired you, helped you feel less alone, or sparked some weird feeling within you; if you’ve felt encouraged, or curious, or comforted – please consider compensating me by offering a donation of any amount. Whether you’ve been reading my writing for years, or just stumbled into me this afternoon, I invite you to help me sustain the process!

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No Space Will Ever Be 100% Safe or Accessible, But…

Lately, I’ve been attempting to write definitions for words like “radical,” “mental health,” “accessible,” and “safer.” Definitions for me – all of our ideas on each of these words will vary greatly. I’ve also, as you may have heard/read me mention, been thinking a lot about the value of awkward conversations. I tend to avoid conflict, but I’m learning a lot about criticism and feedback, and opening myself up to plenty as I work with a small collective to organize the Toronto Queer Zine Fair.

When the three of us first gathered to talk about our ideas for the zine fair, we spoke mainly about which voices we wanted to prioritize, and what accessibility requirements we’d be able to provide. I’ve been tabling at zinefests (not to mention attending shows, small press fairs, readings, launches, etc.) for a decade and haven’t found many that prioritize various forms of accessibility – I’m also aware that what makes a space accessible to one person may make it inaccessible to another. For example, I wanted the zine fair, including the reading the night before, and the after-party, to be sober events, because I’m a recovering alcoholic and have difficulty being around people who are drinking; however, I also wanted folks who drink for whatever reasons, but particularly those who require alcohol or other mood-altering substances to treat their social anxiety and mental health conditions, to be able to do so. Through awkward conversations, we now feel confident that we’re able to make that happen.

When I organize an event (which is rare – I’m a loner, homebody, introvert, hermit, blah blah, but I really wanted to make this zine fair happen), my goal is to create a space that is accessible physically, financially, and emotionally.

What does that mean?

When organizing in a public space, I think it’s necessary to provide a space that is accessible to people with chronic pain and people who use mobility aids; it’s necessary to provide a gender-neutral bathroom so trans & non-binary folks can feel as safe as possible; and it’s necessary to make it clear that oppressive language & behaviours will not be tolerated (it’s also important to define what “oppressive language & behaviours” means; see below). The space also needs to be scent-free and cigarette smoke-free, for those of us with Multiple Chemical Sensitivity.

Oppressive language is anything racist, ableist, anti-crazy, transphobic, queerphobic, classist, cis-normative, sexist, etc., including instances of misgendering. Examples of oppressive behaviours include, but are not limited to, touching people without their consent (hugging, tapping on the shoulder, approaching and touching from behind…), and taking pictures of people or their stuff without their consent.

A space that is accessible financially means that any event I organize will either be Pay-What-You Can with no one turned down due to lack of funds, or, in the case of a fee for a workshop (which I am also in the midst of organizing, stay tuned!), there will be a set standard price (because I’m on disability and my own art needs to support me, too) with lower fees available for folks on disability or social assistance. It means the materials provided therein will be at a price that is fair both to the creator and the supporter.

We’ll all have different ideas about what makes a space safer emotionally. Personally, there is no space in the world, not even my own home, that I consider 100% safe emotionally. I do, however, believe it’s something we can all try our damndest to create. My idea of an emotionally safe space is, beyond being accessible both physically & financially as detailed above, a space that must be free of all forms of oppressive language & behaviours, and if these things occur, we need to be able to discuss them without defensiveness or whininess (either in the moment or further down the road – there are many different and valuable approaches to these conversations). We need to admit that this can awkward and uncomfortable and deal with it anyway. It also means we must understand deep down that we don’t know anybody’s experiences or histories but our own, and to not make judgements. Understand that we all have individual and collective intersecting privileges & oppressions; you don’t know what the person you just walked by is dealing with right now, so don’t be a jerk. Because I have multiple invisible illnesses, both mental & physical, I’ve become aware that this is the case with many, many people, and I’ve learned to approach new people and new situations with this in mind.

I’m never, ever going to be able to organize an event that is 100% safe & accessible – there’s no such thing. But I’ll keep on keepin’ on, and I hope you will, too.

Accessibly Yours,
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P.S.: What does a safer, more accessible space look like to you?

P.P.S.: If you’ve benefited from my writing in any way – if my words have inspired you, helped you feel less alone, or sparked some weird feeling within you; if you’ve felt encouraged, or curious, or comforted – please consider compensating me by offering a donation of any amount. Whether you’ve been reading my writing for years, or just stumbled into me this afternoon, I invite you to help me sustain the process!

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BookCampTO: Part Two: Criticism Can Be Responsive, Creative, & Encouraging

Part One: I Was Gonna Write About Writing But Instead I Wrote About Privilege.

The Critical Culture workshop appeared in my life just when I needed it. When I write (and when I write about writing), I’m not sure which community I am a part of anymore: Zines? Self-Publishing? YA? CanLit? Literary? Queer? All of the above? None of the above? Each of these communities have different readers/writers, ideas, gatekeepers, etc. In the zine community my identity seems to have changed now that I have books, and in the literary community, I feel like an impostor for continuing to make zines, for not having an MFA, for choosing to self-publish. And I feel like I’m falling behind when I can’t read all the books I want to read or all the zines I want to read, can’t write all the things I want to write.

Anyway, I’d been considering writing book reviews lately, but procrastinating because I didn’t know where to start. Also, I’ve read a lot of boring book reviews and I was worried that mine would be just as bad. The thing is, I like critique and I like personal stories. I don’t wanna read/write a review that sounds like cheerleading, nor do I wanna read/write a review that’s just plain mean. After making zines for over a decade, I have very little review experience – a lot of folks involved in zine communities are of the If-You-Don’t-Have-Anything-Nice-to-Say variety, while others will offer a kind critique if asked. Feelings play a major role in this unspoken rule, and that’s okay – not every zine is written with a reviewer in mind, and not every zine is written by someone who wants to be a Good Writer; just someone with a story to tell. That’s kinda the point. But now that I’m getting involved with novel-writing and self-publishing semi-professionally (“professionally” because it’s my career / “semi” because it’s the disability cheque that pays my rent), I’ve entered another community, and that one seems to be a little more comfortable with critique.

Among the many things to be learned by the folks hosting the workshop, I wanted to know if they were writing/drawing/musicianing/etc. before they were reviewing such things, or if they simply began writing reviews. I also wanted to know if they felt like they had their own distinct voice/style/whatever in their reviews, whether or not that same voice appeared in all their writing/art-making, and how they decided criticism was for them. Because I worry about my own feelings getting hurt when I read critical reviews of my writing, I wanted to know if they worried about that, too, from the other side. Chances are, if you’re reviewing a piece of art, it may have been created by a sensitive weirdo, and yeah, they might feel bad. I know that I might, but I also know that I want to learn and to improve my writing.

As I look over the notes I took that day, I see this: “How many times does the word I appear in your review?”

In the reviews I’ve been writing in my head (and nowhere else, yet), just like in all my other writing, the word I does indeed make many appearances. I don’t think it’s a bad thing, nor do I think it’s indicative of self-absorption or self-importance (nor do I think those things are necessarily bad). When I write a review, I don’t just wanna discuss the writing, I wanna discuss my personal experience of reading the piece. You know how sometimes you listen to a record and it reminds you of being thirteen or eighteen or whatever? Well, books bring back those weird memories for me, too. I keep a list of all the books I’ve read, and when I look at that list, memories come back. I think an experience of a piece of art is just as valid as the art itself, and I’d want the person reading the review to have an understanding of the context within which I wrote it.

I learned that criticism can be responsive, creative, and encouraging. And I learned that we are capable of creating a healthy discourse and healthy critical culture; I feel committed to using the visibility that I’ve been lucky and privileged to have to share art that I feel deserves more attention. As I like to say, “Solidarity With Critique.”

Critically Yours,
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P.S.: You can review my books on GoodReads, and soon enough, I’ll be writing a few reviews as well!

P.P.S.: If you’ve benefited from my writing in any way – if my words have inspired you, helped you feel less alone, or sparked some weird feeling within you; if you’ve felt encouraged, or curious, or comforted – please consider compensating me by offering a donation of any amount. Whether you’ve been reading my writing for years, or just stumbled into me this afternoon, I invite you to help me sustain the process!

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BookCampTO: Part One: I Was Gonna Write About Writing But Instead I Wrote About Privilege

Around the end of August, I went to BookCampTO, my first time at the annual unconference. They were celebrating their 5th year with a theme of “Alive! Surviving & Thriving.” I was nervous about attending: Am I a real writer (more on that at a later date)? Will I feel welcome? Do I need an MFA for my voice to be valid? Will I be the only genderqueerdo present? How many times am I gonna get misgendered? Am I gonna get triggered? Is it gonna be a bunch of boring white cis dudes? The same feelz I have before just about every social event… Basically: Do I belong here?

It was a day of workshops, discussions, and free coffee (despite high levels of anxiety & rage, these are among my favourite kinds of days). I spent a lot of time thinking about the value of awkward conversations. The first workshop I attended, and the one I’ve heard discussed the most since, was Diversity in Publishing. Facilitated by Léonicka and Natalie Zed, we discussed things like whose stories are being prioritized in Canadian publishing (able-bodied white cis people, mostly dudes, obviously), and what a truly diverse spectrum of writers & stories might look like. We attempted to find concrete solutions to the lack of visibility and credit given to POC writers, trans* and non-binary writers, disabled writers, etc., on the shelves of bookstores and in our literary communities. My solution, as you know, is to keep on writing. And, of course, to be aware of certain privileges of mine, like white privilege and cis-passing privilege. We talked about how to become active and engaged writers and readers, and how to challenge ourselves – again, the most obvious being: Read Books By People Who Don’t Look Like You (on the flipside, if you’re part of a marginalized group and can’t find books by/about people you can relate to, the challenge now becomes, for me, at least, how to create that book). You know how books by white cis dudes are supposedly “universal” stories while books by people of colour, books by trans people, books by queer folks, or books by women, are considered too specific and niche? Fuck that.

There are lots of us doing the hard work of making Canadian self-publishing, literary, and art scenes more representative of marginalized folks, but it never feels like enough. How can we hold ourselves and our communities accountable? How can we challenge ourselves and encourage one another? How do we confront our privileges and express our oppressions? This is all complicated stuff that needs to go beyond our 45-minute workshop space, and become embedded in our daily lives.

Next up, I went to a workshop on Alternative Publishing. I didn’t expect to hear any new-to-me ideas, but was hoping to meet good people and have good conversations. Because the workshop was discussion-based, the conversation went down an unintended path, and ended up being more about money and sustainability than the creation of art, DIY practice, and self-expression. It’s worth noting that, to my knowledge, there were no white cis men in the Diversity in Publishing workshop (because they have the privilege of no personal investment in it?), but they sure as hell took up space in the Alternative Publishing workshop. The conversation wavered between dudes asking how to make money in self-publishing and small press stuff, and dudes whining that it’s not okay to make money in self-publishing because that totally wouldn’t be punk rock or whatever. This became my second (or third or fourth…) chance to be a Buzzkill. When I finally got the chance to speak, I was like, “Um, have y’all stopped to consider the fact that many, many artists, especially, say, disabled people, people of colour, and trans* & queer people are not always able to hold down a regular 9-5 job to pay the rent and fund their art on the side? The only people I ever hear giving me the ‘Art Should Be Free’ speech are able-bodied white cis people who either don’t know what it’s like to try to live off a disability cheque, to not be able to afford their art supplies (or their food), to have a life-altering mental illness, to not be welcome in spaces such as the one we are having this discussion in, or those living a punk rock lifestyle that values and romanticizes poverty above all, blah blah blah.”

I could only say this out loud because I’d taken anxiety meds upon arrival, and because I’d spent a week mentally preparing myself for exactly this kind of conversation. Also, I’ve more or less accepted the fact that, in the attempt to build my own community, I’m gonna burn a lot of bridges.

I was more interested in questions like, Why do I write? What/who am I looking for when I write? Why choose DIY instead of pandering to the gatekeepers of the literary world? One idea that came up that I really loved was accepting that you may have a small readership your entire career, and that you do not necessarily need to find more readers, or change your art to make it more palatable to the general public. It’s okay to start small and stay small.

I definitely felt like a total killjoy, crashing the party, feeling ill from all the 101 conversations and boring cis dudes, as always, but I’m glad I tried to talk about it instead of keeping it in and getting angry and walking away, as I so often do.

In Part Two, I’ll be writing about my experience with workshops on Young Adult Publishing and Critical Culture. In the meantime, here are a few other stories from folks who attended BookCampTO: Pushing Boundaries at BookCampTO, BookCampTO 2013 and the Extending Hallway, BookCamp, #DiverseCanLit, and the 25 Book Pledge, & All I Have is A Voice.

Part Two: Criticism Can Be Responsive, Creative, & Encouraging.

Bookcampingly Yours,
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P.S.: If you’ve benefited from my writing in any way – if my words have inspired you, helped you feel less alone, or sparked some weird feeling within you; if you’ve felt encouraged, or curious, or comforted – please consider compensating me by offering a donation of any amount. Whether you’ve been reading my writing for years, or just stumbled into me this afternoon, I invite you to help me sustain the process!

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The Tale of the Stolen Backpack

I’ve been spending my time between Seattle & Tacoma for the last month, and I’m flying home at the end of the weekend. A midnight flight – I’m unsure if I should sleep on the flight(s) & chug free coffee, or sleep. Sleep is probably best. I’ll be transferring once, and then taking the Megabus to Toronto from the Buffalo airport.

The worst thing happened. Not the worst thing, but a pretty terrible, complicated thing. Somebody stole my backpack from my friend’s porch. I’d left it there for about half an hour while I came inside to tidy up. When I went back out, my backpack was gone, but my copy of Volume II of Anaïs Nin’s diaries had been left behind. I tried to convince myself that I had brought my backpack in after all, and I searched the house for it, looking under all the zines & blankets & books & clothes. Nope. Gone.

The first thing I thought of was my diary. I’d brought an empty notebook with me (crossing the border with evidence of your weirdness isn’t the safest, so I travel with empty notebooks these days), and filled it up with stories, pressed flowers, hand-drawn maps, quick sketches of the fancy sodas I’d been drinking, etc. I’d also been carrying a deck of travel-size Tarot cards, a chunk of amethyst Neelybat gave me upon my arrival, a book by Pema Chödrön, a bunch of purple pencil crayons & Sharpies, a letter I was writing for my sweetheart, 20 postage stamps, two new sets of postcards, my address book, and, of course, my fucking psych meds. And my passport.

My $30 backpack with all these things tucked inside to keep me safe, is now gonna cost me about $1500-$2000, what with applying for a replacement passport, throwing out a non-refundable plane ticket, buying a new plane ticket & bus ticket, getting to my doctor when I get back home and getting new meds, and all the other bullshit that comes along with having your stuff taken away while you’re on the road. Apparently I can cross the border back into Canada without my passport since I have a bunch of ID’s, but I can only do it by ground, not air, thus, the useless plane ticket, and the new one and the Megabus.

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Click the pictures to embiggen them. 1. Multiple varieties of lavender growing in Seattle. 2. Marilyn Monroe graffiti. 3. Courtney Love live.

Maybe it’ll make a good story one day. But right now, I’m frustrated and broke and a little trapped. (I wrote this story about it on Craigslist, choosing to use incorrect pronouns for reasons of safety, though it’s mostly garnered offers of money for sex, and unintentionally condescending ‘everything will be okay’-type stuff from strangers.) Although I’d planned on taking a break from the whole blogging thing, from Etsy & social media & all the online stuff that actually makes me crazy, I’m returning for the time being in search of help & support.

Before my backpack was stolen, I made Little Acorns #7, my annual 24-hour zine thing. It’s written in the form of a letter to a friend, kind of a small document of my current depression which was partly triggered by changing friendships and the woes of being treated differently by folks after (self-)publishing my books. It’s about feeling constantly disappointed with friendships & with myself, my attempt to survive age 27, identifying as broke-femme, shitty things riot grrrls & feminists have said to me, recovery, art, magic, etc. So, that’s available in my Etsy shop, as well as newer and not-so-new issues of Telegram, my first novel, and my zine anthology.

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1. Mend My Dress Press mug. 2. Hello Kitty pink hot chocolate & violet candy. 3. The coffee capital of the world.

I’ve re-opened my shop in hopes of being able to pay for my plane ticket(s), new passport, etc., while dealing with the consequences of my Springtime illegal eviction, setting up a new home, and all kinds of unexpected messes (which a Tarot reading told me about way back in February, though I didn’t know just how bad it was gonna get). But also, if you don’t want my zines, or you already have them, or you just wanna help me out without waiting for stuff to arrive in the mail, whatever, there’s also a ‘donate’ button on the right sidebar. Thank you to everyone who has contributed so far, whether by buying my stuff or sending a donation. Always immensely appreciated!

Stolenly Yours,
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P.S.: If you’ve benefited from my writing in any way – if my words have inspired you, helped you feel less alone, or sparked some weird feeling within you; if you’ve felt encouraged, or curious, or comforted – please consider compensating me by offering a donation of any amount. Whether you’ve been reading my writing for years, or just stumbled into me this afternoon, I invite you to help me sustain the process!

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Dear Depression: Thank You

A letter for depression, the illness that tries to kill me and, strangely, gives me reasons to stay alive, too. Depression, thank you for helping me recognize when I need to step back and take care of myself, to temporarily disengage from the real or imagined thoughts of readers, lovers, family. I feel like “too much” and “not enough” at the same time. I feel like I write too much and not enough, love too much and not enough, sleep too much and not enough… Depression, you have really fucked with me over the last seventeen (or twenty-seven) years, but without you, I would not have the life I currently have, the material of all the writing that keeps me alive and helps me find friends and communities and words. My zines and books would not exist without you.

Thank you, depression, for clarifying when you’ve arrived because my brain chemicals have gone all wonky again, or if you are here to reveal the outer forces (binaries! politics! freaking out over what “success” means! complicated communications and dealing with change!) trying to wreck my psyche. Thanks for sometimes responding to meds and sometimes not. Thanks for helping me figure out my Crazy politic, for helping me determine what is good for me and what is not. You made me an alcoholic and a fuck-up and I’m glad I’ve lived to tell it.

You’ve also taught me how to appreciate the little things. You are why I take pictures of flowers and graffiti, stop to pet strange animals on the street, read voraciously and constantly, write letters to my friends and other zinesters, cultivate feelings of ‘home’ wherever I go, and get tattoos. Thanks for coming back to remind me that I’m going through the Return of Saturn, and that it’s okay be twenty-seven and not feel okay, not feel satisfied, and to stay alive and keep trying to find ways feel content, loved, supported. You’ve left some scars on my body that will help me tell stories forever.

Thank you for daring me to make changes, for making it clear when I need to take time for myself to figure out my priorities. Thanks for all the lists and dreams and friends. Thanks for trying to kill me. Thanks for the rapture and the misery. I’m not trying to destroy, you know; I’m trying to live in harmony with you. I like you. I can’t imagine how to define my life, myself, without you. You are comfortable and familiar and I know you will be in my blood and my bones forever. It’s okay. Thanks for battling it out with mania, searching for a balance, and thank you for teaching me how to resist psychic death on the daily. Let’s do this together.

(Still) Depressingly Yours,
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P.S.: Photos I’ve taken over the last few days:

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{Click the images to make them bigger.} 1. Fucshia flowers hanging at a convenience store. 2. ‘you are enough’ graffiti on a bridge over traintracks. 3. Ivy growing over broken windows.

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4. Iced soy lattés, Sharpies, purple pencil crayons. 2. Fucshia flowers I brought home with me. 3. My little lavender plant.

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7. A house in a fancy neighbourhood – I’d like to have a writing nook in a turret someday. 2. My ‘protection from envy & harm’ candle. 3. A bouquet from a friend, delivered to one of my Quiet Parties.

P.S.: If you’ve benefited from my writing in any way – if my words have inspired you, helped you feel less alone, or sparked some weird feeling within you; if you’ve felt encouraged, or curious, or comforted – please consider compensating me by offering a donation of any amount. Whether you’ve been reading my writing for years, or just stumbled into me this afternoon, I invite you to help me sustain the process!

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