The chapter that undoes me isn’t about loss. It’s joy—a memory glowing after everything fades. Editing it is like holding a firefly without crushing its light.
I Did It: Yes to Every Chapter
Turns out finishing doesn’t feel like triumph. It feels like setting something heavy down. I finally finished the first draft, and my body knows it.
Mannequin Skin (and Memoir Update!)
Mannequin Skin, a 3-part poem, written at the edge of goodbye. You don’t need the memoir to feel it, but soon, you’ll have it. Thanks for reading to the bone.
For the Kids Who Didn’t Win
This isn’t a recovery story. It’s about what’s left for the kids who didn’t win, who loved someone who didn’t make it. We deserve to stop carrying the blame.
His-and-Hers: His Vodka, Her Permission
I hoped someone else was to blame. The math said otherwise. No fraud. Just a his-and-hers tab, a pattern, and the truth that hollowed me out.
Reluctant Scribe: A Job No One Wants You To Do
Every family has a reluctant scribe. If you’re reading this, there’s a chance it’s you. I tried not to be, but my memory’s sticky & my sense of pattern acute.
Lit Ledger: Receipts for the Dead
After Dad died, I kept his ledger lit. Chasing closure with every transaction—proof, apology, a fucked up vigil, one last try for trust from the dead.
Witness Work: Love’s Muscle Memory After Loss
I thought knowing the why of it could’ve saved him. But mercy is realizing that trying so hard was the real love all along.
Confession isn’t Closure, Silence isn’t Safety
Part III is a loop: confession, silence, hope, repeat. Writing it means reliving that painful waiting; truth without closure, love without repair.
2018: the Art of Looking Away
New-gf glow and sun-soaked selfies hid Dad’s first subtle slide. I ignored my gut, but Ch. 19 won’t let me look away from the skid marks I pretended not to see.