Writing a novel on trauma is like peeling back an almost-healed scab until you’re bleeding everywhere; so I decided I needed some sort of CBT. With the shrugged shoulders of various types of professionals, I researched workbooks and other self-help content to fix myself, myself. Even for a professional, I’d imagine they would need their own therapist after digesting a session with me. Openly sharing my personal, dirty laundry is not for sympathy, it is not easy, but my goals are greater than my fears. The “insp;re” tattoo, you see in the photo, is my reminder that part of the reason my story isn’t over, is because I haven’t written it yet.
My idea: There must be someone else out there who, like me, has asked themselves, “How does this many awful things happen to just one person? Anyone else I know would have jumped off a bridge by now.” — you are the reason I do this, you are my mission. You are a fucking warrior;
"Sometimes the only way to light up a dark room is to burn that bitch to the ground."