Kat-Lyn D.

 I feel like I've talked about this at length before on other posts, but this afternoon I am feeling called to write a new one for 2024. Get ready. Cuz here I come. #HappyPride2024

It has been a very long time since I've read or listened to a book as captivating and incapsulating as Interview with the Vampire . As I write this intro, I'm only barely halfway through my first read, listening intentively on Audible. Anne Rice was most definitely in her bag.  The day she passed I had a handful of credits available, but it had been so long since I'd listened to (or physically read) something as enrapturing--to be completely honest I don't even remember the movie adaptation of  Queen of the Damned being this good (I am not one of the people who outright hated it, I actually loved it, terrible CGI aside)--but in her honor, as I'd heard she was quite a talented author, I decided to give it a shot. I'm so glad I did. 

"What is the primary use of men now if it is not to protect women from other men?" -- Akasha, Queen of the Damned

Disappointment. That is all I can think of to say. It is truly disappointing how much of a major let-down this book is. The premise is outstanding: a woman, Rachel, learns her daughter, Kylie, has been snatched at the school bus stop that morning after she dropped her off by strangers who stalked her and inform her the only way she can get Kylie back home safely is by paying a ransom, stalking and kidnapping another child whose family will have to do the same things in order to get their child back safely and so on. No police involvement, only one other person can know or help Rachel complete the tasks, and if she doesn't pay the ransom, kidnap another child, and continue the chain satisfactorily in a matter of days, or if she tells an unauthorized person about the chain, Kylie will be murdered on the spot, Rachel's entire family killed, and the people who kidnapped Kylie will have to start all over again with another child and family or be at risk of the same fate. Breaking th...

I decided to throw caution to the wind because this post has been sitting in my drafts unpublished for more than 5 years now, so I decided to be true to myself, say a final "Fuck it," and press 'Publish.' Obviously there are a plethora of trigger warnings I feel compelled to list before going forward: drug/alcohol addiction, suicide, abuse, mental health, thoughts of desperation and hopelessness. I started writing my suicide letters at work two nights ago. I was just sitting there, at my desk taking a mini break, thinking of everything that I've dealt with over the last ten months and how hard I have worked to get absolutely nowhere. I don't know why I'm still alive right now, well, I do a little, but it's not due to some apparent greatness or turn of the moment brilliance that all of a sudden changed my mind. I still want to do it, I just don't want my kids to be the ones to find me.

I gave myself some time to heal. The shitty thing about healing, though, is although there is a recommended--and sometimes ideal minimum-- amount of time you hope it will take, healing isn't linear. There is no predisposed, predetermined amount of time assessed for completion. It's just something that happens--or doesn't happen. I've been healing going on four years now from more than 34 years of bullshit. Bullshit I didn't ask for. Bullshit I didn't deserve. Just straight up unfiltered, unadulterated, unrelenting bullshit. 

Last night I did a thing. I popped an edible, smoked the bong, and grabbed inspiration (or rage?) by the balls. I don't really know for sure which bug bit me first. I had been listening to Laurence Fishburne talk shit about white people as the voice of Malcolm X for the last three days--so much so that I probably have the first three chapters memorized by now because there are gems starting on day one. I mean, I thought I was gonna die. The last two weeks I have had the worst  cramps, and a list of symptoms that had me thinking it could be anything from kidney stones, to my IUD growing into my spleen, perimenopause, endometriosis, or an ectopic pregnancy (very highly unlikely given my current sexual history).  La Rona has done nothing good for my sex drive. I don't want to meet anyone new because trusting these  mofos is like asking for a bullet to your brain. Every time I swipe right on an app I find more people who are going to "socially distanced" slumber parties, ...

When I write, I write from the heart. There isn't an organization to it or a specific direction I'm going in. I just write what I feel. One day I would like to be able to organize my thoughts, but at the moment I am just grateful to be able to write words and feel brave enough to publish them. If anybody reads this and can appreciate it, that's another cherry on top. If you don't understand it, or it's not for you, that's fine too. Maybe this is just my catharsis. Maybe it's my way of taking back control of my narrative. Either way, I'm glad I'm doing it. 

For a long time I fought with myself about whether I'd write again. I always wanted to, but I never felt capable. Truthfully, writing is a soul-wrenching occupation, and no matter how fictitious (or not) one's works may be, there is a certain level of self-evident truth one has to wrestle with internally. I always aspired to "Edgar Allan Poe it"--there's a certain level of inspiration one can receive from psychedelics, but I'm too poor for pure opium, and marijuana is not yet legal here in North Carolina. I will always say deactivating this page in 2012 was absolutely the worst thing I could have ever done--even if I still have the encrypted pages. While young-minded, they were pure, unadulterated thoughts. Genuine. Sincere. A version of myself that I can only struggle to remember.

So it's been a while, huh? I know, I know. I say that a lot. But the way my anxiety and depression are set up, I've been dealing with a lot of inner demons that I had no idea were actually preparing me for this very moment.

I mean, I haven't been here in a minute, I know, hon, drag me. But since depression is a bitch, and anxiety is her mother; there ain't really shit I can do about that, is there?

I gave this some thought. Some will be able to contribute, others may not. I don't want to skip around making false promises, but any contribution will definitely help toward more posts in the future as my writing is lots of times put to the side because of financial issues. If this blog has ever helped you in any way, before the deletion or any time after, if you've ever enjoyed any of my works, please, feel free to donate here . If you enjoy my work, be sure to share it with your friends. Thanks so much. I'll probably be including this link and post at the end of any of my posts until I either no longer need to, or just plain out give up, but I figured this was a way to get the info out there to anyone who may want to help. Thanks so much.

Tonight I tuned into to the Golden Globes. I don't usually watch awards shows--even Twitter can't influence me to always participate in one of my favorite childhood pastimes. But tonight was different. I cut off the DVR recording of Rick & Morty reruns, and decided to see what was going on with all these gorgeous actors dressed in black. While I was at first dismayed because, "Who cares what rich white women are going to wear to celebrate white mediocrity while they remain rich, and I remain unemployed because my last boss didn't believe I deserved to be employed because black after he hired me over the phone?" Excuse me while I lick my wounds.

I gave myself time,    but it kept taking so long. I gave myself life,   but I desperately wanted to share it with someone. I gave myself love,    but I felt so lonely. I gave myself hope,    but I couldn't shake my fears. I gave myself dreams,    but didn't know how to make them come true. I gave myself a blueprint,    but couldn't figure out how to build. I gave myself a deadline,   but I stared at the ceiling instead.

The air was warm and the salt water sprayed at her ankles as she jogged along the shoreline. Her ponytail swung back and forth across her shoulders as she breathed in and out the sea air as her feet fell, kicking up sand behind her. Sade crooned to her through the headphones forcing her to close her eyes. She sang about still really, really loving someone so much she forgot how to love herself first, but dammit, if she didn't make the thought of it sound good.

 Or am I?

"Now that he's gone, I can clear my head," she thought. She looked down at her fingers that only hours ago had touched his face, his lips, his beard, no longer feeling the electricity that sparked beneath them when her skin grazed his. They were empty now--powerless, but when he was in front of her, she could start a fire with the sparks between them. They were hot. There was passion. They were breathless.

"I had to do a clearing in my life of some people whose energy, I realized, was not supportive of who I wanted to be in the world. And I recognized that there are people who are not going to take responsibility for their energy so I now have to take responsibility for the energy that I allow to be brought into my space--life-changing for me, and what I know is, that you cannot continue to move forward in your life to the level and level and level that you need to be if you're surrounded by energy that brings you down. That sucks the life-force from you. So not only are you responsible for the energy that you bring, is what I learned, you're also responsible for the energy that you surround yourself with... And you will never be able to do and be who you're supposed to be in the world as long as you continue to buy into the energy suckers." - Oprah Winfrey

Fictional Nonfiction Pt. II I nervously wrung my hands as I walked up the steps to enter the building. I unlocked the key, placed my hand on the doorknob and took a deep breath. Go get your kids, bitch. Go save your sons. 

Depression is hard. Anxiety sucks.