I am not okay. Yet again, I am not okay. I am angry and devastated, made both victim and perpetrator of a culture of hate and violence, of a system where judgment is made through the eyes of an undiscerning mob, a group that has made conclusions with their emotions as guide.
I am furious, cradled by tears from eyes that have borne witness to injustice. Grieved, the marks on my forearms a reminder of the pain. My brain is not in good place, my morale the lowest it has ever been.
Many times over the course of the week I have attempted to heed the call to lose my grasp; have Googled questions that I have once promised myself to never type again: how soon, how many, how painful; have wished again and again to never again come to life.
I am not okay, and I will not be okay any time soon. I will pick up pieces, will attempt to reconfigure broken fragments of a broken world, but today, and for the next few days, or weeks, or months — I will not be okay. Maybe I will go back to therapy, and talk about the pain, and learn (or relearn) kindness, empathy, pain. But today, and soon, I am, and will not be, okay.
Of perpetual finds 