I’ve written five things on Medium since the last time I’ve updated my site - I am getting very behind and feel bad that I’ve been neglecting my web “log” of things that I’ve been writing, reading, and listening to. So:

Small Claims Court is Humiliating

I wrote about going to small claims court because I am getting sued, well, past tense, got sued for a debt that I really can’t afford to pay but I’m going to be paying $60 a month now and for the foreseeable future because fuck my ilfe, and debt, and all the things that go along with it.

I Lost Two Weeks of Writing to Depression

Then I realized that I am feeling depressed again, and depression has really been keeping me from writing, especially sharing my thoughts on Medium, which is not good cause it cuts into my income. This post did well, though, getting curated in two tags, and I was surprised how many people have this same thing happen to them.

On Writing What I Want to Read

Here I wrote about how I dived in head first to a new fiction project and wrote over 20,000 words in three days, but then just sort of stopped because I realized that this story is just to big to go on without being plotted and paced and all that good stuff with outlining that I suck at doing, but at least I had a revelation - I should write what I want to read! Duh!

A Child is Like a Box of Chocolates

I wrote a very depressing post about how children are like boxes of chocolates - you never know what you’re going to get. You think your child is going to be perfect, but no one ever expects the worst. This is what happens when you get what you don’t expect, or at least how I felt when it happened to me.

Rome Wasn’t Built in a Day and Neither Are We

Finally, I wrote today AGAIN about being stuck in this stupid funk and how it’s affecting my life, my psyche, my writing, my heart.

I write a lot about depression, don’t I?

Oh, well, it resonates with some people, and if it didn’t, I probably wouldn’t do it as much.


Math, by Robin Coste Lewis

And then (at some point) as you step more vigilantly into the middle of your life, you begin to realize that they are all dead. Or more honestly (it takes even more years), you begin to realize that—perhaps—they are not all supposed to be dead. Or. You still remember. You can still feel yourself there. Standing. Knee-deep. In cement. A particular square on the sidewalk. There were dandelions. That odd, eternal sun. When a dear friend, your sister’s best-best friend—drives by—stops her car in the middle of the street. And then tells you. Screams out of her car window. And says it: your first beloved—that boy for whom you were slowly unfolding yourself from inside outward—that boy, whom you had yet to kiss, but would one day soon kiss certainly—that monumental boy, who smiled at you differently—that boy—had just been shot and killed. By strangers. Just for fun.

You are fourteen. And it is the beginning—it is the very first day—when the World confirms that new gleam of suspicion layered on the surface of the dark violet lake inside, that, Yes, slaughter is normal.

Slowly, over the years, you train yourself not to want this—you—a body in your bed with whom you can have a real conversation—a body with whom you can walk anywhere, talk anywhere, hear anywhere. At some point, you gave up expecting to be understood. English was too many red languages at once. And History was just a very small one—a ledger, and always in the black. You took out your sheerest sword. Your tongue: a sheath of arrows.

Perhaps, not by coincidence—once you began to trip around fifty’s maypole—you and your sister find together the courage to do the math: of all the boys whom you had known as children, at least eighty-percent were all either missing, in jail, or dead. Blood on the streets, bullets in the walls, the police always flying overhead. In your head. You thought it normal. When boys disappeared, were shot, killed, cuffed or thrown onto a black and white hood for simply walking down the sidewalk. Or asking merely: What have I done? Normal. As expected as the orange poppies, your quiet state flower, blossoming on the side of the streets year-round.

And then. Finally. You and I. Our bodies. Together. For a few hours: Time loves me. Every minute a gift so tender, each second announces itself. And then, just as quickly, equally: every second is stolen—erased—washed away—you. I understand, somehow, it will be another four years until I see you again. We walk through the night, arm and arm, across the wet sidewalk, and—besides my son—I am the happiest I have ever been with another person. But it is a silence. A happiness that rare. Unexpected. Quiet. And I wait. And wait. And no one shoots you afterward. Or. Maybe this night was God’s way of saying to me—finally: Yes, I do realize you exist. And this one night—just this one night—is all the complete happiness you can ever expect from Me.

- - Robin Coste Lewis

I Can’t Remember the Last Time I Had Sex

Today on Medium I wrote about how I haven’t had sex in ages, and haven’t been in a relationship in even longer than that, and what my feels are on the subject. It’s a pretty bleak situation.

A few days ago, I wrote about coming back from a long vacation and struggling to get back into the groove of things and feeling more like myself.

Crawling My Way Back to Me

It was a stressful vacation, mostly spent taking care of my grandparents and ferrying my grandpa back and forth to the hospital and nursing home until my mom arrived to help, and the whole experience was really hard for me.

I’m glad to be back home now and hopefully get back into the swing of things here with writing and posting regularly.