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To embrace the revolutionary belief that every human being—no matter how hateful or horrible—is intrinsically sacred.
i’ve been wanting to tell you that complex PTSD and a crisis of faith have so much in common. they’re both about losing trust in the world in the wake of unbearable loss.
a body is skin wrapped around stories, is tissue filled with veins that the truth runs through, is a box of bones with a voice inside. i don’t want to be a volcano. i want to be a garden full of flowers bursting open toward life, all of them singing, i’m here. i mean something. i want to live.
for the ones who grew up to be social workers and nurses and psychologists and any other flavor of professional helper, because they were already doing the helping, so they might as well get paid for it
Make a list of five good things that you frequently do for other people. Within a two-week period, do them all, at least once, for yourself.
Write a letter to someone you loved who didn’t love you back. Go somewhere beautiful and burn the letter. Treat yourself to something nice.
Lying is the work of those who have been taught that their truths have no value. —amber dawn
Think of a lie you’ve told about yourself. Summon the memories of all the times this lie felt true. What does this lie reveal about who you really are?
Think of a person in your life who actively cares for you. Find a way to show your gratitude.
we hunted and we haunted, and oh, how we wanted.
Give yourself one full night of self-pleasure. Define self-pleasure however you like.
Think of your ideal intimate experience. What would it be like to see someone who could give that to you with skill and kindness and without judgment? What would you be willing to exchange for that experience? Speak your answer aloud, even if only to an empty room.
i remember standing between her and my father’s hands, protecting her from him. i remember how she would break my toys afterward, because she hated what needing to be protected felt like.
you wrote so many monsters, so many magical creatures, and yet you still don’t seem to know what a monster is, Joanne. a monster is a part of ourselves that we don’t want to find in the mirror. a part of ourselves we try to cut out and split off and put inside other people so that they can carry it for us: our fear. our shame. these are Dark Arts of the oldest kind.
Collect a bag of stones. Give each stone the name of something you’ve been holding on to that you’d like to let go of. Take the stones to a river or ocean and drop them in.
Think of someone you’d like to punish. If it’s safe to do so, send them a book of poetry instead. If not, read the book yourself and share it with a friend.
tonight you choose yourself, silly girl. so what if you weren’t your first choice?
the woods are being cut down around us. and yet i still believe in the ancient one, in the poems and the songs, in the beauty of monsters and the power of story, in the ghosts between us, in the outlaw realm, in the magic that still lives in me and my kindred—and in you, my love, in you.
where in the body does courage call home? the same place where lightning lives. cuers is Old French, meaning “heart.” rage is also Old French, meaning “fury.” what does that tell us about what it means to be brave? choosing love is a practice. every day it takes all my strength. still, i believe in this body, this soul, this fallible flesh that still burns with wanting. somewhere, after the lightning strikes, there will be a world for us.
In a strange way, I am also indebted to the many whose words and thoughts are often perceived as in opposition to people like me: J. K. Rowling, Jordan Peterson, Dave Chappelle, Meghan Murphy, Janice Raymond, and more. I do not agree with you. But I still want to know how and why we have come to this place with one another. I still believe that we can find a way to understand one another. You, too, are my teachers in love.
