i feel like i and my trauma exist in this middle ground that no one understands. 

to our left: the experiences that ought to have come with a two parent household above the poverty line, access to education and food and clothes, a sibling, books... we have nothing in common here 

to our right: the experiences of people who have been trafficked, kidnapped, prostituted, whose loved ones have been murdered, who have lived in bone grinding poverty... i have so much in common 

to our left: whiteness, class, suburbia, stable family finances, social connections, good schools, good neighborhoods, summer camps, nature excursions

to our right: abandonment, neglect, loathing, disdain, ignorance, dogma, narcissism, selfishness, myopia, fear, unhealed generational pain

there is no adjudication. there is no belonging

I am no longer sure of my ability to participate in the economy 

I feel a strong push to retract my impact on the world, to be less impactful whether good or bad 

who am i going to be in 2026?

not dead somehow. stupidly. still not dead. somehow. jesus, send that lightning strike anytime you're ready. 

smitten but not smote. lol. 

in 2026 another year older another year less stupid. another year less inclined to share, to trust, to communicate. so much less on offer than there used to be, and the doorway continuing to shrink. i would not change this trajectory even if i could. 

some health insurance might be nice. 

i really would be doing sex work and only sex work if i could figure out the logistics of it. 

in my 20s i think i did what i knew how to do as a child-- pray, and grind, and grind, and grind, and grind, and grind, and pray. still a belief system in which there is little hope, regardless of what i wrote in those years. i worked and worked and worked and worked and worked and worked and built and constructed and buttressed and held firm and then it all exploded anyway. i am done working. 

who will i be in my 40s? god help us all. i hope drunk. 

that writing is finally coming back after so many years silent. (how funny to call the loudest years of my life silent, but when you are screaming, you are not drafting.) i still hope to never publish again. 

i hope no one ever knows my address ever again. i hope no one who wants to find me ever can. i hope my parents continue to put no effort into interacting with me (this feels like a secure possibility). 

in 2026 who will i be? 

i hope drunk.