float your gods on me

I read a poem last week, some real hot take on the military state of whiteness, that took the juice out of words to keep them young and blotted the lftovrs w cultrl refrncs made to blueprint the base of operations, made to unmask the latest imitation, ordered with just enough private education to reveal…

The Good Survivor Myth

In my early 20s, as part of a training program in psychotherapy, I had the opportunity to sit through a series of observership cases with my guide/mentor who specializes in doing work with women who experienced PTSD/MDD. After one of the more harrowing sessions, the young girl we were consulting with waited back for the…

Lost Rooms

Growing up in an Indo-Rroma culture, you are expected to be thankful that your body is safe, that you get an education and get a job and be sufficiently independent so as to not be throttled daily by the immensity of a patriarchal inheritance stalking your every movement. Mental health isn’t even a dot on the radar. When I decided to study psychology early on, it was partially because I had already been through so many dirty corridors of indeterminate analysis and loud opinions that I knew the best path to understanding what I was experiencing was to study it myself. This was the beginning of a long and punishing dissent. I still remember pouring over my textbooks of Therapeutic Practices in Clinical Psychology with a nearly unhinged jaw as I read description upon description of every conceivable DSM disorder and almost all of them included a not-so-subtle exegesis that as a third world brown woman, I was almost 50% more likely to have a mental health condition and the scope for relevant support systems to help better my situations was slim to nil. In others, simpler words — I was fucked.