At thirteen. Your first child, a daughter, born on Mamacita’s birth day. At fifteen. And it would take every drop of red courage, womb strength, to arrive where we stand now at seventy, Super Girl.
My experience with addicts is once they’ve sobered up, for their own coping necessity, they move forward and expect others to do so as well. Or perhaps it’s simply because they cannot fathom the scar tissue they’ve left behind.
I am proud of the people who are brave enough to risk their life for their country. For other people. For freedom.
I am honoured to know them. Heroes are humans. So are their families.
Everything I have ever made will ultimately be a pathetic response and so, if we are not careful we do nothing at all. The truth is that it is frustrating sometimes that every response you have to offer will always be so so little compared to the world you imagine and in addition to that, it also may not work out exactly as you hope.
The second year my mental health crumbled like the apartment across the hall from mine, gutted from the inside out, plaster and fiberglass swirling the air. A life-long anxiety disorder flared and surged through me, leaving me sweating, shaking, breathless, and terrified during class, while teaching, at restaurants, in my own bed.
