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Twin Lakes, Colorado

I’m an artist who writes. I make art out of my thoughts.

I used to want to be an astronaut, then a doctor. Never thought I could become a mother or a writer, or anything other than more of me. I’ve trained in wilderness survival, Jeet Kune Do, Krav Maga, played roller derby, but those are past tense. Sometimes I feel past tense.

Currently, I live in Denver, Colorado, I work full-time at making sure I never have to work full-time. I often find myself outside regardless of the weather. The mornings I sit on my front porch and stare at the trees all the way to the horizon, then I spend the day running Red Rocks and seeing what kind of adventures I can get myself into.

I am learning how to sing and skateboard, how to hold a gun, how to be a decent human being, maybe ride a motorcycle. I need to be out or I will be inside eating up my mind. I’ve been told I think too much.

It all started when…

I got my first diary in fifth grade, with a little golden key and locket, and I would write down my thoughts, the weather and anything else I found fascinating. Looking back, I had this peculiar habit of addressing my journal entries to Sam, that’s what I called him. Instead of just writing out my thoughts and pouring them into the empty, uncaring space, I would start my writing with ”Dear Sam,” or more often “I’m sorry Sam that I haven’t written in awhile…”

Someone, I imagined, cared. And honestly, what I’m doing now doesn’t seem like a much more mature approach than that. Me envisioning you at the other end of my words. That is why I write and don’t keep it in a little locked notebook. Maybe the only thing different is that you might read what I have to say. Maybe. Even still, I can’t keep my thoughts inside thinking that’s the only safe place for them to be.

I write.

Not just for me, but because I’ve lost too many friends to the Black. Too many friends that I’ve had and some that I will never have. I’ve lost too many to anxiety and depression and the spinning, sinking feelings that twirl us around. Some kicking and screaming and some slipped away in the middle of the night. My heart hurts. I want to yell and claim back the black, but it is gone. Maybe they are too. Or maybe we can’t find each other out in the open, where we think normal people meet, but inside. In the darkness, sneaking back to ourselves.

I’ve lost too many not to say anything of my own journey through the darkness. Too many to not say my own too many words. If there is a space here, I hope you find it.

Get in touch.