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I talk a really good game sometimes.

I blog about writing, mothering, and trying, and sometimes trying means failing. Who wants to blog about failing? Or even read about failing?

Nevermind. I know there are those out there who want to read about how others fail. I know there a few out there who want to read about how I personally fail. I can write for days about my own traumas, and against gendered violence, against racism, against apathy or lack of compassion or both passive and outright aggression, but there is no happy ending. There is no ending at all, really.

All this shit just keeps going.

This post isn’t about any of that, though. I’m looking inward today. And probably not making much sense. I try.

This post is about the moment that all the outside stuff—the (very white) National Coalition Against Censorship blasting the AWP (good) for dropping Vanessa Place from a subcommittee (wait, huh?) on the grounds that they are violating freedom of expression (just for you, NCAC!), the Janice Dickinson victim-blaming, the trigger-y Cleveland Cavs DV commercial, the Ray Rice felony assault charges dropped—meeting all the inside stuff in one hot mess cocktail of can’t sleep, can’t relax, stress-eating misery.

This post is about how I’m failing to hold it all together. I wish I could tell you what “inside stuff” means. I wish I could just write “men have hurt me” and you would nod and maybe just hold my hand for a bit. I wish I could write “men have hurt me” and your gut response wouldn’t be “prove it,” or “it’s probably not so bad,” or “I need all the details or I can’t believe you.” I wish I didn’t need you to believe me. I wish I could sleep through the night.

And I wish I didn’t feel a strong, conditioned need to end this post on an uplift, something about how it’s not all bad, I have good days, at least I have my sweet little man, at least I have my health, at least I’m writing, blah blah.

This post is what it is, people: incomplete, anxious, rambling, raw, mine. Let me have at least that.

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