Birds fall from the roof of this building, and I keep hearing Mr. Mastadon Farm by Cake playing in my head.


There are so many different people now – I am overwhelmed, but I’m trying to keep all my information together, all my thoughts in order, all my ideas together. Something about the constant rotation of people is distressing and structure challenging for me. There are so many stories rushing at me over and over and over again. All the people they change and exchange and yet so many of us are the same, the same again and again. So much happening all the time, I wonder how all the staff keeps their boundaries in place all the time. I wonder if there is constant training, refresher information, and decompression courses. The lack of personal space, the constant talking, the needs, the wants, how everyone just wants wants wants something. I’m not so deeply involved as to be emotionally invested, but there is a deep intimacy to being incarcerated with a herd of others dealing with the same shit.

My brain swells.

I so often expect my motivation, my momentum to come from someone else, from somewhere else – I am a little frightened by the idea of trying to find it from myself.

What do I think?
What do I want?
How do I feel?
Who am I?

The very act of writing these questions makes me nervous and uncomfortable. I feel as though at this point I should be able to stand tall and declare myself loud and proud. But it isn’t my age. It isn’t my level of experience. It isn’t any of these things that determines what I do and don’t declare and know about myself. It is fear. Fear. I am afraid. I am fighting my fear.

But I am doing it. Me. My momentum is coming from me as I fight my fear. That has to be worth something.

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