Mental Health
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4:00 a.m. Some nights sleep doesn’t come. Tonight, this did. I missthe heavy kind of quiet. The kind that settledafter a bowl,when my body finally unclenchedand my face felt warm,like gravity had loosened its gripfor just a little while. For a few precious hours,every muscle surrendered. My thoughts stopped sprinting. The ache became a whisper.…
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There are nightswhen the world expects meto carry everythingwith steady hands. The memories.The grief.The questionsthat never learnedhow to answer themselves. So I step outside. The air is cool,the stars indifferent,and the lighter clickslike the beginningof a conversation. The smoke doesn’t promiseto fix me. It doesn’t erasethe empty chairs,the court dates,or the namesI still whisperwhen no…
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It’s four in the morning. The world has gone quiet,but my mind never got the memo. The clock keeps counting secondslike they’re something I can spend,while I bargain with sleepthat refuses to bargain back. The house is still.The coffee pot is empty.The moon watcheswithout offering advice. So I stand barefootin front of the refrigerator,bathed in…
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Some call it escape. Maybe they’re right. But sometimes it’s the only place my shoulders remember how to unclench. The world demands I carry grief like it’s weightless. Cannabis asks nothing. Only, “Sit for a while.” So I do. I breathe. I watch thoughts stop colliding long enough to hear my own heartbeat beneath the…
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Maybe one day I won’t have to choose between relief and proving myself. Maybe one day healing won’t come with conditions. Maybe one day I’ll light a joint without wondering who might judge the smoke. Until then, I’ll keep choosing the future I’ve been fighting for— one clear morning at a time.
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They might test my blood. They’ll never test the nights I stayed awake rocking babies. They’ll never measure the panic attacks I survived sober. They’ll never weigh the meals I forced myself to eat, or the mornings I got out of bed when depression begged me not to. Sometimes being a good mother looks nothing…
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I didn’t quit because I stopped needing it. I quit because tiny hands needed me more. There are nights when sleep still hides, when food still tastes like cardboard, when anxiety paces the hallway inside my mind. And sometimes I remember the little green flower that once taught my lungs how to breathe again. But…
Between Bruises and Blooms 