invisibility.

i refuse to edit myself.

ive typed a hundred first sentences and held that little backspace key with my pinky more times than i’d like to admit. am i writing to unravel? or am i writing to survive?

apparently they dont let journalists into heaven.

im not sure i want to be a snitch from the other side of the veil, the one who posts a photo from the top of a mountaintop. if you want to see the view from the top, endure the climb, savor the adventure. wear your scars proudly. but i can’t do it for you anymore. i just can’t.

the final edit of my book is ripping me apart. my editor laughed at me and said this is the fun polishing part most authors love, its curious as a writer you actually love the writing part. i’ve done the hardest part. but for me going back to the crime scene again and again is excruciating. am i retraumatizing myself? is this why it usually takes a nervous system decades to process before materializing a written account. i’m not necessarily writing a trauma memoir. i’m not. i am processing a profoundly unbearable human experience using the tools in front of me within a system of containers designed to allow me to fall apart while keeping the children who are very much alive safe and stable. a single mom with two boys full time. i have approximately four days a month to write. thats 96 hours of start at the beginning and by the 10th page my spine is locked. i locked the door to my own awakening by opening it for others.

the first ten pages hurt so bad i need to schedule a doctors appt for my pelvic floor therapist to literally hold me together as i read it outloud. at first i thought it was just me. i lived it, of course its triggering for me. and then i sent it to my sister audrina and her boyfriend michael. he’s a country singer, he’s been through some shit, that man knows grief and pain. he cried like a baby by page 2. through the tears he told me “this is so good." she said, you have to publish this. but i can’t finish it. i dont know why.

writers block after writing? its that editors block? whats happening here.

today i went down that rabbit hole. its because i am afraid. afraid to let go of the early narrative carved into my brains hardwiring. casey(me) is the invisible one. the ghost writer. the scaffolding. the one who sees the patterns and moves the pieces nobody else has the balls to move. but i do. i always do. without credit. as long as it gets done. mission complete. this is different. actually requires me to step into a very uncomfortable zone. visibility. to be witnessed. to allow strangers to walk in my shoes.

seeing as last week i received one of the most disgusting hate messages ever from a follower on instagram and fell apart. im not sure i am strong enough to be told those words. ive seen the rice experiment. words are powerful.

she attacked me by slandering my dead daughter. i do not support donald trump as a human being. i dont care that my mother kissed him on television when my family was on some reality show on vh1. guess what? i wasnt there. i refused to film with him. i flew home from new york. and that was BEFORE the scandals and headlines and presidental candidacy. I am glad he signed the executive order for ibogaine research. thats a big win for the women who were little girls and harmed by men like him. end of story. it doesnt just cure addiction and heal brain trauma.

i trigger people.

but i have accepted that i am sensitive and i feel it all and it makes me question everything.

this book will help people, i know that. the journal i created will help people. the company i am building is the scaffolding, so i dont have to hold it all together anymore. i realized i am building the container to hold myself so i can finally fall apart.