des.fyi

043024 My flight seemed to have been delayed, not for a reason that the airline cared to communicate—waiting in line for an extended period, impatiently swaying my hips to the music in my earbuds as I watched a woman shorter than me a foot away pick her nose, flick it, and pick it again.

This dreaded purgatory that this profit-hungry industry is that the commoner must endure to travel this picked apart land that is United by corrupted states that turn the other way the more 0’s are in front of their eyes that are bigger than their bloated bellies. To see a loved one in their time of need is a roll of dice, though this time it was likely caused by the hail falling that was seen as I exited the airport.

Exposure to all these “sanitized” molecules that weaken my body, gambling for the greater goodness of my soul that I willingly endure for human connection. But we need our glutinous soy flour rings that are deep-fried in oil devoid of anything but carcinogens. For our coffees brewed on the back of those that have no other choice but to pick and process.

Another trip to come, I patiently plan so that I might not be caught in the fires of a storm and get shouted at by young men asking if I was the lady waiting in line.

It has been a month since this debacle, and every single day I am homesick for a place that seldom felt like home when I attempted to make it so. It is not the same, and those who are not from there do not seem to understand—sickened by being treated like I AM the one who does not belong whilst the world steals our lingo to claim as their own, making claims of our ghettohood as being the true cause of the disrepair of such an iconic and beautiful area. I remembered as I would look around the BART car at those roughly my age, breathing in their skin cells to see why this might have been. The way drugs tore families apart, the child abuse seeping down to our marrow and growing with elongating limbs that we then reach for what we had witnessed our elders consume for momentary mind-numbing bliss to cope with a broken economy that buried the American dream six feet under for millions.

The newly constructed suburbs of the once rural side of the East Bay Area, with relatively empty neighborhoods, were such a wonderfully peaceful place to trap the house and abuse the child. Take a stroll through a safe neighborhood, you will hear the frustrations of drug withdrawal and relentless arguments without a purpose.

I guess I am bitter. I don’t want to talk about it anymore, my voice has become raspy and dead numbed out by grog to continue a conversation that is led to being forgotten since there never seems to be an appropriate time or place for such saddening realities. Most recently, in my six months of staying in San Antonio, I’ve entered a headspace full of gratitude for where my soul grew.

While there was pain, experiences that haunt my waking nightmares day & night, at least I am attempting to escape the cycle I was brought up in and not everyone could say the same. My stupid high school that was broadcasted on MTV to exploit its disturbing clique formations that resulted in the voyeurism of my peers’ self-harm and turbulent puberty; it was no surprise to my brother & I when rumors of me grew as I was forced to move schools.

050724 Spring has come to San Antonio, a season that is a favorite of mine—all I did in the Spring of 2023 was stress over housing in between meeting people, writing, and partying throughout the Bay and LA.

I get hives whenever I step outside during the daytime, I guess it pertains to the air quality being consistently on the high end of “moderate”—not something that I am used to outside of wildfire smoke drifting to the East Bay, it explains why my cheeks are breaking out in cystic acne as it did in the smokey Fall of 2021 which was the deciding factor for moving to Indiana with my best friend where I learned to body build in his garage.

My mind is a chaotic whirlwind of compartmentalized memory leaking out into reality, with each day a battle I win against the intense desire to drown it out with spirits. I’ve been going out to bars searching for a place to dance, and I suppose I have not found my scene yet because I don’t particularly wish to be the only person dancing amongst drunk patrons eating meals with their groups. I thought there would be a chance when a rapper from the Rio Grande Valley was doing a set at a bar on the North side, but before his show, I was met with a cringe misogynistic DJ doing a trashy set of music that made every spirit inside tell me not to move my hips. I was taller than many of the men and women, with a few too many of them wearing red than I am comfortable with—I got out after an hour and a half of psychological damage.

053024“I’ve been in hibernation and just letting things happen,” a familiar voice said inside my head as I was heading to the airport.

My flight was canceled with a stab to my cerebellum not long after exiting during a busy time of day when it felt as though I was eating bagels and Auntie Anne’s pretzels by breathing in the air even with a cotton mask on.

I’ve struggled all month with burning hands and feet without a reason to explain the deceit my nerves place upon my system. My brain feels as though it wishes to push out of my head from every which way, swollen temples & eyes, the sensation akin to a microwave blasting my neurons full of nonsense that then drips down into my cerebellum, to my cervical vertebrae, down to my tailbone.

062424 I have been in the Bay Area since the start of June breathing clean air in a neighborhood with a walkability that gifts me the freedom to improve my health with accessible activities. It was not a breeze initially because I am staying in a hundred-year-old home with a nasty case of the “haunting” that made sage burning a necessity. While that is not always an issue, I am more susceptible to connecting to the “other side” while I am in a state of inflammation that has degraded my brain, teeth, heart, and all the systems that keep my person bound to this material realm. This flare-up is different this time but also reminiscent of the breakthrough of my initial elimination of gluten that allowed neurological recovery which has nearly rid me of debilitating burning pain in my extremities, muscle spasms, fainting, word slurring/stuttering, and more symptoms that could be written that gradually came back while I was living in San Antonio, TX.

Memories of my childhood where I was a miserable bully who experienced mistreatment at the hands of authorities who were alleged to be trusted, evolving into an early teen to young adult drug addictions that were funded and started by those who were looking after me. On a handful of nerve medications before I was 18, these reactionary medical professionals removed my gallbladder which hardly functioned (why was this?) that then transformed my life into a miserable prison cell of symptoms I had not experienced before. I would trade back the daily vomiting and weekly migraines with an aura that extended to the block a mile over for the nearly 11 years of Hell I have experienced post-op. Maybe if I had been able to figure out my trigger foods beforehand, I could have saved myself from these intensive gastrointestinal and neurological symptoms that were buffered by my once present gallbladder—”but it’s a safe surgery,” even as I awoke in agony in the recovery room after they handled my heart rate that drastically dropped during surgery. There are no lasting side effects only a year of gastrointestinal distress from excessive fat intake (according to countless doctors 8-10 years ago).

Earlier today I opened up a box with my clothes fresh from San Antonio, I immediately felt a dizzy spell with an ache persisting in my right eye’s lower lid (the side that was facing the box as it opened)—what different particles of pollution in that city that is not being measured? I did not realize before moving to that city at the start of the year that it would be a concern for gluten-related autoimmune diseases, such as gluten ataxia, how there are multiple manufacturers of gluten-related foods in this city that is filled with smoggy, stagnant air.

062524—One of the manifestations of gluten ataxia, an autoimmune disease that attacks the brain, is the spawning of schizophrenia and other symptoms of mental derangement stemming from cell degradation that then attempts to alter perceptible reality. I do speculate that a significant amount of mental illness might be reduced with the gradual move away from processed foods full of the top allergens that pollute the air alongside a change of diet (a study had shown 50% of people who halted the consumption of gluten began to put schizophrenia into remission). It was shown that 50% of the youth in San Antonio, TX, were suffering from mental illness—which, unfortunately, is not a surprise to me when the city air is like breathing dirt due in part to the lack of natural areas; the trails and parks in existence are often congested with people and closed to the public at night which personally inhibited me from getting outdoor time when the day caused me to get immediate hives upon stepping out my door. While I am aware there is often a general curfew throughout the country, the first time I had experienced a police officer tell me of a park closing over their vehicle speaker system, was late at night in San Antonio while I was wielding a camera with no intention to do recreational substances. This reason for being apprehended by the police is what I perceive to be a needless cause when I am not there with my flash on disturbing the wildlife or feeding them—the park at night has been a place of solace for me since my childhood, as I have had countless days of sleeping over 16 hours, only having the night to escape on a walk for blood flow and cold air to alleviate pain. Aside from the time investment in deterring a person with an invisible chronic illness, there is an intense issue of domestic violence and general crime that is being ignored to enforce disempowering rules—right next door to me at this time was a young couple that had constant physical altercations that were more often than not, improperly handled (if at all) by the police.

The hostility and distrust of citizens is a catalyst for insecurity and worry—the former a seed pushing out roots that contain a variety of abusive behavior done to oneself or those around them. This level of control of the people is a means to wane down the possibility of more productive community activism, while much of my personal beliefs come from a lifelong chronic illness, it was also found hanging around smoking cannabis in unconventional places to escape “home”, a place where the energy of my pain was laid. It was not uncommon to smell a familiar medication in the air in some public spaces, cannabis is controversial enough that there are arguments about the legality of alternative forms of THC, such as Delta-8, with veterans speaking out about its medicinal benefits being of aid to them. Texas totes itself as a state for veterans with the lack of tax on property for them, however, they’re decades behind on valuing the medicinal benefits of psychoactive drugs such as cannabis and psilocybin mushrooms. It is uncertain who is being protected when those who are most traumatized by the United States government, a contradictory lover and enemy of the state of Texas, are unable to legally partake in ancient medications that become bastardized into potentially unsafe states due to it having to become a black market item. While I have some input regarding the industrialization of THC that I witnessed during its recreational legalization in California, the most I will state in this piece is that I believe every American citizen should have the right to grow these medicinal plants to avoid adulterated products that have a higher likelihood of psychosis due to deliberate additives and the consequences of improper storage.

090225 I held back on releasing this piece because I was hoping to display my artwork alongside it, a drawing I started in San Antonio, TX, while my hands were shaky and achy. I tried finishing it in Oakland, CA, but I never had the opportunity to do so because of the chronic pain. No longer do I even possess it, because a trashcan of a man mailed me back my belongings (a lot of it I tossed because I only requested what was important) meanwhile, withholding very important items to me: that one small sketchbook, a Benchmade dagger I held for self protection (it’s incredibly difficult for me to find weapons that are comfortable in my small hands), & a small tub of my comic books… which Jim at the Solano Drive-In flea market in Concord, CA, would sell to me–I’d pick through them tirelessly to find the coolest and strangest shit.

But… I must move on, like I’ve had to all the other times I consensually & unconsensually gave up my possessions. I love everything, even the bullshit–it keeps me alive. Living is far more important than the festering upon the material. I love you.