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A Betrayal: On Walter Scott And Black Lives

I swore I would never do this. I told my lover, I would never write a reactionary thinkpiece in the wake of another police murder, that I would never write to the beat of another black body banged against the pavement, lifeless, blood pooled. But here we are.

My Medicated Life

There is the half capsule, the whole capsule, and the oval blue pill in my hand. The cocktail is meant to boost my dopamine and serotonin (my energy and “happy feelings,” respectively).

How Depression Changed Me

Before that night — or the curvature of that night, those fuzzy outlines once again — I cared. I cared about my family; I cared about my friends; I cared (too much) about my ex-lovers; I cared about the future. To care is to step outside of oneself, to face the cold blade of another human on guard because some other human hurt her years ago.