i say fuck a lot. fuck my sister who hasn’t spoken to me in years. fuck that horrible physician who gave my mother medication that made her septic. fuck the systems that perpetuate hopelessness for the people i serve at the non-profit where i work. fuck donald trump and everyone who voted for him.

fuck having to minimize and compartmentalize my feelings for all of the people i have lost in my life. my nonna who was my everything. watched me and my sister for years after school. she would braid her beautiful blond hair that fell to her knees. wrap it in a bun with the same plastic hairpins she had for years. the ones i keep in my nightstand. my hair too thin to hold them.

my favorite cousin who died after doing too much cocaine. he decided to get in a car and drive fast. i know he was trying to outrun his abusive father. he died instantly that night. took two of his friends with him.

my client who i worked with for years. almost 7 years of sobriety. she went back to school for social work. she wanted to help other sexual abuse survivors like her. she became a colleague and friend. we had coffee the week before she died. asked me for money. i gave a $20 bill. she was found dead the next week in a drug dealer’s apartment. a daughter she was about to meet after giving her up for adoption 14 years before. a son who put his college goal on hold to mourn his beautiful mother. i went to clean her apartment. needles everywhere. heroin bags. i held my breath the entire time i was in there. i gathered all of the photos of her kids. her journals. her trauma workbook. when i walked a few blocks away from her apartment, i started to sob. i held her life in a box.

fuck. i am not sure my heart can handle much more.