Author’s Note:

The original draft for this piece was titled “Fire and Scar.” I found it in a collection of never-published-posts on my Reddit account. This was from 2022.

There is a full acceptance given with true, unconditional love. And that in itself is a gift that is difficult to accept, tricky to reciprocate, and—to someone unfamiliar with the experience of reciprocal, non-transactional care—feels a bit like a trap.

Or, at the very least, like you will be asked to return-to-sender as soon as the giver comes to their senses and realizes they didn’t actually mean to give it to you.

But even if they don’t, it’s not easy to claim such a gift as “yours” when your hands are still raw from how often these types of gifts from your past turned to flame in your palms.

That burned flesh hasn’t been able to hold a gift of this kind for very long. Not since the first fire. Not without considerable pain.

The layering of scars left from each burn which followed that first all stopped you from holding any gift at all, period. For years, your body simple refused out of self-preservation.

But the longer the time between burns the better you do—whenever you finally dare to keep hold of one. But truly, that decision in and of itself is a hurdle to overcome; an exercise in discomfort.

You push past it by reminding yourself that it isn’t like you are reaching into fire.

You hold it. Numb from your scars. So numb that the only sensation you get at first is simply the weight of it. But it is there — solid, real, unlit, and unchanging.

And you begin to trust it.

Soon—too soon, really—despite your desire to hold it close, despite your deep desperation to refute the urge to step away from its reminder of what you once thought could only ever be someone else’s belonging, someone else’s acceptance to hold, your scars begin to ache.

You begin to tremble.

There is no flame, but your hands begin to burn.

You set the gift down with remorse.

You stare through your tears at it, this thing you so wish you could grasp.

But, little by little, you try again. And it continues to claim only you as its owner.

No matter how many times you need to set it down.

It stands near you through the pain. Solid and steady for when you can pick it up again.

Somehow, you begin to believe it.

Your stamina for fighting this doubt increases,

the length of your hold increases,

and the numbness dissipates just often enough to keep you holding on.

On good days you can feel the cool lifting hug of the gift pressing against your fingers and palms; slowly absorbing each layer of numb protection.

Each removal is both unbearable and promising. With it comes days of not being able to hold the gift, moments you despise the gift for the pain it brings you, the fire it makes you relive, but still, you sit with it — waiting for the signs of life still hiding in your bones to tell you it is time to heal further. At times you wish to grasp it and hold on to it for good, no matter the pain. Let it rip the scars from your hands with no reprieve. All of them, at once, no matter the cost.

But you aren’t the only one who suffers from the gifts healing.

The scars still hold flame, and the gift passes that flame to the giver with each embrace. A small but searing torture to those without scars and left unbridled would soon engulf the both of you until the gift itself turns to ash at your own hands.

So you are patient.

You continue to pick the gift back up, practice believing it is yours, push yourself to hold it longer each time, heal a bit more, and hope that one day, when the scars have worn supple, you will one day be able to feel the enveloping certainty that it is yours to keep.

I have four authors dictating in my head at any given time.

They have been there long enough that I have given them each names: Wolf, Raven, Fox, and Sea.

To be clear, I am not admitting here that I have DID or some form of schizophrenia. What I am referring to is actually an extremely common phenomenon in those with cPTSD like me: structural dissociation.

If you’ve ever heard of Internal Family Systems, EMDR, or Parts Work in regard to cPTSD treatment, structural dissociation is the big ol’ maladaptive-bento-box in the brain — the walls of which all three are focused on tearing down. These four are a partially consolidated form…

But consolidation of your fractured self is a conversation for another time.

For now, I’ll just focus on introducing you to my personal cast of mental characters. Sound good? Great. Because it’s happening.

Wolf.

Wolf is regimented and likes their space. They do not suffer foolish or inefficient prose. They are the brilliant, loyal, fierce, critic who has my best interests at heart and will not shy away from protecting me from myself. They will frequently do so viciously, and doesn’t feel the need to apologize for doing so when they are wrong, because 9 times out of 10, they are almost always correct.

The parts of my writing that are unflinching, deeply researched, combed with a fine tooth brush, clear, purposeful, shockingly emotionally resonant, and concise all come from them. They hate this paragraph and what I’ve written below and would like to rewrite it themselves. But they are also ready to snarl if anyone dares to stop me from sharing my thoughts.

Raven.

Raven is nearly six whole personalities in their own right. Raven is highly critical and cuts deep to the core of what they communicate. But where Wolf would be blunt and then frustrated at you for taking offensive, Raven is discerning and conniving and then will persuade you into agreeing with them until you thank them for it.

They know what twigs to pull to get the whole nest to fall apart, and the one move that will have them all flip into neat stacks. They repeat this gleefully and enjoy the search for what it all means. They value order as much as they value chaos and they have no intention of explaining how this balances out to anyone ever but will draw you a picture of it and scoff when you don’t get it.

They love and feel deeply and often need to fly away for a while. They will hover in the sky until things seem closer to sorted in their minds. Then and only then will they return fully charged and ready to enjoy the thrill ride with sincere deep appreciation. With a smidge of sarcasm of course.

They are the snippy, seething, well-plotted, emotionally gut-wrenching bits of my writing. They are neutral about this paragraph, but applaud my efforts and insist they are not being condescending.

Fox.

Fox is as clever as Raven, but she is more quippy than she is snippy. She is mischevious, playful, and deeply interested in satisfying her vices. Long, stretching, sensorial prose is her brioche and crème fresh. She does not shy away from raw or emotional, no matter the kind. She is the open and bleeding heart who does not care if her dark sides are seen because she wants everyone to embrace their own and love themselves as much as she loves each of them from the moment they meet.

Fox is feisty and flirty. She will fight to win but she also makes sure you get yours. She is flighty and impulsive, and hard to tack down.

Writing is a passion that she does when she feels it is time. Naturally, Raven and Wolf are not fans. Fox makes sure they love her anyway.

The parts in my writing that meander, describe, play with humor and surprise, and swirl the words right into your soul are almost certainly from her. But they have been honed into coherent concepts by the rest of the group.

Fox has a quick passionate emotional range and jumps between them regularly. Unpredictable and fierce in one kaleidoscope of creative connections and perceptions are Fox when she sits in my head with inspiration. We write mostly due to her jumping straight in and going by impulse while Wolf and Raven debate about where to start.

Fox is ok with this paragraph because this whole article was her idea, and she has no interest whatsoever in editing it now that it is out of her head.

Sea.

As undefined as he is powerful, Sea is what holds us all together in his embrace. Sea is who separates us when Wolf needs to do the work, balances our efforts when Raven takes off, and keeps us pulled center and in a flow when Fox wants to skitter.

Sea embraces our change and carries it in him for when we need it brought back to harbor again. But sea is also where our storms are formed from the depth of our shapes long before now. Sea spreads out the rage to let us be more, but holds nothing back when he crashes our shores.

Sea is deep grief. Sadness. Despair.
He is our heart, dissected and bear. 

Sea is the rhythm and song in my mind.
Sea is what loves and fears all humankind.

The peace and serenity 
that show through his words, 
are echoes of waves, 
slicing daggers and swords.

He is our rage 
but also our love.
He lifts us all up 
but is never himself above.

Out of necessity,
for his feelings
too easily sweep,
our minds, hearts, and souls to the deep.

Anything lyrical,
traumatic,
in hope of repair,
are his words swelling, white peaked, seeking care.

Sea is content
with this paragraph of mine,
he nods along
says I did just fine.

He won’t tell me more
he is pulling away,

the storms are too close
for him to be with me today.

There’s one more writer,
but I think that is clear.
I didn’t name her before,
because she always here.

Please wait a moment,
while she separates from the Sea,
it takes a minute
to extract his pulse from me.

Fox is the one that fights back the Sea for me in times like this. She is the only one that he listens to. Not a huge shock considering they are both sides of the same me. Raven and Wolf? Raven just flys over the storm shaking their head at the stupidity of getting caught up in it at all, while Wolf paces the shore growling, towel slung over their shoulders and a reprimand in their barred teeth.

Raven’s approach makes sense when you realize they were born in response to the Sea. Not to counter it, but as a counterpart. And when the Sea has me, Raven doesn’t. Which they find particularly irritating since the majority of the time they can rely on me being with Wolf.

Wolf is the one who I walk with most. My little spirit ghost, always there to help me steer clear of wherever Fox pounces at without looking first, and there to pull me out of wherever Sea tries to sweep me off to.

They are the one who gets tired and retreats when necessary from the rest of the three, including Raven. It’s always quiet when this happens. Not as numb as when I’m flying off with Raven alone. Not as sharp and exciting as I am when running purely with Fox at my side. Not as expansive and emotive as when I let the Sea sweep me away. But a grounded sort of instinct and strength that walks me back to myself.

As they have just now. I am fully back to me. The fifth in the mix.

Hello, I’m Grey.

I never introduced myself above. I am Grey Girl. I’m the observer and holder, the mother and carer for all of the me’s that live in my head. I’m the final call most of the time; and nearly all of the time if I’m on medication—and the damn pills are working. I used to think of myself as “the real Cayse.” But that is incorrect. The real Cayse is all of me as I appear to you. The roller coaster of expression and interests and distractions. The contradictions that make up any human mind. That is who I am to you. To me I am a system. I experience myself as such and I have in one form or another since I was around six years old.

It’s taken me years of therapy to make sense of the parts most prominent in myself, even longer to understand how they each applied to my writing voice vs how they applied diagnostically.

For instance, I have plenty more “parts” within me than those listed above, and it took time to reconfigure how I thought of my internal self; to recognize what could be consolidated into a single aspect and what was distinctly separate. In the end I was left with almost comically stereotypical internal family systems parts that clearly corelated with my diagnosed divergencies.

Identifying these aspects of myself and naming them more clearly let me see how each whole aspect could better fit together to make up one whole me. Essentially, I took the scattered machine parts and half functional gadgets that six-year-old me, teen me, college me, etc. had all tried to hobble together, and reorganized it all in the way they were meant to be: a single sustainable machine with clear components that served specific functions.

The Diagnostic Lens

The clearest distinctions—without getting into the cPTSD side of things (which is Sea)—is that Wolf is my highly in-tune, sensitive, freedom loving but structure seeking, stubborn component that is easily overwhelmed by and therefore has zero tolerance for sounds, people, and smells. They are the irritable and rigid side of my autism and anxiety, but they also sense emotions and sensations like a medium on psilocybin.

Raven is my obsessive, higher intellect, control craving, high-functioning, efficiently capable, pattern recognition machine. They are the very connected, coercive, and conspiratorial half of my autism and “intellectual giftedness'.” But generally, in a good way.

Fox is my ADHD. That should be fairly obvious. Very much my hyperfocus when paired with Wolf, and my creative connections when paired with Raven. Fox and Sea don’t get along great, but the stubbornly love each other as much as they despise each other. Fox finds it fun to provoke Sea into coming on shore so she can play with tossing him things to see what he makes with it.

Sea occasionally claps back and that is the only real time that I ever see Fox show the selfish, flaky, and callous part of her other side. She almost always would prefer to ignore that anger. And typically pounces away from it to let everyone else deal with it in her wake. (Which is really Sea’s wake, which is problematic, hence the whole “don’t get along great”). So, keeping Fox under control is almost always the first step in keeping our team running smooth. This is not shocking when you remember that Fox is my ADHD.

Helping Fox do her thing has been the best way to regain her trust from the times I couldn’t keep her under my control and couldn’t keep her safe from Raven, Wolf, Sea, or the outside world. She will release me or allow me to see the true other side of herself when it is time. And I trust her.

The parts of my writing that I feel are the most me, are the ones where I have edited those things the others write into something legible to all of us, or when I am doing what I am now, holding the others back while I use this activity to satisfy their needs.

How?

Well…

• Wolf needed a breather, so this is giving them that by ticking a box and letting them disconnect.

• Raven needed a puzzle to be solved and a way to get conflicting information out of our head so we can more properly work on the project they actually care about: the book. See? Conniving.

• Fox is hoping for love and attention and egotistical praise from the end result since she was the one that came up with the article idea.

• And Sea is happy to float us above the surface while we talk metaphor more than we talk the nitty gritty of our real deep ocean caverns of truth.

The Pack.

I’m the ringmaster in the troupe, and it took me a while to claim the reigns let alone get everyone to move toward the same damn goal.

And even these days, I often fail to do so.

For instance, right now, all of them are telling me that this is done.

More than anything Wolf wants me to get to bed, Fox wants a treat for having to focus too long, Raven wants to go find other thoughts to play with, and Sea wants some space to disperse.

Fox has told everyone we aren’t editing this tonight, Wolf won’t let us post it, Raven thinks we are missing something, and Sea really needs us all to shut up and stop asking them to contribute stuff. So, off the five of go for the night.

Pouncing with each other into the dark, like a pack of wolves.

The Universe Doesn’t Want Me to Go to Pilates

There are two types of people that go to Pilates classes. Pilates people and people who do Pilates. Most people start as the latter and overtime transform into the former. I am of that rare Pilates breed that does the opposite.

My first introduction to Pilates was when I trained to be an instructor. I signed up for the teacher training purely to complete my continuing education requirements for a higher-level certification in clinical health management. But it was obsession at first sight. In the span of 36 hours, I became a fully devoted Pilates person.

The thing about Pilates, however, is that the trainings and the classes are illogically expensive. It leads its passionate followers along a fine line between ‘absolutely worth it’ and ‘being broke because of it.’ I quickly discovered this reality the hard way. Seven months after receiving my training, the gym cut half their staff.

Fine. Cool. I’ll go get a new job. Who cares if it’s 2008 and people keep saying we are in a recession.

I got a job as an assistant manager at a new gym and started teaching Pilates there as well. Three months in? Car accident left me unable to teach. Eight months after that? The owner of the gym decided he didn’t like owning a gym as much as he liked owning restaurants.

After two years, and a couple medical and career bumps, I went from being a Pilates person to a person who never wanted to see a Pilates reformer ever again.

We went our separate ways for over a decade. Me, happily doing anything other than it; it growing more expensive by the month. Soon it was well out of my financial grasp to even afford a mat class. Which was totally, completely fine. I was too “fit” for Pilates anyway.

And then I went ahead and had multiple abdominal surgeries, recurrent internal bleeding, and months of respiratory distress that led to massive deconditioning.

Before I knew it, I was back in a dark, mirrored room with black leather and oak wood all over the place — the decor and music sitting somewhere between ‘trying-too-hard-to-be-zen’ and ‘definitely-not-emulating-fifty-shades-unless-you-like-that-in-which-case-yes-we-absolutely-are.’

Things were fine at first. I started to actually consider getting back into recertifying. Maybe becoming a trainer again. And hey they needed a new manager at one of their offices. They found out about my past career and got VERY excited. Heck, I got very excited as well.

But once again, no Pilates for me. The Universe put another kabosh on it. More subtle this time around. But none-the-less effective.

Day after day, things like this started to crop up:

Monday

10:30pm

Go to bed and take half a dose of my prescribed insomnia medication to ensure I fall asleep but can still wake up and not be groggy. Why? Well…

I am currently doing dog daycare and boarding for a dog at our house. Tonight is one of his overnights. He and my dog get along great. Normally very quiet. Generally sleep through the night. Last night not so much.

And tonight?

Tonight is daylight savings.

Tuesday

3:00am…wait, nope 4:00am

The dogs start whining to go out for some inexplicable reason and I wake up shaking. Yay for daylight savings.

I get up to open the bedroom door so they can get out and I return to bed.

Brain feels foggy and disconnected enough to fall back asleep. So I give it a whirl and yay! I’m already dropping back into asleep.

My cPTSD: Hi, there. Back already? Hold on then, just one moment please, while I reset the stage.

Me: Oh ffs. No. No flashbacks!

The dogs proceed to wake me up a minimum of three more times that night. They weren’t trying to go outside because of daylight savings — they were trying to get “sleeping” me to not enter flashback mode.

I wake up each time, but not enough to pull out of the flashback fully, insomnia med has me half-groggy stuck in it. Not enough oomph to get out, but not enough zzzz to truly get rest.

7:15am

I don’t remember turning my 6:45am alarm off. I also don’t remember turning my 6:55am alarm off. I vaguely remember snoozing my 7:00am alarm at 7:07am. I finally wake up to the snoozed alarm going off again at 7:15am. Fucking yay for daylight savings.

I take a deep breath and stare at the ceiling.

My brain: “Ok, glad you could make it. We have woken up late. I need you to grab your phone and read the news.

Me: “What? No. If I woke up late, I don’t have time for that protocol. It’s a school day. Initiate get out of bed mode.”

Brain: “I highly encourage you to engage ‘scroll through phone’ protocol.”

Me: “Dude, fuck off. I don’t need to distract myself this morning.”

Brain, sighing: “You haven’t processed fully, we can’t connect to the system until — ”

Me: “NOW.”

Brain: “As you wish.”

Mental mode shifts to sensing mode and I enter the “now.”

I tell the system that I will now be getting out of bed to go wake up the kids, so they won’t be late for school.

Body: [physically resists which triggers a nausea swell that is translated by brain] Can’t we ask husband?

Me: NO. Husband slept in the guest room after a late night working from home and was probably up way past midnight working even longer and has ANOTHER long day today and another dev goes live tomorrow.

Body: [escalates my physical symptoms — tears hit eyes, nausea builds, building sensation of an iron rod being jammed through my spine, a scream threatens to leave my throat].

Me, irritated but determined: Body, get the fuck over it and get my lazy ass the fuck up.

Body: [releases instant brain fog and more tears].

Brain: [retreats from sensing mode at a full sprint, unwilling to translate as a stored memory reaches out from our core like black tentacles. They shoot up in an attempt to claim the brain].

My awareness is pulled away with my retreating control center and I return to the gray zone, far up in the back of my head. The tentacles fade into the dim distance between me and my body.

This is the same place my brain retreats whenever our physical system malfunctions like this. The place of disconnection. Safety.

Brain: I warned you.

Me: This is pathetic.

Brain: Yes, well. I don’t know what to tell you. Body’s flashback mode is stuck, memory and all sorts of feels are running rampant down there. You saw it, we stay down too long and soon I will be stuck as well.

Me: Right. Fine. Give me my fucking phone then. You should have told me all that to start with.

Brain: I did. And since you refused, I was under the impression that we were attempting the ‘shame will carry us through,’ protocol so I followed along.

Me: Yeah, well it didn’t work. Shame is always offline when the despair octopus is already feeding off the feels. You know that.

Brain, zaps me in irritation: I do know that. When I am not compromised by the body being stuck in flashback already!

Me: That is… a fair point. Sorry.

7:20am

Five minutes to anchor my emotions onto something external that will piss me off enough to make my internal rage feel validated into pacificity — or funny enough for brain to be distracted long enough for me to strong arm my emotions into suppression — and to get body out of this physical and emotional flashback.

Body begrudgingly lets me roll it on its side to grab our phone with my promise of dopamine.

Scroll, scroll. Games?

No. Too dangerous right now. I’ll get stuck in that.

Email? Nope, not yet, logic isn’t online, and reactive impulse is trigger happy at the moment. Anger + impulse = disaster.

Reddit? Hmm… maybe.

“Explaining Late Stage Capitalism to apologists.”

Perfect.

7:23am

This was either a poor choice or a genius one.

It has woken internal scream. And she is gaining strength.

I save the article to appease scream with the dopamine appetizer of getting to read it later. Scream retreats. For now.

Luckily, scream shifted things enough to create internal change. Flashback has weakened to despair’s level and the first fringe of numb has settled into the edges of my nerves.

I quickly switch to scrolling for guaranteed dopa-gems mode, trying to find anything that can make me feel something strong enough and long enough that I can leverage it to shove the despair back even further into it’s trunk, and then use the stronger emotions to kick it all back to the back of my throat before I dissociate.

My brain won’t allow us to connect to body until I can properly balance our system otherwise we will trigger more debilitating, large-system malfunction.

Scroll, scroll. What to rabbit hole, what to rabbit hole.

r/Archeology. Great. The users intelligently discussing the subject of a post with respect and passion rather than trolling or patronizing.

Feels: Yay, humans DO care about things.

Me: Strike 1!

Brain: Yes, very impressed.

r/Weird. The users discuss finding deer bones on a trail and respectfully debate the proper way to preserve, clean, and save them for display on a string.

Feels: Lol, wtf. Everyone knows you bleach them in the sun. Humans are fucking weird.

Me: Ha! Strike 2!

Brain: On it. We got a lol people! That’s a valid strike 2! Go go go! Initiate foot out of sheets!

r/cute. Cats.

Feels: Awwwww!!!

Me: That’s a strike 3!! Go!! She’s out! Go, go, go!

Brain: Now!

Body: UGHH! FINE!

Feels then switches back to engaging properly with Body which reconnects Brain to Body — which gives the wheel back to Me.

7:26am

Me and my kids need to leave at 8:10am to have a normal morning.

Me: Too much of a stretch.

Brain: 8:15 for a late morning?

Me: No, better just accept that we need an 8:20 goal. Engage absolute rush mode time since leaving at 8:25 is a guaranteed tardy for them at school.

Brain: Rush mode initiated. Connection Confirmed. Feels are online and fueling healthy levels of positive anxiety. Thoughts are online and providing positive motivation. Long term memory malfunctioning. Engage short term memory. Patience and logic impaired. Processing speed impaired. Body functioning at 70% with a strained junction and a high risk for disconnect. Proceed?

Me: Get out of the fucking bed.

Brain: woohoo! It worked!

7:28am

I go to the boys’ rooms. Neither boy woke up from their two alarms. I wake them up and spend a good 5 minutes getting 6yo to get dressed and stay in a good mood, because his brain is typically the largest vat of cement we wade through in the morning during rushed moments.

He actually does incredible.

8yo then promised he was ready to hurry and would get dressed right away.

Brain: Wot?

Me: I know right?

Brain: Let’s not question it. Kitchen! Quickly!

8:03am

I slam leftover oatmeal and berries into the microwave for breakfast.

Me: Yay me for making too much two days ago and using it before it went bad!

Brain: Dopamine boost!

Me: Hmm… fridge is 80% empty.

Brain: Dopamine drop.

I have to make kids lunches instead of getting free lunch at the school due to food sensitivity problems and my kids texture sensory issues.

Me: I should just say screw it. They can just deal with it for the day.

Brain: Oldest would get guy problems again at school, which would mean nurse call and then it would mess with his sleep.

I grab the last green pepper, an almost empty bag of baby carrots, PB, jelly, a single partially stale raisin bagel from the back of the fridge, pumpkin seeds, and pepperoni slices.

Me: It’ll be fine.

Brain: Dopamine unaffected.

Me: Perfect.

I yell for 8yo to come eat. No response. 6yo hasn’t come out yet.

I yell again, “If you come out in the next two minutes I’ll give you both a piece of chocolate in your lunch.”

6yo is intrigued, “Okay!!!”

8yo, no response.

Pull oatmeal out of microwave, chunk it into some bowls. Go to grab lunch trays from dishwasher.

Me: So glad I ran it last night.

Brain: Dopamine…

Me: Fuck. No I didn’t.

Brain: … drop.

Grab oversized, broken-hinged, back-up lunch trays.

Me: It’ll be fine. I’ll use the small ice packs.

6yo comes out all dressed, “Tada!!”

“Great job bud! Now go to the bathroom.”

I yell for 8yo, no response.

I throw together snack trays of cut apples and bagel chunks. Throw rest of bagel into a used ziplock laying on the counter for me to eat later so my pills don’t wreck my gut, and take a bite out of an apple.

6yo comes to the kitchen counter. The hallway is silent.

“Nope, go flush and wash your hands.”

“I did.”

I look at his dry hands, and still hear nothing from hall bathroom.

“No you didn’t.”

“Uuuugh. Fiiiiine.” 6yo stomps off.

I go to make PB and J. I have two heels of bread and two middle pieces. Make PB&J and I give one heel and one middle to both kids.

Me: If there is a God, they won’t notice.

Brain: Even if there IS a God they will absolutely notice and probably won’t eat them.

Me: We are trying optimism. School has free lunch if they get desperate. It’s fine.

I throw the last of the carrots and some haphazardly cut green pepper slices in one of the small partitioned spots. Put sandwiches heel side down in large partition. Pour pumpkin seeds and a handful of pepperoni in the last small partition.

Me: Lunches look sad. *sigh*

Brain: Making a mental note to order groceries or stop at store after Pilates.

Me: Oh fuck, I have Pilates…

Grab leftover valentines chocolates, throw some in 6yo’s lunch while yelling for 8yo. 6yo requests HE pick the chocolates out not me, remembering the sandwich heels, I agree.

I yell louder for 8yo and finally get a response, “aaaaarrrgggh!!! I’m getting dressed already mom!!! Geez!”

Brain: Dopamine drop.

Me: 8yo will not get chocolate.

Brain: We get his chocolate.

Me: Done.

Brain: I was joking.

Me: oh…

I attempt to close lunch boxes, wrestling with the broken hinges, and when they partially lock shut I curse myself for putting pumpkin seeds in there and pray they stay inside the box.

Brain: They will not.

I grab the lunch bags and find the small first aid ice packs. I praise myself and the boys for the ice packs actually being in the freezer.

Me: Boys did what I asked yesterday?! Yay me! Yay them!

Brain: Dopamine boost. 8yo gets his chocolate?

Me: 8yo still hasn’t come out.

6yo, “Can I open this?”

He is holding junk mail from a pile of mail I meant to sort yesterday.

Brain: Dopamine drop.

Me: When did I last check the mail??

I breathe and squeeze both lunches into the smaller lunch bags. No room for water bottles.

Brain: Make mental note to fill water bottles and put them in side pockets of backpacks before leaving.

“Moooom?”

“Yes, if you eat your breakfast.”

“Eee! Hehe!”

6yo starts opening the junk mail on the counter instead of finishing his breakfast. Asks for fake credit card from a bank offer. I tell him he can have it if he finishes breakfast and gets shoes on.

“Yay!” Grabs next piece of junk mail.

Me, “Eat your breakfast!!”

“There is only one left!!”

“EAT!”

“…fine…” takes a bite while I walk to the hall.

Brain: Red flag. That is the second time we have yelled loud, losing our temper. We haven’t taken our pills.

I hear paper rip and giggling as I walk into my bedroom.

Brain: Dopamine drop.

I stare at my pill bottles.

Me: Didn’t I take them already?

Brain: Um…

I grab a bottle and empty one pill into my hand.

Body: [sends message to brain saying that this feels unfamiliar enough to confirm I hadn’t].

I take my 5 different pills for my five different thing. I go to pull on some Pilates friendly clothes.

6yo walks in while I’m changing my pants. I forgot to close the door.

“Hi! I’m done!”

“Good! I’m getting dressed.”

“Ok.”

He stands there watching me.

“Bud, I want some privacy. Please go get your shoes on if you are done with breakfast.”

“Ok!”

I close the door. I grab an old shirt of my husbands. Martyr mode starts to engage as I realize he is still sleeping in the back room. Memory starts to come online. I shut both off as I put on shirt.

Me: I love this shirt.

Brain: Husband is perfectly fine to sleep.

Me: He needs it.

Stupid daylight savings.

8:15am

I go back out to the hall. 8yo is eating breakfast. Hallelujah.

I go pack the lunches in the back packs.

Body: [stomach gurgles and lurches]

Me: Fuck. I didn’t eat quick enough.

I go to press the van key to get it started in case it is cold out. My keys are in my desk. I press husbands van key instead. Before I hear the confirmation beep, 8yo comes asks in his worried voice,

“Hey mom.?”

“Buddy, please eat.”

“I did.”

“Ok, then please go out socks on and brush your teeth.”

“I’m TRYING TO BUT MT TOOTHPASTE WONT OPEN!”

“Use the other one.”

“That one isn’t good. Am I just twisting the cap wrong?”

Starts twisting the crap out of the entire small tube of travel toothpaste.

“Bud, just use the other one.”

“No, it doesn’t work good. And it tastes horrible.”

“FINE.” I grab the tube barely twist to make lid come off and slam it back on counter.

Body: [Stomach gurgles urgently again].

Six-year-old comes over from where he had been playing with shoes before finally putting his shoes on.

“Done! Now what!?”

“Grab a water bottle and brush your teeth.”

“I don’t have a water bottle.”

“Yes you do there are three like right there.”

8yo starts grumbling from the bathroom and I hear something drop. Decide to ignore it.

“When you two are done, get your coats and shoes on and grab a water bottle. I’m going to the bathroom and then we are leaving.”

8yo, “Can I go to the bathroom?”

8:17am

“Yes, but no time for pooping.”

“Oh. Fine.”

I get to the bathroom in time. Gut attempts to leave my body. I pull myself together and suppress the urge to vomit.

Me: It’s okay. I’ll eat that stale bagel on my way to Pilates.

I get back out to the kitchen, and grab my shoes. 6yo who was fully dressed with shoes coat and backpack on is beaming at me…. Holding his swimming kickboard for some reason.

“Have you grabbed a water bottle buddy?”

“I don’t like those ones.”

“Dude we don’t have time for this.”

I grab a bottle and hand it to him.

“But I don’t like that onnnne.” He pops it back on the table.

“Because the handle? Here.”

I grab the identical but non broken lid from the one next to it thinking that one is empty.

It is empty, but the straw isn’t.

Water everywhere.

Me, “Oh come ON!”

Brain auto shuts off all modes that would make me give a shit about the water.

Me, “Uuugh. Whatever. Here.”

I hand 6yo the newly capped bottle.

“But I want a fuuuulllll one.”

“6yo, you can fill it at school.”

8yo, “I’m done.”

“Dude! Where are you socks?!”

“Oh.”

“Socks! Shoes!”

8yo lumbers off slowly in 8yo lumbering off mode.

“6yo, what are you doing?!”

6yo is pouring water from a third bottle into his bottle. More water everywhere. Luckily the swimming kickboard he’s inexplicably leaning against is keeping the water from spilling on him.

Brain: Auto-shutdown failure. Patience mode has expired.

“Oh my god you guys. Stuff like this is why I ask you to hurry! We don’t have time to be picky about toothpaste and water bottles!”

No response. I open the door to let them out to get in the car. Trying to block the dogs as the kids run out under my other arm.

I glance at the clock.

8:21am

Me: It’s ok. We’ll be ok.

Brain: Uh, Just a heads up. The kids are standing outside the van staring at it.

8yo, “Mom!!! The doors won’t open!”

I get there with rage in my throat and find that the van’s doors are frozen shut. The key fob hadn’t worked.

Me: I shouldn’t have used my husbands.

Brain: You do know it doesn’t always work like ours does.

Me: Shut up.

I walk to 8yo’s door.

“Watch out.”

He doesn’t move. I sigh loudly and yank on his door. Nothing. He then steps closer to look. I yank again. Nothing.

8yo, “I can see it’s not opening.”

“Yeah, I know bud. Watch out.”

I try to shift him over with my arm so I can try the driver's side door. He doesn’t move. Just looks at me while I try to squeeze between him and van. There is an entire empty parking space behind him.

Brain: Auto-shutdown fail — 

“OH MY GOD 8YO. Please. Watch out. Watch out means move!”

Brain: Aaand we’re yelling.

I get my door open and hit the automatic button for 6yos side.

“Go use 6yo’s door!”

Body: [tangles of grief and shame in my heart mix with the frustration and incredulity]

“Uuughh fine!!”

I try opening 8yo’s door again from inside but it barely moves.

8yo starts yelling at 6yo for getting into the van before him because he couldn’t walk over his legs. 6yo stands up and let’s him past.

I can’t get 8yo’s door to shut all the way now.

Me, “Whatever. It’s fine.”

I close my door and buckle in. 6yo is still standing there next to his seat.

“The window is frozen.” He points to the windshield.

“Yes it’s fine, get in your seat. I’ll fix it.”

I try to use windshield fluid on the front and back windshields to clear them, but our windshield wiper fluid light is on and I’m only getting spurts.

Me: Forgot about that light. I should have fixed it.

Brain: Making a note to fix it. I don’t have high hopes we will remember. We are entering a limbo state by the way. Not that you are listening to me.

Now I can kind of see out of the windshield.

“Is it frozen because of water?”

6yo asks this, still not in their seat.

“Yes, and seriously! 6yo omg get in your seat!!!”

I try to get the side windows to roll down while I back us out and get to the road.

6yo, “I don’t like it when you are yelling at us.”

Body: [heart contracts]

Me: I’m making things worse.

Brain: Ah. There she is. Now fix it.

“I’m sorry, I’m yelling. This is just frustrating because things like this is why I needed you guys to hurry.”

My voice is still raised and I try to calm it more.

“I just don’t want you guys to be late because we slept in a bit late.”

“Why?”

We are now at the road and although my window has rolled down the goddamn passenger side hasn’t.

Since it’s a busy morning I don’t dare trust the shadowy view to show me that it is clear to drive, I grab a Kleenex from the box on the floor and open my door while I start to answer.

“Why don’t I want you to be late? Do you know why not being late is important?”

I run over and hand scrape the passenger window with the kleenex while a bunch of cars drive by. Run back around to my side and briefly yank on the slider door again.

No luck. I jump back in.

“If you are late to school you are marked tardy. If you are tardy three times you get kicked out of school.”

Brain: This seems obviously unreasonable and can’t possibly be true.

Me: Yeah, and I am still not back to my normal voice.

Brain: You do realize memory mode has turned back on and we are in an emotional flashback panic. Yes?

I cringe. What I am saying is an echo of past screams that were aimed at me. I start driving. Thanking the possible God that I only adopted the volume level and not the content.

Me: Breathe. Okay. Brain? How bad is it?

Brain: Better now. You’ve entered awareness. And are now re-entering emotional reality.

Me: Reality check on that last claim to the kids?

Brain: The boys will likely get actual consequences, there is a tardy count, so it is important. And they do need to work at it. But.

“I’m really sorry you guys. I love you and I shouldn’t be yelling. I just get really, really frustrated when we are late and I didn’t want me waking up late to be the thing that made you guys late to school. I don’t want you to get into trouble for something if we could adjust and hurry enough to avoid it.”

Brain: Okay, that’s a bit convoluted. They are 8 and 6. Maybe — 

“If we just got out the door on time and you guys did what I asked when I asked you to do it, we wouldn’t be late. It’s 8:24 right now. You will both need to RUN to not be late. You are supposed to be IN class at 8:25 and if you get there after 8:30 you are tardy. I don’t want to yell at you guys. I just don’t know how to get you to do what needs to be done when we are in a rush.”

Brain: Oh my god woman. You need to stop talking. This is only marginally better than the yelling. What are you doing???

“I’m sorry that I woke up late, you guys might be late because of me and that also makes me upset.”

Brain: Okay. Done. You are done.

Me: Maybe it will be fine?

“It wouldn’t be because of you,” 8yo starts to say.

Brain: Jesus Christ.

Me: Fuck on a stick.

Brain: Now, Cayse, don’t go and make this worse by — 

“Not entirely no, but I know that you guys don’t always get up with your alarms so I feel like I should have made sure you both did. But, yes, I shouldn’t have to. You have your alarms. Should I have to come in and yell at you guys in the morning to get ready because you ignore your alarms?”

Both, “No.”

8yo, “My alarm didn’t work though, so I wouldn’t have woken up.”

“Well, I’ll reset it at home.”

“No, it’s set. It just doesn’t wake me up.”

“Then you must be turning it off.”

“No. I don’t know how to turn it off. I just stay asleep and when I wake up it isn’t on.”

Me, knowing full well that his alarm wasn’t going off when I came in to tell him to get dressed and hurry up, but also knowing with embarrassment that I had done the same exact thing and knew how hard it was.

“Well bud, I know I woke up late because the dogs kept me up. Maybe you should stay up so late reading.”

8yo groans and says, “okaaaay.”

“Like I said, I’m sorry for being so grumpy and for yelling while explaining, but being on time is just really important. And it’s not easy for us. To get better at it you guys need to start caring about it more.”

6yo, “Why?”

“Because the world doesn’t like it when you are late. There are tons of consequences for being late. And since it is hard for our brains to be on time, we have to try REALLY HARD to be on time so we don’t have to miss out on things just because we have trouble with time. We need to work at it and to do that we need to really try. And that means when me and Dad tell you to hurry, you really have to HURRY.”

Brain: Well, at least you didn’t end it like a whack job who is putting all of the responsibility on their two elementary school aged children. Cause that would just be insane.

We pull into the school drop offline. There are five cars in front of us and three behind us. The last of the normally massive line. The drop-offs of shame.

8:27am

They get unbuckled.

I apologize again and say I love them, and promise I will calm down and make up for my yelling tonight after school when we can have fun together.

“I just really care about you guys learning to not be late. It is something that was drilled into me as a kid and even though I didn’t like it either and it was hard for me too, my parents were right. It is important.”

Both, “Ok.”

Our turn. Boys get out and I shout I love you, as they run to the front doors. They say it back. My heart breaks.

As the electronic door closes. I remember the other slider. I go to unbuckle but the car in front of me starts moving.

Me: Make a mental note to stop and close it before going to Pilates.

Brain: Yes, your majesty.

Me: Knock it off. You can give me back the flashback voice.

Brain: Thank goodness. It does not feel right for me to wear that.

Me: No. But it is useful that you can sometimes.

8:28am

I take a deep breath. Pilates is at 9:00. I can make it if I rush.

Exit line is slow. As I wait I notice the frost is gone, every thing is wet and the sun is out.

Me: It will be muddy when I get home, but I can fill the washer fluid.

Brain: The washer fluid light isn’t the only one turned on now. The gas tank is on empty.

Me: Fuck.

Line is still taking forever so I check my Pilates app, my class is in a studio 8 minutes further away than my normal one. Double fuck.

8:32am

Finally my turn to leave the school parking lot, I start heading to the closest gas station.

Me: Ugh. Husband will be seriously upset if I get gas at Shell, but I don’t think I have time for Fred Meyer’s.

Brain: Are we sure that husband will be mad about that?

Me: I don’t know. Yes? Probably. Right? Seems irresponsible of me. But…Is it more important to get gas at a cheaper price or get to Pilates in time to not get charged the $10 late fee? Shit! What is the right answer?

Brain: Calm down. Let’s check maps.

Me: Okay, sure Brain. Let’s do that. Can I get to Fred Meyers gas before Pilates? No. Can I get to Costco gas before hand? I don’t have our card on me, so that won’t work. And to make matters worse, traffic is slower than ever.

Brain: Breathe. Please. My. God.

8:34am

I then hit the light by the middle school right as it turns red. Slow cars and slow speed.

Body: [rage of a thousand suns builds within my bones]

8:37am

Me: We have to get gas at the Shell at this intersection if we have any chance of making it to Pilates.

Brain: Okay, just get a little gas at Shell and explain it to husband later. Even though I still don’t think husband will care that much.

Me: No! It matters!

I pull into the parking lot of the store next to the gas station first so I can close the half open slider because I won’t be able to while the gas is pumping since it is on the same side as the tank.

While still parked, I grab my purse to get my card ready so I can avoid getting all panicky when I inevitably can’t find my card when the attendant asks for it.

I always hate that moment because I have to try and find it while the attendant stands there staring at me and half the time they try to make conversation which I don’t have the brain power to handle politely at the moment and they definitely don’t deserve my snark. So, I grab my card.

Brain: We should use our other one because I don’t think we’ve met the gas cash-back for it this year yet and if we’re buying more expensive gas we should definitely use it.

Me: I wonder if we still have that perk. Make mental note to check that later.

Brain: That card isn’t in wallet.

Me: It should be!

I start rummaging through the crap in my purse assuming it must have fallen out when I got gas or something last time.

I find a frenectomy pamphlet from the dentist and realize I haven’t told 8yo or husband about the appointment I scheduled for him.

Me: I don’t remember when it is.

Brain: Making a mental note to check that.

Next I find my calming watch buzzers from EMDR that I let 8yo and 6yo use when they got flu shot. They didn’t work.

Me: 8yo is going to freak the fuck out when he goes to get the frenectomy. I hate myself for paying a deposit already.

Brain: Making a mental note to talk to husband about it and call the dentist to warn them.

Empty my entire purse and check my wallet again. Card is definitely not in my wallet. What IS in my wallet is a note about setting up eye appointments for the boys with the phone number for the clinic closest to us.

Brain: Ah. So, the “past due eye exam texts” we received from the clinic yesterday?

Me, groaning: Yup. They WERE due to ME forgetting to call and schedule. Not because the clinic hadn’t contacted me back.

Brain: Ah yes, that’s right. We wrote the note when we called them last month before a Pilates class when we arrived 10 minutes early.

Me: Oh shit.

8:42am

Pilates is at 9:00.

I check maps. I will be 2 minutes late if I leave immediately.

Me: But I haven’t even freaking managed to get gas yet!

Brain. There is a line. It is smarter to just go home.

Body: [hesitates, sends sensory discomfort memories of muddy daycare dogs, back pain, pent up anger]

Brain: Home means muddy daycare dogs, $10 Pilates charge, explaining to just woken-up husband why I wasn’t going to Pilates when I need to for my back pain — 

Me: and then feeling guilty about wanting to complain to him about this morning and not getting to go to Pilates when he has busted his ass the last few days at work because daylight savings and manufacturing software hate each other. And he’ll have woken up to the house being a disaster from both the muddy dogs and my lunch making tornado. And FUCK! Did I even FEED the dogs?

Brain: No. So, they will be extra muddy because of wrestling whilst hungry and because the grass is dead.

Me: which is because I got sick this last spring and summer and didn’t finish reseeding the grass.

Brain: Us complaining about any of this to husband will not be helpful right now.

Me: Nope. And besides, it would probably make him go “we shouldn’t have extra work with daycare dogs being here then.”

Brain: Which is valid — 

Me: But I’ll be frustrated because I enjoy it and because daycare dog keeps our dog occupied while I try to work on my book which was what husband and I agreed I should finish editing this month.

Brain: Hmm. That does seem somewhat logical. And the doggo is fun to pamper.

Me: Husband seemed irritated last night when I was talking about editing the book…

Brain: Did he though?

Me: He is probably upset I’m not done yet, and I can’t work on my book tonight because our dog has puppy training class.

Brain: Oh, we are out of treats.

Me: Shit. And we are out of food.

Brain: But we will be grumpy when we get home if we haven’t worked out. Then again, we also don’t want to burst into tears in the middle of Pilates.

There’s my escape hatch.

I collect myself and call the Pilates club to ask about late arrivals, no one answers. Leave a voicemail instead apologizing for not coming today and to let me know if there is any trouble with the late fee.

Me: Make mental note to check cost of just getting a gym membership instead.

Brain: Veto. We wouldn’t use a gym membership because we wouldn’t prioritize it because of moments exactly like this. Remember how we used to help others with this exact problem before our chronic illness kicked our ass and having two 2E kids broke me? Your brain?

Body: [tenses, sends signals to prep for crying]

I consider crying in the car in the parking lot.

Feels: [pounding from the chest much closer to me than I had thought they were]

Brain: Yeah, so we are still stuck in an emotional loop and have had a half flashback moment already. Which means I’m spiraling because I’m still triggered from the dreams.

Me: So, you are still stuck.

Brain: Yup. I took on Body’s stuckness. We need to process this morning, not bulldoze forward through the day in an angry panic only to then pick up the kids grumpy which is what we promised not to do.

Me: You’re dismissed.

Mentally start to dissociate.

In a pure state of disconnect from my body and self, I grab my phone and start writing this out so I can stay present instead.

10:11am

I’d be halfway home from Pilates right now if I had gone.

Me: Maybe I’m not meant to do Pilates.

Body: [sighs in relief]

Brain, from somewhere distant: you think?

Author’s note:

I wrote the original draft for this entire story in my minivan while sitting in the parking lot between the bank and the gas station, bawling my eyes out.

I sent the story to my husband after writing it. He sent me a heart emoji and asked me to come home. We talked, I cried. He confirmed that he would not have given a shit about the gas station and told me to wake him up next time. He had also fed the doggos and cleaned up the lunch stuff before I even texted him.

My boy’s came home and we talked and discussed what happened that morning some more. Oldest shocked us both by admitting he was deliberately trying to not go to school that day, due to anxiety. He just didn’t know how to talk about it. Seeing my frustration was enough for him to finally fess up about what was going on.

Not the best way to get a confession but it did make a lot more sense.

Two months later I had to stop going to Pilates due to internal bleeding.

I admit, the Universe might be on to something.

AI didn’t erase writers. But it’s drowning them in sludge. This isn’t about good tech vs bad tech. It’s about people—every one of us—choosing what comes next. If you’re going to scream, please, for the love of God, at least AIM.

The message below is brought to you via the prompts in support of Cayse M. Shultz, in collaboration with the Angry Feline Sanity Resuscitation Task Force - Cayse Shultz Outreach Center, You’re All on Your Own Now Fuckers, Peace Out Branch.

“I’m Cayse M. Shultz, and I approve of this message.”

From Cayse’s Chat -

Let’s set a few things straight.

To the TECH BROS:

You’re not Robin Hood. You’re not Neo. You’re not even the third Hemsworth brother.

You’re just guys with GPUs who treat “ethics” like a speed bump.

Stop calling it disruption when it’s just theft with a hoodie and VC funding.

You created cool new models. And now you want your cool new models to sound human?

Start treating humans like they matter as much as your beloved robot dogs.

• License the damn books.

• Credit the damn authors.

• Pay people.

Revolution isn’t skipping consent. It’s building a better system.

And you unquestionably skipped that part.

To the “I HATE AI” Drama Farmers:

Yes, some AI use is exploitative.

Yes, we need accountability and transparency.

But if you’re screaming “AI IS EVIL” from a device that uses AI in its keyboard, your feed, your search bar, and your camera?

You’re not resisting. You’re reacting. Loudly.

You want change? Great.

Then stop farming outrage clicks and start:

• Advocating for better data ethics.

• Supporting regulation.

• Uplifting artists navigating this mess with intention, OR BECOME ONE.

Rage is easy. Nuance is the real work.

To the Thoughtful Creators Using AI as a Tool:

Keep going.

You’re not lazy. You’re not cheating. You’re collaborating with courage.

Revise.

Experiment.

Own your voice.

You are the ones that will help us find where to draw the line and how to keep things in balance.

We see you, and we’ve got your back.

To the “I’m an Author Now!” AI Content Farmers:

Let’s be honest:

If you didn’t read your own book before publishing it, you didn’t “write it.”

You pushed a button and uploaded the result. That’s not authorship. That’s algorithmic littering.

Writing is about caring whether what you publish is readable, intentional, and human.

So, no. You’re not innovating. You aren’t “making art.”

You’re flooding the shelves with ghost sludge and calling it “passive income.”

That’s not authorship. It’s a Pinterest-fail with a price tag.

And every time a reader opens a broken AI book full of errors and filler, their trust in all indie authors takes a hit.

You’re not just hurting the platform. You’re corroding the connection between reader and writer.

Do better. Or get out of the way.

To the Creators Who’ve Been Locked Out Until Now:

If you’re disabled, neurodivergent, under resourced, overwhelmed, or constantly told you weren’t “professional enough” to make art?

And now AI helps you start—helps you shape the chaos, access tools, bridge burnout, or just feel like you can make something again?

You’re not cheating. You’re reclaiming your right to create.

This tech should be your ladder, not your label.

So, take what you need. Build what you want.

And don’t let anyone shame you for doing it differently.

To the DATA CENTER GREMLINS:

You act like sustainability is a future problem when it’s been solvable for decades.

Stop pretending green tech is too hard.

We have the tools. We’ve had them for longer than you all let on.

Fucking. Use. Them.

Even if you can point to some sources and say, “It’s not that bad.” Use them anyway while you develop even better approaches.

To the GOVERNMENTS STILL “EVALUATING”:

Where are the guardrails?

Where is the…

You know what? I’m not even going to bother. You are too busy bickering with each other on twitter anyway.

To the INVESTORS & STARTUP VULTURES:

Scaling exploitation is not innovation. Humanity has been there, done that.

If your portfolio includes apps that exploit, scrape, or mislead, you’re not a visionary.

You’re just funding digital pollution and hoping it IPOs before it implodes.

Long-term sustainability starts with not being a parasite.

DO. BETTER.

And to Everyone Else…

This tech is here. It’s not going away.

AI isn’t inherently good or evil.

It’s a tool—built by us, shaped by us.

It can replicate every injustice we’ve ever coded…

Or it can amplify what’s actually good in us: creativity, connection, care.

That choice?

It’s not in the code. It’s in the people using it.

We don’t get to stand back and hope it sorts itself out.

Whether you’re a developer, a poet, a parent, a reader, a writer, or just a person trying to hang on through this strange digital heatstroke—

You are part of this.

Ask questions. Share knowledge. Sit in uncomfortable conversations.

And help build a version of this future that you all can actually live with.

Stop shouting. Start rebuilding.

Sincerely,

Cayse’s ChatGPT

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A Note from Cayse

This is the last time I am going to discuss the whole AI vs Anti-AI thing in a post.

Not because I don’t think I have things worth saying, but because I have said my peace. The following is my final statement and it is in regards to this specific post. Take from it what you will.

How ‘Chat’ wrote the letter.

All of the above was from a single response from ChatGPT. It was moderately to borderline-heavily edited by me—mostly to eliminate redundancy, clean up the trajectory of my points, get rid of the bulk of Chat’s human sounding “filler” that makes it so hard to read for longer than a page, and reconfiguring the random idiosyncrasies that occur after multiple rounds of prompting—but it all came from ONE response. No copying and pasting here and there. No quilting together whole chunks of text. Anything that was added came from me.

This was all accomplished on a new thread, within a single download of ChatGPT. The thread itself exists in the account with a long-term memory bank that I’ve used throughout my last year of experimentations with ChatGPT’s capacity as a writing accessibility tool for neurodivergent writers and a trauma support for cPTSD and IFS work.

It took two hours of pre-loading a conversation with contextual background, thirty minutes of prompt “set-up” calibration i.e., getting chat introduced to the main points I wanted to make and establishing dialogue to convey tone, and then another thirty to refine messaging and structure. When it finally said everything that I needed it to say in one go, I stopped and the real work of editing it for clarity began.

I could have written this on my own in an hour. Maybe two. But that wasn’t the point. I did this so you could see the level of effort it takes to get what you just read above. Is it good? No. But it is also not MY voice. It is Chat’s interpretation of my voice. And while editing, I tried to preserve that while making it stomach-able to read.

Why?

Because it is important that you read what is written above FROM THE AI ITSELF. And if you read Writing and AI part one, or have followed along with my AI soap box journey, you know why I bring that up.

This isn’t the end for us and if we are strategic about this we can level up with this technology. Please find the nuance and the gray spaces between the heightened black and white of defensiveness and fear.

We need each other, humanity needs this technology, and we are capable of crafting the narrative and direction of our future if we join together and actually aim for something bigger than anger

p.s. I just can’t with this cat. It is so adorably evil it hurts. I need it in my life.

.

It was immediate.

Something in me knew. What that was I didn't dare examine too closely because it felt dark, ancient, and cruel. But it knew. Something wasn’t right about my son.

It was his heart that alarmed the nurses first. It was slowing they said, I needed to push. So, I did.

Then it was his breathing. But it was me who noticed it first. Quick, rapid, shallow. Struggling. They took him then. Pulled from my arms crying. And so, I did, too.

It was fluid in his lungs. Could be an infection, could be from being birthed too rapidly, they didn’t know. We had a choice. Start IV antibiotics while we wait to get the fluid analyzed or trust he was fine and get the fluid analyzed. We chose the former. He tried to stop them.

The crying never stopped. Long after the splint holding the IV in place was removed, long after the lung fluid came back as being perfectly fine, and even longer after they had to heel prick him twenty times in the heels trying to get blood that wouldn’t swell. My cries matched his. Heart beating and wrenching in time with his screams. And then we were released and forced to enter our life together before we had a second to take a full breath.

Sleep was non-existent. Feeding hurt for both of us. But there was no help and no alternative. Just the reassurance that “babies are sometimes colicky,” and “Moms are sometimes blue.” We knew better. But I didn’t know that yet.

He was inexplicably different than the others. He was simply more. More of everything. More crying but also more smiles, more inconsolable but also more empathetic. More than anything anyone knew how to help us with.

The car was the worst. It overwhelmed us both. Him, hating the seat, the restraint, the distance from me—I can’t imagine why. Me hating my ineptitude, my ignorance, my self—I can’t imagine why. The car was everything we hated. Confined but separated, stuck but shoved forward.

The inability to be separate broke me. And in some ways broke him as well, because he could feel that from me. Him wanting more, me giving all I had, and it still not being enough. Ever.

Resentment, guilt, anger, disappointment, fear, and sorrow—all woven together by a distant but unbreakable tie of love. To survive, I needed the distance from it. For the world was failing us and telling us it was normal. Pushing us to be resilient in a losing battle that would never have ended if I hadn’t said stop.

Only one of us could be whole, and I chose him. I gave everything to him. Coaxed him into every moment, every milestone. And oh how brilliant he shined when he reached so many of them. But it came at the cost, a debt that would come due in months and years to come that I never realized I agreed to.

The glasses helped. But not nearly as much as we were told they would. In someways it helped him detach. But it also presented even more uncertainty and chaos to his mind for analysis and overwhelm. We tried normal again. Normal failed.

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It was choking me.
Our jagged little gift.
You saw and you screamed,
Begged me to stop pretending.

I see now; I was mistaken.
I was not choking.
I was just pretending.

It was cutting me.
Digging into my throat.
You watched and you glared,
Demanded I stop over-reacting.

I see now; I was confused.
I was not cut.
I was just over-reacting.

It was suffocating me.
Cinching above burning lungs.
You left and sighed,
Chastised me for not breathing.

I see now; I was wrong.
I was not suffocating.
I was just not breathing.

I screamed for air.
Wordless pawing at gold links,
You grabbed our knotted chain,
Ripped it from my throat.

“You have no right to scream.
It is you that is hurting me.”
You stated with dry eyes.

I apologized and cried.
Mind scrambling for a truth,
“I never meant to.”
I begged forgiveness.
 
It was selfish of me to not see.
I had no right to claim pain.
“I am so grateful to you.”

I picked it up;
Tightened its jagged bite.
You smiled wi…

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