Post-Reality: Notes from a Very Public, Realtime Unraveling
When crisis becomes content
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Everywhere, All At Once
Family lore says I was startling strangers in grocery stores with full sentences at twelve months. Words came quickly to me. One of those gift/curse situations.
Last fall, the gift gave way to the curse. I startled many of you with too many words, too fast, about too many things at the same time.
Governmental misdeeds. Near-term systems collapse. Fractured communities. Better possible AI-enabled futures.
Like a self-proclaimed prophet, I told you about all of it and more, in near realtime, everywhere, all at once.
Instagram.
Substack.
YouTube.
Voice notes.
I was so busy making content about fracture out there, I didn’t notice the one forming in me.
More accurately, I was in a parallel timeline degrees divergent from the one we call ‘consensus reality’.
My Reality Vacation
It’s still unclear what exactly happened from a clinical standpoint. The psychologists and psychiatrists I’ve seen have yet to agree.
The leading contender is cannabis-induced psychosis. Mania is another possibility. Or even a little bit of both.
Some friends and I have taken to calling it my reality vacation instead. To be determined and to be continued.
The thing that is agreed on though, even by me in retrospect, is that for the better part of three months I was not of sound mind as I insisted.
And much of it was very public.
I wandered naked and pontificating through the digital public square, despite more than a few gentle suggestions to consider a robe. Or even just pause for a snack.
Quite confusingly for us all, my altered state sojourn was intermittently, convincingly, lucid. Much of what I said was true, if poorly constructed and in need of an editor.
Friends have reflected things like, “you were you, but not.”
Just today, one said, “you were actually very peaceful in your disturbance.”
Disturbance, though, it was.
For me and others.
Responsible…but Kinda not Really?
During this nearly three month period I made a series of impulsive, high-stakes choices that damaged relationships and put good people in impossible positions.
At the time, I believed I was acting from purpose and principle. I believed I was On The Right Side of History.
In some instances I hurt people. People I love and a few I barely knew but respected. Others felt alienated and righteously chastised.
Some wounds are still tender. Some relationships may not recover.
I remain quite confused about it all, especially how to take responsibility for actions I took without ability to understand the full scope of their impact and potential reverberations. “Not criminally responsible” the courts call it.
The court of public opinion tends to be less forgiving though.
Partially I write to try to sort that out. To be honest about what happened, its costs and consequences for me and others.
Conversely, I don’t want to beat myself to a performative pulp. I imagine I’ll be feeling my way through the dark about this part for a while yet.
And yes. Part of me for sure wants to save face. That’s in here too. Rejection sensitivity strong in this one, it is.
Relentless, Lifesaving Love
While I may not have committed Cersei-level sins warranting an actual walk of shame through King’s Landing, the aftermath has been punishment all the same.
I’ve barely survived the last six months. The depression that followed was crippling.
The shame nearly swallowed me whole. Mental health crises are still stigmatized, still framed as moral failures, evidence of weak will, poor choices and bad character.
And so, in the predictable pattern of depression and shame, I retreated. I disappeared myself digitally, socially and physically.
This is how shame works, after all. It wants you to shrink and shrivel until you’re so small and immobilized you won’t dare err again.
How I managed to not delete myself entirely is still a bit of a mystery. That story’s for another day. The short version stars Wellbutrin and an ensemble cast of characters who loved me relentlessly.
Somehow I’m still here. Apparently I still have stories to tell and this one’s a good enough start for now.
If we cross paths anytime soon, and you want to ask how my vacation was, please do. This happened. I went away for a little while, but now I’m back. We don’t have to pretend I wasn’t gone. We can talk about it. Or not.
It might be awkward as fuck for a bit, but better that than lonely as fuck.
Because this has been the loneliest chapter of my life by a mile. I’m good and ready for it to be over.
I miss you.
I want to see you.
I want to write again.
So I guess maybe all this is to say… thank you for loving me back to life.
I fucking love you.
P.S.: if you need any show recommendations, I’m your girl. I’ve watched all of Netflix, AppleTV, Disney, and Crave in the last four months. Prime remains a steaming pile of garbage. Hit me up.
P.P.S.: Most people don’t share stories like this. I wrote a Part 2 to explain why I did. Regardless of if you read on, thank you for spending your time with me. I’m super happy you’re here.
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I’ll still fucking love you either way.
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Part of me wants to say, “If you’re not going crazy, you’re not paying attention!” Another wants to say, “I feel you and I’m sorry you went through that.” Another, still, wants you to know, “I’m glad you’re sharing and, when you’re ready, I look forward to hearing more.”
Refreshingly sane and strikingly self-aware. You have my attention.