So.
Real talk.

I had a recent situation that eroded my rights.
I’m addressing it through legal channels.
No — I don’t want to talk about it yet.

Between trying to finish my first term in my master’s program
and everything happening in this country,
I broke my sobriety.

I’m not happy about this.

But I’m also realistic:
the human psyche can only take so much.

I was white-knuckling it just to reach the end of the term.
When I finally crossed that line, I collapsed.
Hard.

I let myself sink into nostalgia —
watched the final season of Stranger Things.
I ate junk food.
I numbed.
I breathed.

And curled inward.

And slowly, day by day,
I felt myself slipping further away.

I dissociated. Deeply.
Losing pieces of myself in small, quiet increments.

How in the fuck do I expect to help others like this?

Fear took over.
The very real fear of further state action against me
had me pinning my drapes shut,
making myself small,
trying to disappear.

No daylight in my house.
No sunshine on my skin.
I stopped riding my bike —
part depression,
part terror at being seen.

Down the hole I went.

My creativity stalled.
My energy drained.
My focus evaporated.

And I was terrified my trajectory had only one direction left:
down.

So I did whatever I could
to avoid thinking.
Because thinking right now
hurts like hell.

I tried to come back.
Again and again.
And failed.

Each time scrambling back
to the so-called safety of numbness.

Until the day I watched a mother be murdered
by people masquerading as authority.

Masked thugs.
Fragile egos.
Guns.
Our streets.

Renee’s crimes?

Not submitting to fear.
Not complying with unlawful commands.
Trying to remove herself from danger.
Being kind.

Being calm.

Her condemnation was immediate.
Her character assassinated without hesitation.

Her killer?
A hero.
“Self-defense.”

This administration lies to our faces daily.
I’ve been sick to my stomach since that piece of shit “won”
— read: rigged —
the election.

I’m a veteran.
I was young and naïve when I served in OIF.
Escaping an abusive marriage.
Living in a red state.

I didn’t understand the machinery behind the war.
I fell for the emotional avalanche of 9/11.
I thought I was serving my country.

I was serving the rich.

I’m educated —
and I was still fooled.

I’ve watched the dystopian films.
Read the books.
Feared this outcome.

But I don’t think I truly grasped
how fast it could happen.

I think of everyone already dead
because of this criminal administration.
Of the families who will carry that loss
every day,
forever.

I lost my brothers.
I lost my father.

Those losses nearly broke me —
and they were natural deaths.

I cannot comprehend the weight
of losing someone
to violence sanctioned by your own government.

My heart breaks for Becca.
For their children.
For their community showing up —
huge, blue, defiant waves —
despite the danger.

Every. Single. Day.

I don’t have the answers.

But I’m awake again.
I’m sober again.
And I refuse to look away.

When it becomes unbearable,
I allow myself relief —
not comfort.

I’m rewatching The Hunger Games saga now.
No nostalgia.
Just the chilling realization
that what once felt speculative
now feels uncomfortably familiar.

It’s wild how quickly
a madman at the wheel
can warp reality.

This is not okay.

I am not okay.

But I am not giving up.
And I am not giving in.

And neither should you.

We can’t.

There is the other side of this —
and we have to fight like hell
to reach it.

— Liora

This piece is accompanied by a witness poem, Say Her Name, written for Renee Good:

Liora Writes Presents: The Reckoning Lens

Say Her Name

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3 months ago · Liora Writes

Note: This is a longer reflection (approx. 20 min read). Take your time with it, come back if you need to. It’s heavy, but it matters.

This piece touches upon loss and suicide, please take care of yourself while reading.

Today marks the 24th anniversary of 9/11… Originally written just after Memorial Day, what follows is both remembrance and reflection: on service, loss, survival, and connection. I share it now because the ache of 9/11, Memorial Day, and personal losses are intertwined for me. This is my way of honoring them.

Finding the Words

I tried to record this thought train on Memorial Day, but my app failed and all I got was muted mumbling.

I tried to record it similarly the year before by a beautiful spot beside the lake. Finished it after crying a bit, only to find I’d failed to hit record.

Don’t you love it when either tech fails or you glitch in the moment?

Frustrating? Very.

Through with it? Not by a long shot.

So here we go…

9/11: The Call to Arms

Today marks the 24th anniversary of a day none of us can forget. Collectively, we carry the trauma and catastrophic loss our nation endured, but also the solidarity we felt as a people in the aftermath.

The unspeakable. A day of national trauma; those in the vicinity of the attacks pouring their hearts and themselves into rescue operations for so many lost… the rest of us glued to our television sets, helpless to do anything but watch it all unfold.

Our shock and terror were slowly replaced by grief and a profound sense of loss. That shared grief begot a sense of solidarity quite unique in our collective memory. People were furious at those responsible, but kinder to one another within our borders. Pettiness was largely rejected in those early days.

I’d already submitted my application to rejoin the Army when the attacks occurred. Two days later, I heard from my recruiter and arranged to in-process. I had small children. I knew beyond a shadow of a doubt this meant I would deploy. I was afraid of what might happen.

I did it anyway.

We all felt that call deeply.

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Hey everyone! Wow, what a month so far! Where to start. I don’t know about you, but I’ve been just a bit preoccupied with the hijinks out of Washington lately. Between the Epstein saga and our feckless leader’s escalating disregard for law or democracy, it feels a bit like every day has started off with a shit show in the morning news over coffee.

Coffee is sacred time.

Mornings are for coffee and contemplation. —Jim Hopper, Stranger Things

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“Imagine” by A Perfect Circle
Originally written and recorded by John Lennon (whose work I deeply respect and love), this version, sung by Maynard James Keenan, is fraught with the tension I feel in the world today. It speaks to our current moment in a way that resonates more sharply, and that’s why I’ve chosen it here.

The Mask.

So.

I’m really dropping the mask here.
I hope you’ll hear me in the spirit this is intended.

I’m an introvert.
This is fucking hard.

Once upon a time, I was freer with myself and better able to connect with others.
Time and traumas and social isolation.

What a monstrous trio.

But my story hasn’t ended.
The final curtain has not dropped.

I’m still here.

And, more, I long for true connection.

But also, I feel the pull to write…
About my feelings.
About my pain.
About my losses.
About my growth.

And also, about my rage.

The insanity in our world today.
I’ve actually written a great deal on this subject but haven’t shared as much here…

Yet.

Maybe this was an oversight.
Maybe I was trying to show you who I am as a person.
A slightly more-palatable version of myself, that is.
Let you see some of my journey to get to this place, here and now.

Maybe I’m just trying really hard not to overwhelm the feed or any of you.

I sometimes think my overwhelm, in turn, overwhelms others.
Not my mission. Ever.

This is not rage… this is me reaching out…

I’m truly seeking connection with others.
With you, dear Reader.

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Two months already? Whoa…

I sincerely hope this month has treated you well so far. I’ve been in the thick of some personal chaos, but I’m still here, still writing, still swinging.

Let’s just say life’s been throwing twirling chainsaws my way lately, working through it, as always.
And have you ever tried to twirl a chainsaw? Yeah… a little bite-y.

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My dad was hilarious. A true genius, yet grounded and down-to-earth. He was a Chief Petty Officer in the U.S. Navy and spent much of my childhood at sea.

When he came home, it was like Christmas morning. Yes, he often brought souvenirs, but that wasn’t it.

It was the bright excitement of possibility: of being near the person who felt like the most special person in the world. Of delight in the silliness and laughter that would soon be mine to soak in again.

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Welcome to my first newsletter! I hope you are doing well and enjoying the warm weather. I've been creatively in the weeds...more on that in a bit.

Have you ever hit a wall metaphorically and then proceeded to keep trying to walk through it? Like it's going to magically change just for you?

Okay, maybe not, but it's a feature of my life at times. The funny thing is, I always try. Old dogs, new tricks and all that.

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