Some say I have too much audacity.
I’ll do you one better.
I somehow have both too much audacity and too much shame.

I’ll do something with my whole chest, then immediately shrivel into a sentient anxiety spiral.

Case in point:
I got irrationally angry at Instagram and took it out the only way I know how.
Slam poetry.
Directed at Mark Zuckerberg.
While my cat watched from the toilet seat. Horrified.

Was that a neurotypical way to process frustration? No.
Was it effective? Actually, yeah. Cathartic, even.
So I posted it.
Felt proud.
Vulnerable.
Alive.

And then the TikTok got zero views in the first five minutes, and my soul physically left my body.

So what did I do?
I deleted the app.
Just dipped.
Left my digital mess like,
“You know what? Time for me to perish.”

Then I stared at my reflection and redownloaded it.
Muttering:
“You coward. You’re the closest you’ve ever been to your dreams, and you can’t handle a little algorithmic rejection??”

Because apparently, that’s what authors do.
Yell into the void, emotionally combust, and then gaslight ourselves back into the delusion.

What can I say?
Being perceived is the most exhausting thing in the world.

I’m out here chewing through the wires of my self-worth like an emotional rodent with imposter syndrome.

And when someone gives me attention?
The rodent energy escalates.
I panic like I’ve been caught holding a dream too big for my tiny, trembling hands.

Especially when it's a dream everyone scoffs at.

“‘Being a writer.’ What are you, twelve?”
No, Carlos. I’m just delusional with intent.

And also… maybe.
I was a weird little contradiction at twelve.
Like, emotionally ancient, but also genuinely convinced Red Bull was a gateway drug.

That’s what happens when you’re the main caretaker of a five-year-old, because your mom won’t get help for her long-term postpartum depression.

Seriously… I think that explains a lot about why I am the way I am.
Why social media freaks me out.
Why attention feels like a threat.

I spent my whole life taking care of and trying to please other people.
And then I woke up at twenty-five like,
“Oh shit! I’ve never lived for myself.
Everything I ever did was to make my parents happy, and they don’t even talk to me anymore.”

So I handled that realization in the healthiest way possible.

Just kidding.
I resurrected my dream of being a writer.
Wrote two books in seven months.
Went so hard that I didn’t menstruate for almost that whole time.

Do you UNDERSTAND??
I poured so much into those books, they physically absorbed my reproductive rage.

And now I’m like…
Please, someone see it.
But also? DON’T.

Because prioritizing myself — my wants, my feelings —
has never gone well for me before.

Anyway, that’s not the point.

The point is… I’ve accomplished so many things in my life that I am grateful for.
Especially at my young ass age.
So yeah, I know I should probably be on my knees daily, praising Jesus for the blessings.

But none of it has ever felt this personal.

And because of that… everything feels like the end of the world.
Like if this one thing — the thing I’ve truly wanted — doesn’t work?

That’s it.
That’s the end.
The voice in my head wins.

Never reaching dreams is already hard…  even when you don’t try.

But trying your best, getting close, seeing everything you’ve ever wanted at your fingertips… then having it disappear?

That’s just heartbreak.

I don’t know if I’ll be able to gaslight myself into delusion again.

…

I hope I do, though.

Because if there’s one thing I know about myself, it’s that I can get through anything.

I’ll shatter, glue myself back together, and maybe one day someone will see the gold in the cracks.

And even if they don’t… I’ll leave behind a good story.
That’s all we can ever ask for.

Don’t you think?

Ah yes, social media.

Where art goes to starve and authors go to dance for scraps of relevance.

The truth is, sometime around sophomore year of highschool, I made the wisest decision of my teenage years and deleted all of it. 

There were several reasons for this.

One, it took too much of my precious time. There was painfully little to begin with once I finished all my AP homework, studied for tests, and acted as a couples therapist for my parents.

Two, it made me sad. There I was: pimply, depressed, and again… the emotional bedrock of my family, despite not knowing what a 401K was or how to boil rice properly. I had to watch all these other lucky children go to prom rather than tutor and babysit their younger sibling and actually have a childhood. 

Some kids got corsages. I got passive-aggressive texts from my mom and the privilege of explaining divorce to a 9-year-old, only for it to not even happen because codependency.

Three, my psychotic step-sister who tried to kill me several times as a child was viewing my stories, and listen, if anyone's gonna haunt me, it better at least be a literary agent.

Am I okay?
The answer is a solid KIND OF.

The irony is not lost on me.
I deleted social media for my mental health.
Publishing now demands I build a “platform.”

So here I am. Performing. For strangers.
Like the tired, traumatized Aries moon I am.

Let’s hope the algorithm notices.