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This morning’s comment/writing/sharing prompt: Tragedy and Trauma Adjacent. (Patreon)

Published:
2025-10-07 11:50:14
Imported:
2026-06
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Content

Hello my dears.

I want to give you a comment prompt. A writing prompt. A sharing prompt!! They’re all the same thing, ta da!!

As long or as short as you want. This post is paid patron only and will always remain so. This is a safe space. Use your humor.

It’s always nice to comment on one another’s posts.

OK! GO!! WRITE!!!!

I’m reading comments through the week and, honestly, into the year….so don’t feel the need to rush. I’ll be referring back to these prompt posts alllllll year.

I won’t be able to answer every comment but I’ll slap a heart once I’ve read.

I’m going to be doing a lot of these as I write write write my ass off this year, and I intend to pull stories and anecdotes and life out of you. I am an idea vampire !!! I suck your soul out with love!! No, really, I’m just a basic bitch writing a book and the themes are wide and varied.

And as I write my own ideas from my own lived experience, I’m also writing…..everybody’s story. One of the fun parts of the book is that it’s all mixed together. I’m also interviewing people far and wide.

Our stories are, at the end of the day, all the same. That’s part of the point of the book.

So: go wide, go minutiae!!!

Talk about family or relationships or Trump or old old intergenerational trauma. Talk about your shit day at work.

But here’s the theme of the prompt, interpret at will!!!:

Trauma and Tragedy Adjecent.

What’s that mean? You decide. It’s about being next to something tragic you have no control over, but must live with. The alcoholic family member who moves in. The neighbor’s house exploding. The country next door is a war zone. One step removed, but you’re tangled.

I have been using the term “Shit Adjacent” liberally this year - it’s so handy - and making people guffaw.

It may become a chapter title.

…….

I was going to write a long post this morning about seeing Hamilton. talking with David Byrne, going to an interactive D&D show with Ash, and, last night, seeing my old friends in SWANS…but it’s gonna have to wait til tomorrow because dammit I slept in.

I also have to get this tour announced today.

It’s nice having too much to do. It’s making me forgetful, but for reasons I like…for a change.

If my head wasn’t screwed onto my body, I’d give it to you as a tier incentive.

(Speaking of which, the next webhang for the upper tiers is OCT 9 at 5-7pm!! Join us…!!

https://www.crowdcast.io/c/0dhd22n97uqp

I’m sure we will be discussing this post and what it brought up for people).

Xxxxx🔥🤘♥️

AFP

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Comments

Vicki Callanan

Carnival and Eulogy It's early October, and everyone is shouting Every one has their mouth full of sticks Incendiary and muffled at the same time. How can I write when my letters turn to ash in the grate? How can I dance, when the marionette strings tug taut? This is the year all the mothers flew away like startled birds and they weren't meant to leave yet, their hands still full of needlework and untold stories their exhaustion speaking louder than their words. I flit about, at once cacophonous and quiet shrill, untethered try to find a way to lash concepts sellotaping grief to gratitude mulch them in the same pot all I have and all I'm losing. How can I not sing when, at nighttime I stare cruelty squarely in the eyes, You don't know this about me: I am awake conversing with the ghosts while you sleep. How can I not wrap myself in colour when the grey seeps softly into all our souls, lodging there malignant senseless, as we come apart at the seams. This October, it would help me if you could grasp the both and, without trying to amend either. This October, it would help me if you could join me in a song that is, at once, carnival and eulogy.

Kris Smerick

It seems petty but I got shamed and excluded by my husband’s best friend group this past weekend. Pack mentality. Love then rejection then “oh no we LOVE you”. They are Pack. I’m not a joiner. I keep learning this lesson. But on the heels of my cancer diagnosis (barf) I really needed a healing weekend, a loving and kind time. And instead I got a middle aged version of Mean Girls with gender norms thrown in for good measure. And I’m struggling!! I’ve been through so much worse! But I’m truly f-ed up about this. Anyway. Sometimes it’s the small cuts that sting the worst.

Michael Andrade

This is a part of what I workshopped with a writer's group last month. Our original itinerary showed that we’d leave out of San Francisco on July 18th, 2001 at 2:10pm Pacific Time, and we’d get into Athens, Greece (via Munich, Germany) in the afternoon of the 19th. We’d have about ten days of authentic vacation in several locales, tagging along with family and friends of the newlyweds. And we’d experience the local culture with the benefit of our guides who had been born and raised in these areas, knew the land and the language, and brought a sense of security and safety with them. After all the festivities, the itinerary listed that we’d be catching a plane in Athens on July 29th, returning to San Francisco (again with a stopover in Munich) in the afternoon of that same day. But that isn’t how it happened. First of all, when we went to catch the small flight from the island of Samos where we’d stayed the last several days of the trip, the flights were canceled. Some thought it was because of high winds. But I never have figured out what had gone on at that airport that day. By the time we’d gathered all our things, caught a cab and dragged ourselves into the teeming fray of chaos inside the small Samos airport, I had been awake for more than 24 hours, I was both homesick and reluctant to leave this beautiful island, and I’d gathered so many unanswered questions and puzzles inside my head that my mind was nearly on tilt. What would end up happening is that my mind would tilt, overheat, reboot, and start sending signs to others that I was out of order. I was along for the ride, but something else was driving the vehicle. And it wasn’t a binary, on or off sort of thing. I wove in and out of a foggy consciousness, imparting wisdom in some common situations, and over reaching in many others. Eventually, Suzy got the help we needed, and she got good advice and assistance. And though it wasn’t easy, we did not make that flight out on July 29th. I was admitted to a clinic and evaluated for anything and everything, given an MRI, drug tests, an extensive physical examination. We didn’t know what had happened, and neither did any of the doctors that tended to me. But getting looked at and talked to by the various staff slowly began a stabilizing process that allowed me to get my feet back on the ground. Unfortunately, we still needed to get on a plane and fly home after I had been stabilized. But we’ll get there eventually. When we finally did get out of the hospital and buckled into our seats on the plane back home, it was Wednesday, August 1st, 2001. I was better, but heavily drugged on Zyprexa, so I mostly slept for the entire flight. But from July 29th to August 1st was no vacation for me, for Suzy, or for any of our family and friends. Maybe I was lucky to be out of it for most of it. But that still doesn’t make me feel better. Now it’s September 2025 as I write this sentence, and I still haven’t made sense of it. I don’t know that I ever will. Not sure I even want to. But I do want to make some sense of things, and remember the haunting and enthralling mind machinations that I lived through. Was it all scrambled eggs? Or is there wisdom and insight in these things I cannot control? Is there a level of consciousness at work here that knows some answers to questions that bubble up and around in the stew of my thinking? When I think back to my world, our world, in the summer of 2001, there were so many things that were about to change drastically. If only to consider air travel, security, and the 9-11 terrorist attacks. For me, though, I’d already been through a cataclysmic event where I lost touch with my self and my sense of reality, more than a month before 9/11/2001. And I don’t know if it was our healthcare system, or the doctors I saw, or the run around, or what exactly, but I didn’t get a diagnosis of bipolar disorder for more than another year after I’d returned home and gone back to work. And that whole time, friends and coworkers were asking me what happened, or if I was okay, and so on, I didn’t have answers either. And that didn’t help my mental health. (Any and all comments welcome. Thanks!)

Michael Andrade
>>189782939

Yes, Kris, I hear you. I think part of what exacerbates our emotional sensitivity as we're going through in this chaotic time is the layers of scabs and wounds and traumas were processing. Maybe that's why is seems that the sense or pain is out of whack or not commensurate with the current wound? I don't know. I know I have felt something similar, where it's like I run out of fucks to allot way too early in the day, and a stubbed toe can feel like a descent into Hell. Not because we are unjustified in what we're feeling, but because all these sedimentary layers have accumulated, and we're carrying around this emotional lasagna that frickin hurts, and a tiny poke or a double booted stomp is a screaming ouch... It's partly the overwhelm for those that empathize. There are only a finite number of cells in our bodies, and they are busy with more than anybody knows-- and that's before others get involved, before doctors and family and friends and coworkers and selfish bothers and such. Before the car breaks down or the jury duty summons... We ain't doing sustainability with much mindfulness. You are allowed to nap. To summon help. To have your needs trumpeted. Heal. Rest. Love yourself. Laugh. Get around to you and what you want to do. Fuckit List, Bucket List, Chicken Goddamn Nuggets List. You and right now. Hugs.

Anna J

Trauma-adjacent... I was struggling with asking for what I needed from my team at work this summer, and Len asked if I had read The Art of Asking. Even though I've been an observer on the internet and a member of the fanbase for A Very Long Time, I had not, so I picked up the audiobook. With 🐳 that you're going through now, I had not realized that I was picking up your account of the story of your marriage and learning to trust in that relationship. In the first description of struggling with the decision whether to accept a loan, a wave of pain and sadness washed over me for your current situation and all that couldn't be foreseen. I had to put the book down until I could be better prepared to hear about it from the perspective of 2016. So much has happened in the years since then. The world feels like a different place. I was able to pick the book back up this week, and finished listening to it today. I love you. I'm sorry. It's going to be okay. We're all going to die. It's just a ride 🎡

Tempest

I work for a suicide hotline center, so my whole job, half of my daily life, is tragedy and trauma adjacent. Various or secondary trauma, burnout, compassion fatigue, are things that are talked about regularly in my field because of this proximity. Everything affects everything, so we also have to be up to date on local or global disasters, community upheavals, high-profile suicides, and drastic changes in accessibility, because it directly impacts the number of people reaching out and how we can help them. I'm very lucky to work for the agency I'm with. I'm grateful that they stand firmly and vocally with marginalized communities. I'm grateful that in my work, the bottom line is the number of people heard and not dollars earned. It's a strange niche of work, not unlike confessional or sin eating. The counselor really is adjacent to the help-seeker: they are not experiencing the trauma of crisis, but they sit with them, next to them, while they move through it. A shoulder to cry on is a physical support, without it you can lose your balance completely. Adjacency is necessary for balance. I'm happy to discuss the topic of suicide prevention and work in the field anytime Amanda, just send me a message and we can connect. Edited to add: After reading through other suicide related comments, I need to acknowledge that some people have bad experiences with the hotlines. Counselors who aren't compassionate or allow themselves to be human, or the mode of conversation isn't the best fit for the situation coming up. This is real and valid, and I'm sorry when this happens for anyone. Human beings on both sides of the phone are complicated and there is no one-size-fits-all solution. I have had the honor of speaking to thousands of people and carrying their hearts for a short time, and I never take that trust for granted. Choose what is best for you, as a unique person with a unique life. Just also know that the line is there too, completely free and 24/7/365, if you want to try it.

tess

Ohhhh im just seeing this… but i write something kinda like this in my journal this morning (edited names and some personal details out and fixed grammar lol): “I am addicted to fine-ness. To everything being “fine”. This is why I don’t push back, or speak my mind, or rock the boat, until it’s too late and I end up having to destroy whatever it is that I built because I couldn’t speak up to fix the small sickness when it was creeping up and it went on to destroy the entire thing. Some examples? Well, I’ve ruined many a friendship and relationship this way. People have taken and taken and taken me for granted until I couldn’t do anything else but run away. When I was 15 I used a broken computer for months because I didn’t want to tell my parents that one of the hinges of my laptop was broken, in case my dad had a screaming fit at me as he often did. My instinct is to run away. To isolate myself. I do miss being able to live alone. In Utah, the rent for my one-bedroom apartment was around $800 and change. I lived there for two years by myself. Deals like that are few and far between in Salt Lake, but pretty much nonexistent in New York. It was bliss, except for the fact that I lived in Utah. But really, I was miserable. I was actively in my eating disorder for the majority of the two years I lived there, I hated my BFA program, I had very few friends (and none that I still talk to), and I genuinely hated myself. I was very alone. I don’t want to be alone anymore, but being with others requires conflict. And I have to trust and can’t run away anymore. And it’s really scary, but I think I can do it.”

Skyeanna Malito

Trauma Adjacent: I have a friend, not someone close, but who I know through our local craft fair, who had been trying for years to have a child, and finally got pregnant, with twins. She was so happy. And I was so happy for her. Partway through her pregnancy, they learned that the twins weren't doing so well, the girl especially. They had choices to make, and absolutely none of them were good. Long story short, since I don't want to cry too much right now, she gave birth to both, and they were so beautiful. But at less than two weeks old, the little girl was suffering too much, and they knew she wasn't going to make it, so my friend had to make the decision to take her tiny new baby off life support. And I just feel so heartbroken that life can be so cruel, but I don't think there's anything I can do right now to help. I just feel sick about it.

Lafayette

I guess I’ll lead with the big gun - I’m a survivor of human trafficking. It’s complicated and wild and lascivious, but as I get older I mostly just feel angry about it, rather than sad or depressed. Angry that men ruined my childhood because they felt like their own desires were more important than someone else’s life. I see that anger everywhere I go now - in politicians and petty bosses and bankers and boyfriends. And I’m angry that I’m still angry. But I’ve been privileged enough to turn that anger into something cool, and now I’m a clinical social worker doing therapy with rural Queer kids in Western Massachusetts - just like the kid that I was. I hope they can be a little less angry than I am.

Len Tower Jr.
>>189810027

Tess, No need to fix the grammar here. Compromise is part of being with others. Each giving something for the others, Its social & builds family. To me it elevates to conflict, when there is anger/negative emotion or manipulation. Best, Len

Pippin

my mother is not stuck in her trauma like she used to be. she's healing and growing and i'm proud of her. it's been a really significant few years. but we didn't get to build anything solid off of this healing, and this also happens to be when old patterns came to a head and i've had to cut her off for things she hasn't gotten to yet. i couldn't afford another round of it. i'm not sure i'd survive. it kills me that it's happening while she's finally getting somewhere. i know she misses me. i know she doesn't understand what went wrong. i know she's trying her best, and it's the worst time to be losing a child over old failures. but right now her tragedy is my freedom. i hate it, but i can't do this until i get a foothold in myself again and can withstand the storm she carries.

Hannah Adams

In 2016, I was living in a cabin on Orcas Island at the beginning of what would be a very long, horrifying and dreary divorce process. My daughters were with their dad. I was attempting to close my eyes since I hadn't slept a full night in weeks, and I heard a crash. The neighbor had a hug cat named Goto. This predator had literally jumped through a window (breaking the glass) in order to obtain access to Nom (OUR cat) sleeping next to the wood stove. Before I even knew what was happening, he had her by the neck. I jumped up and grabbed Goto's tail and managed to get him away from her, but her turned back and clamped down on my wrist. I could feel his teeth crunch down on something, and I screamed. The more I tried to break free, the more Goto crunched down. This cat wanted to do damage, but I finally got a hold of a book nearby (The Science of Enlightenment by Shinzen Young which I totally recommend) and I used it to smack him a few times. He let go and jumped out the broken window, looking back at me with an expression that suggested he was not done with me (and he wasn't, but that is another story). Meanwhile, I am out in the middle of nowhere without a car. I didn't have two dimes to rub together to call a cab. I was in shock. I had a hostile and estranged husband and no cell. I had blood all over me. One of my neighbors came home eventually, and I hitched a ride to the local doctor. He cleaned my wrist and gave me antibiotics. Nonetheless, my temperature hit 104 the following evening which led to an off-island ER visit. Turns out my tendons were chewed up and I had wrist surgery. Fun times! I came back to the cabin, cleaned up and mopped the blood off the floor one handed (proud of myself). I went to sit out on the porch and enjoy the most beautiful place I had ever lived during the darkest and most difficult times in my life. I have a really beautiful scar on my wrist.