TW/CW: mental health struggles, burnout, depression, suicidal ideation, healthcare frustration, self-doubt, creative block

Just popping in with an update. (Casual. Normal. Definitely not emotionally loaded at all.)

I’m trying. I really am. I know it might not look like it—and honestly, sometimes it feels like I’m failing in real time—but I am trying. I’m struggling more than I like to admit, and that’s just the truth of it. I have so much love for this space, but damn, it’s hard to exist here when I feel like I’ve burned bridges I can’t fix. I guess I’ll carry that pain with me like I do everything else. Please don’t feel bad for me—I’m very familiar with my own disappointment by now.

I’ve tried working on my remaining fics and… fuck, it’s hard. Everything feels forced, like I’m chasing a version of myself that isn’t showing up right now. And that frustrates me deeply, because I miss writing traumatic comedy fics 🥹 Maybe the spark will come back one day. I hope it does.

I know it’s been some time since the whole “want to go back to the old tumblr vibes” and I’m still there, lol. I’ve been having ideas and I’ve been trying to figure out how to go about it. I truly do miss it here.

Tumblr was part of the thing that kept me alive in some of my darkest times—-and I want to honor that, and bring that back. Also. I miss my friends and my moots 🥹

I’ve remade my discord in case you want to talk, or yell at me for being stupid and dramatic enough to delete it in the first place (oh how I wish I hadn't deleted it, but I’m older and wiser now). 

My username is still @kingofbodyrolls because I’m unoriginal like that.

Also.

If anyone wants to play ffxiv with me, hit me up! It’s basically my second home 😂

(I’m really trying to come back more, while still honoring my mental health, while also realizing that this might actually help make my mental health better, so I’m giving it a try okay. Please be kind (when are you not???))

I need to share something before I drop my new series.

I just watched a TED talk by Amie McNee (god, I adore her—her book We Need Your Art: Stop Fucking Around And Make Something is one I’ll never stop recommending). She reminded me of something I keep forgetting, something that feels like oxygen every time I return to it: the importance of making art. Daily.

If you’ve been following me for a while, you know how much I’ve struggled here—both in my writing and in myself. For a long time, the question that haunted me was: Who do I make art for? My old answer was always “everyone” or “the world.” But that answer almost destroyed me.

Because the truth is, I wasn’t creating for the world—I was creating for validation. I was creating to soothe my trauma responses, to fill the void where love and safety should have been. That’s why I deleted my original blog (for those who didn’t know). I needed to step away, to rewrite my own narrative, to stop bleeding for applause.

Little Lissa used to write only for herself. She wrote to survive a childhood where she felt invisible, unloved, misunderstood. Her words were secret companions, a way to breathe when breathing was hard. And I’m learning to return to her—to write for me again.

Here’s the thing: art doesn’t have to be for the internet. It doesn’t have to be for anyone. It can be messy, nonsensical, private. It can exist solely to heal you. When I self-published my book, it wasn’t for sales (which, unsurprisingly, didn’t come). It was for me. For the younger version of myself who once dreamed it might be possible. For the few people who did read it, I hope it mattered. That’s the magic Amie talks about—that art can be someone’s antidote. That in the right moment, one poem, one painting, one song, can stitch something invisible inside another person. That’s alchemy.

Writing has always been my therapy. Whether it’s poetry, stories, or fanfiction, I write to mend what I once believed was broken. It wasn’t broken—it was bruised, and word by word, I’ve been tending to it. And you can do the same. Whether you paint, sing, cook, weave, garden, sculpt, or stitch—you are repairing yourself when you create. You are becoming.

So yes, writing will always define me. Some of it is just mine, a quiet conversation with myself. Some of it I share, because I believe there’s power in connection, in saying: Here, this is me—do you see yourself too?

And maybe this post is just me rambling (wouldn’t be the first time), but maybe someone out there needs to hear this:

Trigger warning: suicide, self-harm, depression, trauma, autism

I’m still here, hanging on by the edges. The aftermath of my suicide attempt is a dull, heavy thing that follows me around like winter; depression is the weather. My son was recently diagnosed with autism, I’m still waiting for my own diagnosis, I’m learning to set boundaries with my dad, and honestly—everything else—all of it is piled up in my arms at once. It’s fucking exhausting.

But I’m still here. I always have been the one who fights her way back, step by step, because what else is there to do? An old friend told me once to put one foot in front of the other—that’s the map I’m following, hoping there’s a clearing ahead.

My mood tilts without warning. Some days I’m small and soft; other days I’m a fury I didn’t know I had. I miss people I drifted away from—I think I abandoned them before I even knew how to stay. Imagine a tiny graveyard of friendships I couldn’t hold for three decades. It’s gruesome and kind of funny in that sad way.

Advocating for myself is uphill. The mental health system feels like a maze that was never built for someone like me, and sometimes I want to throw my hands up and stop trying altogether. But then I remember the small things I’m trying to find again: a cup of tea that tastes like a little victory, a sentence that lands right in a notebook, the way light looks on an afternoon I didn’t ruin.

I think I found my anger—thank god? I was never allowed to be angry as a kid. Anger used to scare me because it felt disloyal to the “nice” version of me. Now it’s a compass. It says when something’s wrong. I used to shove that voice down with everything else. I’m listening now. It’s helping me pull at the seams and find out who I actually am beneath all the performed smiles and pleases.

I’m not around much here because I’m afraid. Afraid of the guilt for ghosting people, afraid of falling into the vanity of likes and followers. It doesn’t help me, so I keep my distance. Still—I do want to share a win: I finished a new fic. A whole Jimin series. It needs editing, and I won’t promise a date—it’ll appear when it’s ready. That’s how it goes with me.

If you read this: please be kind to yourself. You are loved, even when you feel like a ghost 🌷🫂

Trigger warning: death, cancer, mention of suicide

Life can be unbearably cruel. Fragile—yes, I’ve always known that— but why did you have to go so soon?

A dear friend left this world a few days ago, and my emotions have been a storm ever since. Grief has many faces: today it wears sadness, tomorrow frustration, sometimes it even comes dressed in rage— at the world, at myself, at the sheer unfairness of it all.

She had cancer. I knew time was not on her side. But she was only thirty-four. Too young for goodbyes. Too young for the word never.

And when I said I wanted "space and time for myself" that was a big fat lie. That was just me being my triggered self retreating, doing my normal "I'll abandon them first dance" and then "I hope someone reach out to me..." (childhood trauma here, because I used to cry alone in my room and no one came...) but I just wanted someone to come, sit with me and understand me 🥺 I still do that. I am still that sad and scared little kid. I don't want be alone, but I'm scared that people will leave me... So I leave them first 😭

Just wanted to say... I'm doing a bit better. I'm feeling very stressed with life, but mentally I'm doing okay. I'll check all my notes later and respond to everyone of you 🫂💕

I... I'm sorry. Truly. I do not know what I did to derseve so many sweet and lovely people to care about silly old me 😭

Thank you for being here. For reading my stories, for sitting with my words, for meeting me in the quiet corners of this space. Thank you for making this place feel like home, even if only for a fleeting moment.

To my moots— you’ve been lights in the fog, flickers of warmth in cold hours. I’ve met some beautiful souls here, and I carry you with me— more deeply than you may ever know.

Even if we no longer speak, even if we drifted like tide and shore, please know: you mattered. You matter. The light you gave me— I hold it close, a lantern for the darker nights to come.

It’s sort of like a smol place for self-help and inspiration for healing, being kind and true to yourself.

And a place for me to rant and post my thoughts and feelings—kind of an extension of the book to be honest. 

If you are into healing, mental health, poems and existential life topics check the blog out: @softly-rooted

There’s also a tiny instagram (_softlyrooted_) page for it, if you’re into that sort of thing.