I’m Jess. I don’t make the rules. I just live here.

I write about emotional sabotage, psychiatric survival, and the deeply inconvenient persistence of hope.
I don’t believe in silver linings, but I do believe in writing until the chaos makes a shape.
Sometimes that shape is funny. Sometimes it smokes.

I live with three unruly roommates:

• Arnesto (PTSD): Draped in velvet and bad memories, he kicks over my coping mechanisms and delivers monologues no one asked for—especially at 3AM.

• Agnes (Depression): Lies facedown in a cardigan that smells like missed calls and old coffee.

• Andreas (Anxiety): Keeps a spreadsheet made of construction paper and scotch tape, cataloging imaginary threats, and worries the Tooth Fairy might sue him.

My work sits somewhere between memoir, theatre, and a nervous breakdown you can read on your lunch break.
I write for people who’ve survived things they’re still trying to name.

Breakdowns are typically free, or generously covered by your nearest insurance loophole.

Things I’ve Done to Treat My Depression (Abridged for Elegance and HR Friendliness):

• A curated selection of FDA-approved mood modifiers

• The full alphabet of SSRIs, SNRIs, mood stabilizers, and “this might help” prescriptions

• Three different types of neurofeedback, one of which involved looking at dolphins

• TMS, EMDR, THC, and a brain stimulator that looks like it was made by Fisher-Price

• Acupuncture, chiropractors, and supplements sold by people in scarves

• At least one practice I can neither confirm nor deny involved mushrooms

• Dr. Kaya aka Brain Goddess—the psychiatrist who doesn't flinch, who names the monsters without making them bigger, and who handed me blueprints instead of Band-Aids.

• And, of course, hope. Which is apparently not billable.