FEATURED POST

(Mis)adventures with EDs + the picture of a dead bulimic girl slumped over a toilet that reified severe mental illness for me.

In which I wake up from a three-year methadone and fentanyl coma, and, shockingly, do not regret my Internet presence. I remember the psych ward and a friend / roomie who killed himself; I summon a demon; I am reborn.

It's looking like there's some really gruesome, outright transactional "politics" behind the ban on 7-OH and SR-17018.

Stream-of-consciousness reflection on a relapse in progress.

Wretched, interminable relapse + cyber bullying: 7,300 days of being a loser; on being called a ghoul and a navel-gazer.

If someone else were paying me to write this, I might feel compelled to begin with something pithy and breathless: "Even as poet Laura Ingram's body vanishes, her body of work grows..." It's a good thing that no one else is writing over my shoulder.

Vent post: When I was a little boy, I always dreamed that I'd be 37, stuck in my hometown in a dead-end teaching job; biochemically handcuffed to methadone after years of carpet-bombing my receptor systems; physically and emotionally separated from my fiancé, who is geographically so far away that he couldn't be any more distant without leaving planet Earth (although, to be fair, I have become such a ghost of myself that it arguably wouldn't matter if we were physically toget