International Sex Workers Day

I follow an aggregate Instagram, @not.a.statistic.19, that collects stories from around the globe involving sex workers. I would make a generous guess that 75% of those stories highlight the mistreatment workers face or the evil-doing they commit. A story of a woman robbing someone that gets plastered all over every UK outlet, a teacher that has an OnlyFans and is now fired, or the name of a murdered stripper. And then, of course, the compulsory slog through the comments to see what my peers are saying, how they are chiming in on whether a woman who teaches kids (and has no income in the summer months) should be allowed to have an OnlyFans. Should she be allowed to supplement her income for the off months?  No. She must now be destined to be unemployed, a lease terminated, back on her butt, and ironically, pushed even further into doing the work she was ostracized. 

But honestly, my peers,  200 to 1500 an hour is nothing to scoff at, is it? 

This daily torrent of opinion assaults me. These headlines, these snippets, and the over-eager civilian choir repeating that phrase I could die happy never hearing again: “get a real job.” 

But there are no jobs for us once you take our other means of living, our only means of living away. I’ve tried for years to explain to people the irony that policing us drives us more into the work. That alienating us makes it impossible for us to get more work. That evicting us for working out of our homes leaves us to face even greater dangers on the street. Arresting us only increases our financial need (bail, court, other fees), pushing us back into “the work.”

That bills like SESTA and Earn it, Draconian surveillance of the population at large, endangers all of us but ensure that we will be forced to meet clients on the street. No communication. No screening. 

To take away our kids? It will ruin us entirely. And something they never consider is that the money might be good.

Sex work is a low-barrier job. Anyone can enter forever, how long they want to. There is no training. There is no orientation.

Just need a couple of months’ rent? Jump on in! 

A little extra for your car note? Post an ad or start a clip site! 

Just don’t want to work as a case manager working 48 hours a week at 17/hr to be pat on the head and never promoted and lose your mind (hi, it’s me)? Quit, and save enough money to buy a house in only three years. 

I want to talk about the reality of the spectrum of work. 

That there are bad days, bad months, and wrong places to be in this industry and that there are also thriving, joyful spaces that accrue gold—in clients, money, and friends. That this is a community of people that can teach innumerable skills; marketing, social media, video editing, photo editing, customer service, modeling, fashion, copywriting, creative writing, and ad Infinium –  we are brimming with value. 

We are full of comrades and organizing too. Teachable, shareable skills only made possible by our work demands. 

And every day when I log on, I see “___ was beheaded in China” (based on the story of a model, a mother of four, murdered by her husband). Or “Earn It act on the table again threatening the digital privacy of porn and those who exchange it, watch it or make it.” Or “Despite not helping end trafficking, no repeal of SESTA is likely.” 

It’s International Sex Workers Rights Day, positioned purposefully in Women’s History Month, and I want to put a more considerable spin on it.

There is no faster opportunity to get out of poverty than sex work. Millions of women turn to it because they need the money, and thousands stay because they like it. We are not all trudging to hotels, head down, shamed daily. 

You shame us! 

We enjoy what we do; when we don’t, we enjoy the fast cash. We don’t have to be Happy Hookers to demand rights. We don’t have to be happy Case Managers to unionize. I left case management to pursue a financial goal, and I have never been happier in my entire life. There were many barriers to saving more than 1k a year, which was a scrape. I was never going to get out of debt. 

What I am asking for today is to examine why millions of women pursue such a horrifying job. Why aren’t they clawing their way out? Why do so many people return to the industry? 

People, especially women, with their own money cannot be bought by men. 

Sex work is a way out of abusive relationships and unsafe living conditions and to support the most basic necessities of one’s life. There will be stories from both sides, but today, of all days, can we consider that the wins are never shown? That this veil is purposeful in controlling our digital privacy and our bodies? That if so many women wanted out, we wouldn’t have such a colossal thriving industry to start? And how can you contribute to getting us our freedom? 

(Fight to repeal SESTA-FOSTA) – Take Action 

How do you contribute to keeping us jailed? 

(Fight to repeal SESTA-FOSTA). 

Then start there. And also, can you share some good news today?  


To streamline the appointment process, I have found it helpful to send a few pertinent details ahead of time to clear up confusion, questions and anxiety.

Address will be given and appointment will be confirmed either night before or morning of (depending on time of appointment).
Cash is expected. You may not pay the rest of the donation electronically.
Good hygiene is a huge turn on. I have a shower you may use if you have no time to shower 😉
There is no need to bring anything but yourself, however, I love kombucha, tea, and an occasional wine. I also love kush as you know. Gifts are always a yes. Toys are welcome! Outfits are also welcome in lieu of an outfit request tip.
Communication is super important to me. Please don’t ghost. I set aside time for you and turn down other engagements for this. If we have to reschedule we can, but I require 48 hours notice most of the time, otherwise I expect a tip or full payment. Please don’t flake in the middle of plans. If you’re having cold feet, tell me.
Don’t worry–i don’t bite. Unless you want me to.

Feel free to follow my twitter.com/catarinakush to see more of my personality before the date. To sext beforehand, sub to onlyfans.com/catarinakush, call my niteflirt, or email me for arrangement of payment details. I love sexting ahead of time or just chatting. Questions are allowed over NF or Skype. I try to keep explicit details off email.

Can’t wait to meet xx


Medicine & Ritual

“I swear to God. I swear at God. I won’t mention what He does to me. I lack nothing I need unless you count everything I want.” –Kaveh Akbar, Calling a Wolf a Wolf

The first journey I ever had, full journey, not the day I sucked on grapefruit all day to potentiate my mushroom chocolates with my best friend freshman year of college, frolicing through the woods at 10 pm watching our hands disappear into the bark. This was deeper, illuminating bits of me I was terrified to see. When I was 25, a man I had been dating three months told me he was moving to Boulder and asked me: do you want to do something new with your life or do you want to stay here and get drunk all the time? Like a gun to the temple, God, that’s a no-brainer. I was impulsive, freshly off house arrest, freshly undressed and growing my hair back after I shaved it in a black out. Adjusted my black bob wig, and said

“Sure. Sounds fun. But I have to ask my probation officer.”

I had lived in Virginia my whole life and was quite literally drowning on a daily basis. Third arrest. Second ultimatum received by a man (stop drinking or else). First time I ever considered the word “addiction” had more personal meaning to me than just something that runs in my family. Maybe a little more close to my chest than affecting those I cared about. The state cared nothing about whether I went to Colorado. I merely had to continue to get my paper signed saying I was attending AA, which I was, and then would resume downing jugs of wine when I got home, purple shit eating grin and no fucking clue where I was or what I was doing but always waking up in the middle of some imminent consequence. They said I had to go to AA. They didn’t say I had to participate.

My ex and I decided to have a big send off and go to Bonarroo, the huge music festival in Tennessee, and though I had quit drinking for my boyfriend, maybe four weeks by then, I told him I was going to have one last festivity. I blacked out immediately upon arrival and remember wearing my iPod at some point while Deerhunter was playing, texting my ex and telling him I was lost. Ended up watching The Wizard of Oz alone and fighting with my boyfriend over text. Undeterred, we bought a bag of psilocybin the next day and I decided to be the bigger person, since I had done this before, and take more than my ex and lead us on our journey.

Cut to me lying on the ground in the middle of the walkway. Cut to me staring at the Ferris Wheel mouth wide open. Cut to me asking him if he can see the scary faces too. Cut to someone high fiving us and offering us a stuffed animal. Cut to me watching a grasshopper slowly walk across the grass as Florence and The Machine played in the background and I heard a voice somewhere, a whisper. I turned to my ex and said “I’m an alcoholic. God told me I’m an alocholic and I don’t care what you do but I’m never gonna drink again.”

Cut to me drinking two beers the next day and poignant. Reflecting on the taste and the way it never seemed to hold me long. The way it enraptured me only in longing, but in actualizing the euphoria faded away. Cut to me throwing out my pack of cigarettes the next day, the ride back. Cut to me never drinking again. Cut to me never smoking cigarettes again. It’s been 12 years since I drank save one time when I drank a THC tincture to get high shortly after my dad died. I felt like he wanted the vodka the THC had been soaked in and I felt no real regret stumbling up the stairs, mumbling this isn’t terrible but it’s definitely not for me. I don’t even think about drinking. I don’t pine for it and if you would have told me that one day I’d tell you I don’t think about alcohol at all, I would slap you in your smug lying face feeling this some subtle acerbic judgement of how I spend my time.

“All I do is think about alcohol. All I do is think about not drinking alcohol, then drinking her again.”

They say you shouldn’t start the story in a boring way but capture the person first. Or exert expertise. Show rather than tell you have the sincerest understanding of subject matter. You are qualified. You are above all entranced by the dance between medicine and drugs, the fine line we draw based on how society has learned to handle the substance, and the depth of each compound. That it contains pieces of God and that it contains pieces of hell. That it is both addicting and freeing. Since that journey, I’ve had many more journeys; psilocybin, acid, thc, kratom, and most recently and even more potent for healing, MDMA. I have experience guiding people through these substances and with them, on them as well. I have experience mixing medicines. Mixing medicines with herbs. Taking too much and having a hard time, a bad time, a panic attack. Taking a small amount and merely seeing the sun shine through a branch and connecting the branch to the cardinal that usually means the dead is nearby. Feeling intuition take over my spine. Feeling the sun on my clavicle. Feeling the levity of death in life.

I am happy to offer medicinal journeys to people. I am happy to offer my expertise for those who want to journey on their own. I am excited for this new path I am on and to also continue using herbs and supplements to heal as well. Incorporate my herbalism training. Incorporate my reiki certification. My social work experience. Even my doula training. My years of helping and caregiving for the elderly. And my years of being stuck in a labyrinth of shadow, reaching. Learning every nook of myself. Learning the properties of the Earth and the medicine she offered me, almost baneful at times but in the right dose, clarifying. The poultice and the wound often come from the same exact place.

This is merely an introductory post. I am excited to elucidate these journeys more but TL:DR–I am offering guided MDMA sessions and select guided Psilocybin journeys as well. I will share more about my journeys with each. Above all else, please

“just say yes and step into the consequence.”

–kaveh akbar, calling a wolf a wolf


who am I?

I have been getting so many inquiries and I want to clear up a few things.

I am a kinky provider, alpha and dominant leaning. I offer a variety of services that are listed as plainly as I can list them on my site. Due to obvious reasons, you will in some cases, have to read between the lines. I offer companionship and domination. I also offer a mix of the two together. My motivation is playful mischief rather than total sadism, though I am a bit of a sadist at times. I am also a switch and will switch, over time, for those I have seen a few times and trust.

I also love witchcraft, sex magic and the sensual side.

If you are coming to me because you have a fetish and I don’t fit into your fetish of what a dominant witch should be doing, you are not submissive, sir, you have a fetish. While I do entertain fetishes and often enjoy exploring others’ kinky sides, I am not interested in being dictated to in an order to accommodate your every capricious need. If you have read my site, then you know that I am also here to teach cishet men how to practice consent and behave. I am more challenging than a softer GFE but just as wet.

I am soft.

I am also edgy.

I am assertive.

I am able to set boundaries.

I enjoy men who listen.

If you are confused, read it again.

If you are still confused, go follow my onlyfans.com/catarinakush or twitter.com/the_hard_fox to see how playful I am.

If you are not looking for a mischievous, playful fox, seek elsewhere.

If you like this, email me catarinakush484@pm.me with 1-2 references and linkedin or ID to screen. Deposits required.



Talk to me:
Include: one to two references with valid website/email. no phone numbers.
your full name, work number, and workplace or LinkedIn (for verification only) or similar verification (picture of drivers license, passport). Deposit (non-refundable) required for all appointments. Cancellations within 48 hours–I expect donation in full to be sent to me.

Look at me:

Twitter: https://twitter.com/catarinakush
onlyfans.com/catarinakush for videos and more pics.
See my stores:
catkush.manyvids.com (purchase individually or become a member for 50.00 a month and stream all of them)

send me money: c8shapp $catkush

I make customs xx too


my kink

I have been meaning to write this post forever. This about me. This flowery tale of what I like. This explanation of advertising. This peek into how I got here. I like anything.

That’s the truth.

My partners and I played games. I used to make them submit to my role playing games all the time. Not the regular nurse and sick patient, etc. but just making it up as we go. Introducing new elements. “Now, let’s get the ice cubes,” I’d suddenly say and then I’d swallow them with my hot mouth gone algid. Or I’d make them close their eyes until I said a certain innocuous word like “ok, dog’ and they’d pop them open to see what position I was in. I’d swat them if they touched me during the “hands off” game. “Ok, cat” and then they’d close their eyes again.

I have tried to introduce these games to my clients now but it is hard to advertise that you enjoy “making game up as you go.” That’s precisely it though. And my regulars get to see this side of me more. I ask for discreet likes so i can build on who you are and we can have fun together but I enjoy the spontaneity of teasing; suddenly presenting the flogger when there was no flogger before, to add an element of ploy to our tryst. I clearly had my own agenda all along. My regulars also see my more sensual and wigless side where I focus on the teachings of tantra to build the bond between us.

I like anything but I like the joy that comes from having an open mind and introducing elements into play based on personalities. I’ve outlined it several times: tease, tongues, gaze, dirty talk, instruments, light restraint, etc. but does anyone really understand what that means in motion? What does it mean to want to be in charge? It means I don’t like bossy bottoms. I will do scripted play so long as you allow room for creativity to enter. Ask anyone who has bought a custom from me. You very much are able and allowed to dictate but it better be brief and an outline. It’s not fun to do such detailed scenes. It’s not fun to walk into a pre-set date.

My job does not stick to a checklist but a nebulous feeling. Do you want to feel held? Do you want to feel teased? Do you want to feel slutty? Do you want to feel feminized? Do you want to feel both taken care of and dominated with force? First sessions are never that simple. I have people who see me monthly or every two or three months and our bond only gets stronger. I prefer long games: long dates, seeing people more frequently and am beginning to open to more sexual surrogacy services. Getting to know people assists more in how well the evening goes than a detailed email sent beforehand.

I am refusing to be boxed in to a check list. I offer both companionship and domination. My intensity never wavers but I present harsher online to deter certain people, and in person, an angelic sadist. I can develop very fast connections to people and tap into their energy to read the situation better. I repeat this often: things are only as interesting as we both make them. i am encouraging men to explore themselves little by little and be honest about needs while challenging the oppressive side of themselves that says they have to be demanding to be heard. I don’t take demands.

I am a witch and an energy reader. I like games, making them up, teasing men, and playing with different toys to enhance the game. The game is in my persona and speech more than the toys I use or lingerie I use. Feel free to bring your own toys or buy me a costume to wear, but this is not just about liberation from the tyrannical patriarchy but liberation from the shame of sex that was generationally inherited. Fun comes in many forms and if I hold anything close to my chest from childhood it’s that the most fun I ever had is when there was room to make it up.

I hope this clears up some mystery about me. Please stay up with me on twitter where I share glimpses of myself more frequently. I am open to many kinks and my biggest kink is playing games we make up on the spot.

My entire life has been informed by the space between us. 

There is the distance of my language and there is the distance of my touch.  Across the room but glowing. The warmest I’ll get is further away. 

They’ve memorized the muscles of my back

my pout and the echo of my cry-filling cavern
carved by the sound of my heels tapping;
retreating. Longing, and the way I succumb to holding, or allowing touch; recrudescent and poxed by them after a period of silence. Tarred by them after a period of respite. Not long enough. A period of cavern. Them, memorizing the color of my shoulder blades in the sun: tall and olive and taut from tension. Desperate for the light of distance. Spoked.  Tall, and wrought with tension.

 I am strolling. I am even sauntering.  Til I see them, I am strolling, then nothing, then tunnel vision. Emptied, but not quite that: automatic. Spurred by instinct. The pervading eyes and I am (smiling) seeing the space close in around me again. Lifeless, watching the move of my hip go from enriched by dance to torpid.  Dragged by shell. 

I am a shell.

Clench your jaw. Tighten your shoulders.Hip goes from bouncing to dead frozen in nervous. (That means it might shake).  The way there was once twenty feet between us. Suck in and walk straight. Swaying til I saw them.  Don’t trip. Ticking from nerves, looked gaily upwards til I saw them. Don’t look.  A pleasant thought crossed me right before I saw them.  My most pleasant thoughts are false memories.
That means I imagined the most pleasant experience of my life. 

Suddenly there was ten feet (I am smiling), then five feet (in reverie), then one foot. Suddenly the hand on my shoulder, on my middle back, the ubiquitous trail
towards my coccyx.  He towers,

“you’re too pretty.”

  I am smiling. They are a huddled mass.. So many of them with their fingers out
filling the space between us. I am smiling. Smile. They are reaching for me–
trailing their scummy fingernails down my tucked in blouse
and there is nothing underneath or inside of me.
I am vacant but I can hear the chorus, from
my safe distance.

“You are too pretty to frown.”

“the men”

International Womens Day

we see their happy posts today and we see
their allyship and we see these men dispose of us.
get rid of us when we become too difficult.
we see their mulish faces back away
when our fingers get too close
pointing out an egregious fault.
or asking them to stop,
asking them to stop interrupting us.
asking them to stop when we say no

(no then they come closer, when we say no, no is an opener)

we see their gaslighting.
we see them ogle us then shun us when emotion starts to spur
and we see them watch us with a wolfish, only half repentant smile.
we see them lurk around our houses.
we see them agress, encroach, make sure there is no less than 1 foot between us at all time,
even three inches as we try to pass them on the street.
see them grab our friends.
feel their fingers up our skirt.
we see them rehearse their favorite line “not me”
“not us” shh
but you just ghosted me and you assure her,
she is different. not like us. we see their time more valuable,
presence more valuable,
we see them publicly rate our bodies.
suddenly disappear in the midst of making plans.
we see their little holes mouth slut and we see
their devil red eyes when we cough the seventh no.
(because no means come closer. remember that part of this
poem if you remember nothing else. to men, no is a conversation starter).

we see their well meaning business advice, health advice,
they are experts at everything we are not.
we see them never donate.
we see them never tip.
we see them not give A FUCK about something called
painful bladder syndrome or PPMD or
anything that doesn’t affect a dick so there is no
funding, and no cure, and no reason why five million
people suffer daily, monthly but I have once rolled in a literal pile of
free Viagra and laughed. it was so plentiful
his swollen cock and balls in me for hours.

we see them interrupt us.
we see them follow us home.
we see them neg,
leave airtags in bags and under
cars and we see them trail their fingers over palms
at bars when she didn’t mumble a word. and they love to
troll, stomp their feet–
littly baby bulls!
and snort.
little baby pies.
we see retorts.
(not all men.)
oh sure.
not you.
not us, they say in chorus.
a real shrill choir of sorts which
they saw shrill is reserved for girls.
but when a bunch of a babies scream at once,
I’d say that’s shrill. or at least not tough.

I see them come this way always mouth open
and always the triumph.
(you’ll never meet a man with this kind of verse).
oh, sure I nod to the 20 million waiting in my backyard.
I’d kill to lose a few. (laughter from one side).
They say ill never land a man with my

there must be some kind of
lack of mirror in the world
as we have to tell them where they are wrong.
it seems we are all they see
but they have never in their life
taken a look at that unkempt part in their head,
or that unkept part of their amends:
we will treat you as our daughters and mothers.


I fear for their daughters and mothers.

happy international day of women! may we file our nails
into sharp points, and kinda do a come hither and then let em
sit on em,
dig into em.

I can’t define myself–
she’s not rigid,
not any kind of structure.

Several parts.
has been symphonic
& discordant. 

I feel like I am coming together.
it’s undefinable.
but not misery.

A breakthrough from misery.
the other side of misery. 

happiness but more than that.
triumph like i walked very far for
very long long.

and can sit
and drink.
and even fumble.


Censorship pt 2: Disposability

This is my sixth time being locked out. This is my sixth pop up when I go to log in that says “______” instead of taking me directly to where I need to be. This is the sixth time someone reported me to retaliate against me. And then my email was banned.

My dad died December of 2020 ten days before Christmas. A couple weeks before that he had been given two years to live. two weeks before Christmas I sat in front of our dwindly Christmas tree and cried, begged, pleaded for one more Christmas. Four days later, I got that 9:30 am phone call and you know it’s just a blur after that. The following summer  was when my mom finally agreed to move. The house was in terrible shape but we managed to sell it and that September I went home to help her move.. On the way I was rear ended by a guy going 55 mph while I was dead stopped, totaling my car. After the shock wore off, I got out to check to see if he was ok and the first thing he said to me was:

Could you let me go please? I don’t have license and insurance. 

I gestured to my car and said, look what you did. No. Also, I added are you ok?


That’s what he screamed. He didn’t ask if I was ok or if I needed anything. He didn’t console me. I had rubbed my hand on his arm and told him it was ok. He screamed near my ear and walked away leaving me alone in front of my totaled car. Leaving me completely alone on the Virginia highway to think of what to do, where to go–about an hour and a half away from my mother still. The second thing he said to me, the last thing he said to me, can you move my car?

That’s what it feels like when I get an error logging in. That’s what it feels like when I receive some nebulous excuse as to why I can’t access my email anymore. That’s how it feels whenever they tell me I am no longer welcome on their platform. It feels like a man just hit me and devastated my life screaming fuck in my ear without asking if I am ok. How are you going to get to your mother’s? I am sorry this happened.  I am of no consequence. I am somehow interminably wrong. I have now ruined his day, therefore I am the villain of the story. 

I needed that car to move my mother. We were able to hold my mom’s stuff at my best friend’s house and drove up together. She had to return a week later with her sister to retrieve it. The whole way I lived in sheer panic. Getting in an accident scars you. The body remembers that it can happen at any given moment; the thud, the hit, the damage, the shot forward and had the car in front of me not moved, had the light not just turned green, I could be dead. I suffer from great panic already and now the highway has become an even scarier place. I just think of him. I know if I get hit, I’ll still be the problem. Everytime I am logged out of an account, the same fear takes over. My stomach tenses. I sit straighter. Braced.

It’s the disposability of it. That I am someone who is disposable.For women, safety is an illusion. For sex workers, that safety is removed entirely. It’s not just the accident or being banned, it’s the hundreds of trolls on tik tok that told me what they thought of me. It’s the constant catcalling and street harassment. The punishment in school for wearing a tank top. The backhanded compliments. The carrot dangling. The pushy clients. The actual rape and assault. The what were you wearing? The damsel sidekick I grew up reading in English, forced to read only male authors. Only male athletes being celebrated. Only male artists. Only males. Only males. 

It’s that women are seen as interchangeable orifices. They don’t exist to feel so they don’t need a platform to be seen. They guest star in a fantasy and then our shuffled away once the fantasy is over. We are disposable and silenced. When we speak out, we are silenced. Maybe I should have started with this but I wanted you to read the whole story to get a picture. Everytime I am banned or locked out, it’s because I have stood up for myself. This time I reported someone making phishing attempt after phishing attempt. Mysteriously after I was banned. Seems like they read the email to me and realized Tryst was an escort site, or the man reported me after I told him I report all his emails as phishing. Or they made a grave mistake and lumped me in with a phishing attempt. But every time I am banned, it is after I call someone out for doing something predatory. 
Like being hit with a big truck yelling fuck at you as you ruin his day. Better to hide me away then face it. Let’s face it–what I do is relatively innocuous if not godly–I change men. I break men, I save them. I confront them and teach them consent.  I hand their ass to them. I train them and I give them pleasure. I am relatively innocent but powerful. It is of no surprise that I have been banned six times when I am constantly telling the world the bad things men did. They will always silence the most powerful and they will always make us feel interchangeable so we don’t fight back. It’s the weariness they bank on. They never expect me to keep getting up.

Soporificia: apothecary to the dream world.

Starting a business in the middle of a recession?

great idea!! not but really….

I want everyone to have access to everything that ever helped me heal. That’s why I’m here.  I want everyone to have their moment of silence without all the idyllic white washing we have to perform for the public.  The moment of silence that brings them to a core truth or core resting place where some entropy is necessary. I have written many things about my life across many channels and the thing that shocks most people is I have watched thirteen family members die. I lost both my brother, dad and childhood home by thirty-six. I moved twenty times, including across the country twice. I ran head first into a cement mixer when I was drunk. I spent eight years heavily drunk. Got rear ended by a guy going fifty five while I was dead stopped when sober. Survived the pandemic while being handed stressor after stressor including a lease termination three months into grieving my dad.. Changed jobs like clockwork. Watched friends and clients die too and changed.  All the while changed, changed, changed. Panicked, but changed.

Put a stop to harmful things to pick up new harmful habits.  Found better habits. Found more addiction. Found solution to addiction  and changed. Ad infinitum.

This chaotic carousel  created  anxiety and stress, manifesting as a constant stasis of nervousness and volatility. This transferred into not just  panic attacks, but a feeling of dread. The general malaise of winter. Physical ailments surrounding my stomach and bladder. Food issues. Obsessively sticking my face into a sun lamp. Too much caffeine. Obsessively stimming with straws til my hand hurts. Counting vitamins. Sighing.Walking the block endlessly. T r y i n g so hard to have patience and peace with myself. I don’t take advice from folks who never walked across coals about how to handle the heat. I never ask anyone who wasn’t once poor how to make money. 

 I have been seeking solace my whole life.  The only true solace I receive has always been sleep. When I get it, it is filled with lucid or vivid dreams. And foretelling. I don’t rest much during the day. I need a full eight hours. 

It started with chamomile. Well, it started with studying herbalism for a year after deciding I didn’t want to pursue my Master’s of Social Work afterall. Another incredibly trying time was being a mental health case manager for four years and trying to go to grad school.  Helping  thirty-three people through crisis regularly will knock the literal wind out of you.  So, it started with taking care of myself and leaving that industry. Moreover,  learning about chamomile and how to make infusions. Chamomile is the first herb I played around with: making tincture, infusion, and skin balm. The sedative and nervine effects are manageable and gentle and it is the herb I recommend first. Felt a sense of calm come over me. Began to fall asleep faster. I moved less and less and became content with sitting still. It wasn’t a miracle herb by any means but a slow building one.  I used it more and more. A cup of hot chamomile became an evening ritual. Then I moved to valerian which gave me such intense dreams and such deep sleep. (Forgot to mention I suffered from insomnia for about four years).  I felt a bit groggy in the morning but was able to tamper with that dose to find a better solution. Waking up became easier and my night was restful.  Valerian also showed me my creativity through an active brain at night. My dreams were patently premonitory. Often what I wrote down would happen that same day or shortly thereafter. It felt like each herb was building on where the other left off and taking me deeper into a recess of mind that was allowing me to access deep knowledge. And I’ll devote another blog to my dreams about my dead dad and brother.

Then I used the whole apothecary: marshmallow, slippery elm, St. John’s wort,  lemon balm, holy basil and wormwood to calm myself and aid my stomach; a budding problem starting from years of too much acid including coffee. I started using jasmine and geranium oil to set flowered boundaries. Lots of ylang ylang, black tourmaline, cayenne pepper, charcoal salt, smoky quartz, sigil and mugwort.  Oh, mugwort. My favorite of favs. Connector to gods and thinner of veils. Mugwort and my intro to divining deserves an entire second blog as well. But I became more calm. There were periods of panic that I shared on my website, but I found solutions. Breathwork. Learned how to manage my day. And I am humble nenough to admit I still need work, but I found aids. I took baths nightly. I sprinkled my oil, lit my candles, lined the tub with stones and sipped my chamomile, my nettle mix, my mugwort tincture. Immersed myself in salt, votive, and prayer. I spent an entire winter in the bath once just to feel my body sit. 

I resent the notion that people don’t change. People need change and they do change. They thrive in it. But they need slow incremental changes. We have forgotten the word slow. We judge things based on output–have they received an accolade for their accomplishments? No? Then they didn’t really try or succeed did they? Did it happen in this short year or this short lifetime? Can we touch the new and different body? Change isn’t palpable or measurable all the time. It’s invisible. It spans decades and generations. We change with the help of others cheering us on, feedback from the community, guidance and aides. Optimism. Tools.  I hope to help bring all of that—from tinctures to tarot— to folks struggling with all things that stem from anxiety and trauma. Research has proven that those with childhood trauma are more than 50% likely to develop a sleep disorder, and if someone is able to sleep after a traumatic event, they are more likely to recover faster. “Compared to adults with few or no ACEs, adults with a significant amount of childhood trauma are more than twice as likely19 to have trouble falling asleep and are also twice as likely to feel tired after a full night’s sleep. The effects of ACEs on sleep can last for up to 50 years20, with each ACE experienced in childhood increasing the risk of not getting enough sleep as an adult by 20.” (https://www.sleepfoundation.org/mental-health/trauma-and-sleep)

Insomnia, interrupted sleep, fidgeting, nervousness, digestion issues and a general feeling of tension and muscle aches are all hurdles to quietude and the amity we so desperately deserve to give ourselves. We deserve rest. We deserve a pain free life.  We have all experienced so much in this short life. We survived the pandemic. We survived so many wars, death and political upheaval. I also hope to connect people to their dreams, premonitions and to the spirit world if they so desire. This apothecary’s main focus is helping to regulate a dysregulated system, as well as expand connection to the liminal and beyond. I recommend chamomile to start. Then lemon balm and marshmallow. Then mugwort.

Work with various herbs to find which one works hardest for you. Godspeed, and I am here if you need me.

I carried little pieces of God
whittled pine needle,
robin feathers,
a baby garnet for luck.
besides the
straws, I liked
natural things; Earth

to touch during
sedentary moments
quell the fidget inside.
today, a pint-sized celestite
entertained my skittish fingers.
it was a part of a larger cluster,
but I liked the cyan sparkle
so I broke off a piece.

I am surrounded by repentant men
with wolfish outlines.
my “allies.”
fellow addicts.
I nod when they say
they feel a guilt greater
than their desire. I having
consumed an entire night’s portion
before walking here.
when they want my approval,
they usually begin with things
I took advantage of her.

feel a poke in my index finger
and I cross my legs.

I am wearing brown tights, brown
heeled boots and a cream turtleneck
sweater dress.  my hair is
short, uncombed and strange.
I am mostly plain.
save light blush, mascara and
it is important as a woman
to catalog what you were wearing
and how you generally look
in any moment.
also I had gained some weight
before I  rediscovered

when you tell the audience the story
they can gauge their reaction better.
were you homely, girl?

I was neither homely nor
exceptional, a frozen
brown blob blending
into the cream walls
and watching the blue chips
of nail polish flake onto
the floor. as he spoke
of his life of
I suddenly found my hands
to be urgent.

and remembering the whisper
of the woman who shushed
the last girl who shared her rape
in a room just like this,
I watched a speck of light blue
crystal join the floor,
saw the red swell and trickle
into a dot capping my finger.
blood      I
watched the tiny celestite break.


I blow
when charged.
not always fit for ground.
when standing,
an unbearable pressure.
more reasonable in
flight– even in

I kiss her fingers and
you are a jungle.
I stretch,
and out falls a

What does love feel like?
she asks.
I turn to
and out falls another.
kiss her flowered mouth
through my tight teeth
and say

like a wet machete
ripping through

the jungle.