Mynx Writes

 People talk about burnout like it’s dramatic. A crash. A collapse. A bonfire of ambition. But that’s not what mine looked like. I didn’t collapse in flames. I just… drifted into the mist and stopped waving. There was no explosion. No big moment. Just a slow-motion fading. I kept telling myself I’d get back to things “soon.” That I was “just tired.” That it was “a weird week.” Then a month. Then a year. Then several. The fog set in quietly and never really left. And when I tried to fight it—force myself back into structure, deadlines, or passion projects—it just wrapped tighter around my ribs and whispered, "You’re still not ready." This is the part of burnout no one warns you about: The  afterburn . The numbness. The ache that doesn’t scream—it sighs. The ghosting of your own goals. And if you’re neurodivergent like me, it’s compounded by shame. You blame yourself for not bouncing back fast enough. You wonder why your spark feels so far away. You keep refreshing your brain l...

  What reality did I wake up in? I feel like I went to sleep sometime around 2006 and just now clawed my way out of a coma wearing cargo pants and eyeliner smudged from a party I don’t remember attending. I’m Rip Van Winkle, if Rip Van Winkle was born Gen X and woke up to discover the entire world had gone through a midlife crisis, joined a cult, and elected the worst possible timeline. What year is this? WHO the fuck did you just say is President?? What the ACTUAL fuck?! It’s been a long, nail-breaking climb out of a depression so deep it had its own zip code. And now that I’m finally— finally —on something resembling level ground, I’m staring down a reality that feels like a bad subplot in  The Twilight Zone . Or, for the nerdier among you,  Sliders . Seriously, what the hell, Universe? Our current timeline is so damn surreal. Up is down. The sky isn’t blue. And the right? So far wrong that Ronald Reagan is probably rolling over in his grave. Which is saying something, ...