Unreliable Narrator

No offense, but the mind is a swirling circus of events that has nothing to do with the present moment, and I'm addicted to my phone. I think there's something inherently offensive about writing a book before you're 30, but I'm 28, and I've saved money all my life by giving the gift of gab. So, I've written a book I can only imagine I'll look back in hindsight on as annoying.

As an adult with a psychiatric file thick enough to be considered literature, I've navigated everything from inpatient hospitalization to outpatient therapy, from self-harm and eating disorders to personality and mood disorders. I have been studied, treated, labeled, and relabeled. And yet, the simplest truth remains: I've never quite fit in.

This is a memoir of sorts. Not because I believe my life is important-it isn't-but because I have an unfortunate tendency to overshare and a compulsive need to make sense of things out loud before they disappear from my brain entirely.

If you've ever felt like a ghost in your own life, a whisper between the lines, an unreliable narrator to your own unraveling-perhaps you'll find a flicker of yourself in these pages. A thread to tug, a warped mirror to peer into, or simply proof that the chaos isn't yours alone.