HeyJaredmikaela jamille
I’m a writer, restorative justice practitioner, harm reductionist, and abolitionist community organizer. I believe a better world is possible and we can build it together.
- Indexed issues, last 90 days
- 4
- Latest publication
- Aug 16, 2026
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- Earliest in this view
- Jul 4, 2026
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No-I get to decide how this ends (opens the original)
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If I can be honest, I resent the fuck out of the raw realization and abrasive truth that I will be mentally ill for the rest of my life. After all of the medications, the therapists, the hospitalizations, all the times in which death felt imminent and so near that I attempted to answer that call, here I am, still at war with my own brain. Here I am, tears falling loud and heavy on my bike ride home, having to tell myself to stay the course, to not veer into the stream of cars passing every green
every dead black kid is my cousin. (opens the original)
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The air is laden with poison, and the produce is ripe with disease, and I am supposed to believe black children are hanging themselves from trees? That just doesn’t make any sense to me. You expect me to believe a boy with division 1 football scholarships on the horizon was without his phone and just what- drowned, by himself, when all his white “friends” made it home safe? What the fuck is suicide by police? What do you mean there is a term coined by a white man in the 70s that is used to justi
nobody owes your their forgiveness (opens the original)
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It is a hell of a lot easier to talk and read about repair than to actually practice it. Life is messy and complicated. Few things happen in accordance with linear time. We are surrounded by endless distractions, opportunities to escape. Plus, it’s just easier to give our conflict and trauma the landlord special. Gloss over the imperfections, the hard things, the nicks and bruises, so it looks shiny enough for the next person (like maybe in the way you choose to tell your side of the story), whe
actually, yeah, I am a victim (opens the original)
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Lately in therapy, I have been talking about how radically different I feel than the person I was just a year ago. A year ago, when I was still playing caretaker for my lover, when my girlfriends were more like my clients, when I didn’t leave when the last one told me someone else had slept over the night before and they hadn’t bothered to change their sheets. When the final line was crossed, when they felt comfortable drawing their hand across my face, not hard enough to leave a mark but hard e
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