Hi.

Um… okay. I don’t even really know how to start this, so I’m just going to start talking.

If you know me, you probably know that I’m someone who’s always been really open online. I talk about my life. I talk about my mental health. I talk about drag. I talk about joy and pain and all of it. And for a really long time, that felt like something I was giving — like, if I could be honest, maybe it would help someone else feel less alone.

Right now, though, I’m on the other side of that.

I’m the one who feels really alone.

And this is really hard for me to say out loud.

This past year — especially 2025 — has completely broken me down in ways I didn’t see coming. And it’s not one big dramatic thing. It’s the slow kind of breaking. The kind where everything just piles on, and you keep telling yourself, okay, I’ll get through this too, until suddenly you realize you’ve been surviving in crisis mode for a really long time.

One of the biggest things was losing my Nana — not physically, but… if you’ve ever loved someone with dementia, you know what I mean. She was my safest person. My biggest cheerleader. The person who saw me and believed in me before anyone else did. And now she’s still here, but she’s not here. And grieving someone who’s still alive is a special kind of hell that I don’t think people talk about enough.

At the same time, I’ve lost other family members. Support systems I didn’t even realize how much I was leaning on until they were gone. It feels like the floor just kept dropping out from under me, one loss after another, without any time to catch my breath.

And then there’s where I live.

I’m living in an abusive and unsafe environment. And I want to be really clear: I’m not saying that lightly. This isn’t just “things are tense” or “we don’t get along.” This is emotional abuse, isolation, and moments where I have genuinely not felt safe in my own home.

Living here means I’m always on edge. My body never relaxes. I’m constantly listening. Constantly bracing. Constantly preparing for the next blow, the next escalation, the next thing that’s going to knock the air out of me.

And that trauma has literally moved into my body.

This past year, I was diagnosed with fibromyalgia — a trauma-induced chronic pain disorder. Which basically means my nervous system is so fried from long-term stress and abuse that my body is in pain all the time. Not “oh I’m sore” pain. Deep, aching, burning pain. The kind that makes even resting exhausting.

Some days, I wake up already hurting.

Some days, it feels like my body is screaming even when nothing is happening.

And for a long time, the one thing that made all of this survivable was my car.

People underestimate how important that was.

My car wasn’t just a car.

It was my freedom.

It was my exit plan.

It was the one thing that meant I wasn’t trapped.

If things got bad at home, I could leave. Even just for an hour.

I could go sit in a parking lot.

I could go see a friend.

I could drive and breathe and remember I was a person.

It was how I worked.

It was how I did drag.

It was how I got to gigs, rehearsals, appointments, life.

When I lost my car because I couldn’t afford to keep it anymore, everything collapsed.

I don’t think I realized how much my entire life was being held together by that one thing until it was gone.

Without a car, I can’t reliably get to drag gigs — most of them aren’t transit-accessible. I’ve lost opportunities. I’ve lost income. I’ve lost momentum. And drag isn’t just a hobby for me — it’s my lifeline. It’s how I survive. It’s how I feel like myself.

Without a car, even regular work becomes a nightmare. A shift isn’t just a shift — it’s hours on buses, or money I don’t have for Ubers. Sometimes I have to choose between getting somewhere and eating.

And without a car… I don’t have an escape.

When you’re living in an abusive home and you don’t have transportation, you’re just… stuck. Physically. Mentally. Spiritually. You can’t leave when things get bad. You can’t remove yourself from harm. You just absorb it, over and over, and your body keeps the score.

I also came out as trans non-binary this past year. That was necessary. It was honest. It saved my life in one way — but it also cost me a lot.

I lost my job early in 2025 because of transphobia. I lost stability. I lost safety. And since then, I’ve been piecing together part-time work however I can, without benefits, without coverage, without transportation, while trying to manage my health and stay sober.

And I want to be really clear about this part, because I know how people can be:

I am trying.

I’m not sitting around waiting for someone to save me.

I’ve stayed in crisis beds.

I’ve gone to shelters.

I’m on waitlists — for mental health services, for subsidized housing, for every program I qualify for.

I’ve worked with employment counselors through Service Ontario.

I’ve filled out the forms. Made the calls. Sat on hold. Cried to strangers on the phone.

I’ve done everything you’re “supposed” to do.

And I’m still here. Still stuck. Still in pain. Still unsafe.

For the past two years, I’ve also been running Cult of Love Drag Productions completely by myself. I built it from nothing. I fund it. I organize it. I book performers. I create the spaces. And I did that because I believe — deeply — that queer people deserve joy and safety, not just in big cities, but in rural and suburban communities where that access barely exists.

Cult of Love has become a lifeline for people. I’ve had performers and audience members tell me it was the first time they felt safe, or seen, or celebrated where they live. And that matters to me more than I can explain.

But I can’t keep carrying all of this alone.

Right now, I’m dealing with borderline personality disorder, anxiety, depression, complex PTSD, anorexia, ADHD, and trauma-induced fibromyalgia. My doctors have told me very clearly that I need consistent psychotherapy and gender-affirming care — including HRT — to stabilize and survive.

I can’t afford it.

My medication alone is hundreds of dollars a month. Therapy is out of reach. Gender-affirming care is out of reach. And without a car, even accessing what is available becomes impossible.

I’ve lost so much weight this year. My body is exhausted. My nervous system is fried. And I’m scared — not because I want to die, but because I don’t want to keep living like this.

This isn’t living.

This is barely surviving.

So yeah — asking for help like this is terrifying.

Putting this online is terrifying.

But I don’t know what else to do anymore.

This GoFundMe isn’t about luxury. It’s about getting a car so I can leave when I need to. It’s about accessing medical and mental health care. It’s about safety. It’s about giving my body a chance to calm down. It’s about keeping myself — and the work I’ve built — alive.

If you’ve ever supported me, loved my art, come to a Cult of Love show, or just believe that queer people deserve better than this — I’m asking for your help.

I want to live.

I want to heal.

I want to keep creating.

And I can’t do it alone anymore.