How to Lose Your Mind in 10 Tabs

Hello hello,
and welcome back to my humble abode; currently a cafe in Santa Monica with a very aggressive coffee (for me) and a playlist that’s either trying to seduce me or give me a panic attack.

I’m supposed to be writing a film right now. 

Not this line.
And not this blog.
And definitely not the OTHER script I accidentally opened five minutes ago.

I came here to work on one thing. That was the deal. LA is supposed to be the place where I clear the table and say: this is the meal I’m serving. This is the show I’m building. This is the story that matters.

Instead…
My tabs are open like trapdoors.

Film 1: due in two days. Has nothing to do with LA.
Film 2: a psychological thriller with a deadline in a month. Ironically, it’s the one messing with my head.
TV show: the actual reason I’m here, but I haven’t touched it in 3 days.

It’s not the deadlines that are killing me, it’s the headspace whiplash.
Each story is a different version of me, a different emotional frequency, a different climate entirely. It’s like time traveling between different emotional realities. And yes, it’s fun, but it’s also exhausting.

But something hit me today, like a quiet little truth that was always there but I never looked straight at:

Every single one of these stories… is about daughters and their parents.

That’s the common thread. The “theme” for my filmmakers. That’s the invisible spine. That’s the thing I’m circling around, again and again, like I’m trying to memorize it by feel.

Mothers who can’t say I’m proud of you, Fathers who vanish without fully leaving,
Daughters who contort themselves into whatever shape is safest, most lovable, least inconvenient.

It’s not on purpose. I don’t sit down and say, “Let’s unpack intergenerational trauma today.”
But it always finds me.
It is me.

Sometimes I wonder if I’m writing these stories because I know this terrain too well. Other times, I think it’s because I don’t know it at all, and I’m trying to write my way into clarity.

Here’s the thing that never stops fascinating me: How much they shape us.

They become the reason you over-explain yourself in relationships. The reason you panic when someone withdraws affection. The reason you replay every moment where you weren’t chosen, weren’t believed, weren’t prioritized.

And maybe (if you’re like me) they become the reason you write.

Because writing is the only space where I can take control of that narrative. Where I can give the daughter the tools I didn’t have. Let her scream. Let her stay silent. Let her choose softness. Or vengeance. Or both. Let her run away. Or come home. Or burn it all down.

Psychologically speaking, I know what’s going on. I am aware. I know this is about repetition compulsion. Freud (Oh, Freud, when will you leave me alone?) would say I’m re-living the unresolved so I can finally resolve it. But it’s also about longing. About the ache to be understood by people who never learned the language of understanding.

I’ve spent years reading about this. Studying it. Watching videos. Highlighting paragraphs in books. I know the patterns. I know the stats. I know that every daughter of emotionally unavailable parents becomes an emotional detective, hyper-vigilant, desperate to “get it right” next time.

But knowing it doesn’t un-feel it.

And so I write. Again. And again. I write the same story in different bodies. I write daughters who beg to be seen. I write parents who try, and fail, and sometimes surprise you.

And sometimes (only sometimes, on a good day,) I write forgiveness into the bones of the thing. Not because I’ve figured it out in real life. But because I want to believe it’s possible.

Anyway. Back to my tabs.

Three stories. Three daughters.
One tired writer who’s still figuring out how to write herself home.

XOXO,

Trauma Dumping FFB