When the Map is Not Enough: A Letter from the Edge

 I wrote a book called I Wrote So I Would Not Fade.

I wrote it so that p
ain would not remain voiceless. I wrote it to map out the exact anatomy of trauma—the locked doors, the hypervigilance, the mood of footsteps. I wrote about what it feels like to leave your body during a panic attack, to step outside the moment, to watch from a distance as if what was happening belonged to someone else.

I thought if I mapped the darkness clearly enough, I could survive it.

But a map cannot stop an earthquake.

Since I published that book, the ground beneath me has completely given way. What I wrote about as abstract horror on the page has become my daily, physical reality.

In the book, I wrote about dissociation. About the mind going blank to protect itself from unspeakable fear. I never imagined that this exact survival mechanism would be the thing that destroyed my livelihood. During two severe panic episodes—while my mind was entirely disconnected from my body—I was robbed of insurance money I was responsible for. Because my body shut down, I lost the funds. Because I lost the funds, I lost my job. Because I lost my job, I lost my ability to survive.

The panic attacks I described in my poetry are no longer just poetry. They are daily. They are violent. I now suffer from seizures. I lose consciousness without warning. I collapse in the street. I collapse in the bathroom, hiding so my mother and brother don't hear me.

Last month, the weight of it all caused my physical heart to give out. I had a heart attack.

I am 33 years old. I am the backbone of a family with a sick mother. And right now, I cannot stand up without falling.

I am sharing this with you because the book was my first attempt at survival. But art cannot buy medication. Words cannot pay for the therapy sessions that keep me from becoming a statistic. The narrow opening I wrote about is closing.

I need help.

I am not asking you to buy my book. I am asking you to help me live long enough to write another one. I am asking you to help me keep the promise I made to myself: writing another book instead of becoming one.

Without my medications—Venlax, Remeron, Quetiapine—the seizures will not stop. Without my psychologist and psychiatrist, the 20+ suicide attempts I have survived will catch up to me. Without a safe admission to a hospital, I am unprotected from my own mind.

If you have ever felt seen by my words, if you have ever hidden your fractures in a crowded room, please consider helping me now. I have no energy left to fight the system alone.

If you cannot donate financially, you have already given me a gift by reading this. But please, share this. Throw it into the void. Let it reach someone who can help.

How You Can Help:

  • Whish Money: 0096170169933
  • MoneyGram / Western Union / OMT and other Money Transfer Services to Lebanon: Jean Toni Hatoum (ID provided upon request and Reference Number is needed to withdraw)
  • Bank Transfer: Account Holder: JEAN TONI HATOUM IBAN: LB97005699840103500789790002 SWIFT: AUDBLBBX Currency: USD Fresh Address: Beirut-Jounieh Coastal Highway, Bank Audi Building, Naccash – Dbayeh, Lebanon

If you want to read the map of how I got here, the book is still here: linktr.ee/Jean.Hatoum

I am tired. I am terrified. But I am still trying to hold on to the edge.

Thank you for giving my silence a place to land. Thank you for catching me. 🕊️


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