Get out of your head, they said. Blasphemous levels of trite. If only it were that simple.

fear. bargaining. panic. denial. anger. resistance. rebellion. damnation. doom. acceptance. Cycling in this blasphemed process of grief—me grieving me—countless times I cried:

“Where then am I to go?! It doesn’t work. I can’t escape me!”

Get out of your head, they said. I spent years trying to get outside myself, and it cost me pretty much everything. And it didn’t even work. I couldn’t escape me. Still the effort continued:

I tried cramming as much as I could inside my mind-space, hoping I could get lost within it all, forget how horribly restrictive the dimensions were. Think, storage unit. It didn’t work. I couldn’t escape me. It only made it worse.

I tried adding audio, cranking up the noise in an effort to drown out the chatter of self and everyone else. It didn’t work. I couldn’t escape me. It only made it worse. I came to conclude through experience, as my stubborn self seems to require for lesson-learning, that:

Neither emptiness nor clutter, neither silence nor noise, was bearable. 

Get out of your head, they said. Such a life is a life lived dead.

Getting out isn’t a long term solution. It’s hardly even a good response to crisis. It barely buys time. It’s just not good advice.

What I didn’t realize is that (as always) there was another option. I could commence the renovations.

Wear a hard hat. Grab a friend. 
Read the directions.

Consider the advice of those who have gone before.

The idea that we can escape our minds is an illusion, because we are tethered to it. I tried everything to do the running-thing. The currency of life is capacity. I worked hard to make my mind comfortable. Renovations will last as long as I live here, and are well-worth the effort. I have found a banking system for my capacity such that I know one reason I am still here is so I can help others do the same.

I like where I live. I like to have people over. I am proud of my space and secure in its arrangement. I leave room for new things. The things I hold on to are dear and beautiful and useful.

The things I share are, too.

“Who is Δηλία?”

Delia (Δηλία, Greek) means “of Delos.”

Delos lies within a chain of thousands of islands in the crystal blue Aegean Sea shared by the coasts of Greece and Türkiye. Once a thriving hub of trade and pilgrimage, Delos is forever known as the birthplace of the twin gods Artemis and Apollo. The isle is immortalized in ancient texts, including Homer’s Odyssey.

Δηλία is another name for Artemis, and those who devoted themselves to her mysteries consecrated themselves by bearing the name Δηλία.

I honor the quiet convergence of lifetimes that gathered—against all odds—to allow mine. Some of them walked the lands I am named after and knew her as home. My name is a calling, not a coincidence—my biology, not an alias. I aim to bear it with reverence.

Şifa olsun, ve hayırla olsun.
—Delia Δηλία Scotch