It’s late. The cats are prowling. The walls are humming. I can’t sleep—again. Nights like these, it’s just me and the demon I’ve carried my whole life, whispering in my ear, gnawing at my bones.
Lately I’ve been silent online, not because I’ve disappeared, but because everything hit at once. My lithium prescription slipped away after pharmacy issues, and what followed was a descent—a manic episode, the kind that blurs shame and spectacle. I made a video I wish I could erase, a grotesque dominatrix performance with my best friend’s husband, the kind of thing you laugh at in the moment but regret in the daylight. Now that single lapse has been turned into a weapon, one more tool in a brutal battle for custody of my children. And because I haven’t been able to secure an attorney, I’m left standing alone in court, representing myself against someone who knows how to cut deep.
But here’s the thing about demons—they don’t just destroy, they create. Possession isn’t silence, it’s noise. It’s a scream that forces its way out as art, as song, as spell. Even in the middle of chaos, I’ve been releasing music. Not big rollouts, not glossy campaigns. Just soft releases, little offerings onto YouTube, bleeding straight from the vein.
Sleep With the Devil You Know is one of them. It’s not just a song—it’s a reckoning. It’s the femme-fatale on the throne, halo cracked, daring the darkness to touch her. And then there’s I Tempted Eve, where I spit venom at Adam and take back the apple, reminding the world that Lilith was here long before Eve. These aren’t just tracks. They’re confessions, battles, rituals. They’re how I survive.
I’m writing this not just to tell you where I’ve been, but to remind anyone reading: it’s okay to fall apart. It’s okay to ask for help. Mental health crises don’t make us weak—they make us human. If you’re struggling, if you’re up late with your own demons, please reach out. Start with NAMI. They’ve helped me before, and they can help you too.
Until then, I’ll keep feeding the fire. I’ll keep writing, keep singing, keep turning possession into power. Because the demon doesn’t own me. We just share the same skin.
—Lucille Alabaster
