Write

 

Writing saved my life.

When I was young I had no one to talk to, because no one spoke my language.  One parent always worked, and another decided I was too inconvenient to remain in the state with.  I didn’t make friends easily, if at all.  I had too much to talk about that no one my age could relate to.

I was obsessed with reading, and had a higher verbal I.Q. than most of my peers and some of my instructors.  That’s not bragging, I was tested and measured at 132.

I had a habit of telling tall tales, and embellishing on reality until it became something more.  When students were given assignments to write stories, mine stood out for clarity and scope.

I’ve just found out I’ve had PTSD for most of my life, as a child and adult.  It had gone undocumented, untreated, and ignored for twenty years.  It’s no wonder I couldn’t make friends.  I couldn’t trust or relate.  I would extend too much of myself or none at all.  Little things could make me shut the door on friendships quickly and permanently.

I’ve had one lifelong friend: the English language.  I couldn’t call my mind a friend, despite all the stories it gave me.  I became a writer because I spent most of my life disassociating.  I was as far away from my life and body as a human being could get, which explains why real people could rarely reach me.

Writing was my healthiest method of disassociation, and I highly recommend it.  I found other ways that weren’t so healthy, but we’re not going to go into that.

Writing gave me a goal.

I loved seeing my work published for the first time when I was seventeen.  Throughout my early twenties, even when in the midst of making my worst decisions, experiencing publication and receiving reviews for the only work I took real pride in gave me something to look forward to when I was otherwise mentally absent.  I disassociated from my work and relationships, but when I was alone, I lived.  I lived on paper.  I lived online…

…even when living felt impossible.

For the last few years I’ve experienced suicidal ideation.  I reached a point where I could no longer function without help.  My illness became apparent to those around me, especially as I tried to engage in full time school and full time work.  I was weighted with exhaustion, my moods swung, and I forgot everything.  I could no longer take care of myself.  My mind drifted repeatedly to the idea of what it would be like to truly rest – to not worry, not rush, not endure.

In those times, writing classes helped.  It gave me gaps in time to focus on and explore my thoughts, feelings, imaginings, and connections.  For a few years I had lost the habit of writing every day because of all my work.  I had to squeeze it back in spaces I could fit it.  Part of what held me together this semester was a Writing for Media class, where I learned script format.  I could only write horror and tragedy at first, but my professor pushed me by assigning me a comedy.  It was a dark comedy, because that’s all I could do at the time, but it kept me engaged in my studies through the agonizingly slow process of the psychological evaluation my school’s Student Disability Service arranged.

I now have my official diagnosis of Post Traumatic Stress Disorder and people at my school and work suddenly treat me better than I remember.  It makes me wonder why kindness and consideration aren’t used as preventative measures.  Why is it only present as policy when someone is already ill?

I have accommodations from the school and a mediator for meetings to help reduce my stress and anxiety.  That doesn’t make me magically optimistic.  I’m not particularly trusting of sudden kindness.  I also don’t know if I can pay my rent, if I’ll graduate, or if I’ll find employment that offers a living wage.

I just know that even if I live under a bridge, I’ll write.  I write because it reminds me there’s something that fills the shell I live in.  It makes me grateful for my appendages and mind.  It taught me courage when I felt robbed of it, and redefines me daily when the world tries to write me into unfit roles.

If you ever feel alone, or feel like you have no one in the world to talk to, try writing.  I highly recommend it.

Writing Prompt: Love at First Smell

TC180’s random writing prompts.

Love at first smell.

150 word max. Poems, fiction, or non-fiction.

 

If at least 10 people participate, the chosen winner gets a colorful Jpeg award image to put on their social media or blog.  It will likely be cheesy.

Leave your entry in the comments or leave a link to it.

Update

I feel like such a kid, taking my 12th break from my overdue psych paper.  I’m tempted to skim through new fanfiction…FANFICTION!

I’m not knocking fanfiction, but the college student procrastinating for it is a tired cliche`.

…shout out to those Once Upon A Time fanfic authors who are killing it.  Seriously, I can barely follow the show since it got hysterically racist, but some fan authors are really doing an awesome job making it what it could be.

Yes, I’m a nerd.

I’m so nerdy I nerd in a laboratory professionally.

I apologize for nothing.

…but my stomach is rumbling, the alarm is going off, and I still have to do my homework.

 

Life Ever After…

Life after…

life after…

After what?

 

I could do nothing,

but doing nothing today would be the same as a melt down.

If I could melt down into my bed…

 

melt down its wooden leg and hide somewhere in the carpet, solidifying like a wax-monster.

 

I could hide in the shadows from what’s inside and out.  Why is everything more visible in the dark?

 

Melt down…

 

All red, orange, throbbing inside.  All screeching sirens and dreaded whispers.

 

I didn’t see the sirens…

 

That’s right.  He died in a hospital bed.  There were no sirens.

 

I wasn’t there to hold his hand..

 

I wiped his dust from my hands by a river bed I don’t know if I’ll ever see again.

 

I keep a bit of him in a necklace I rarely take off.  I wonder what bone fragments I’ve gotten.

 

I wonder what of him I can keep.

 

I’ve stolen his hand gestures, and his guarded smile.

“You are Not Alone” has been Published and is Available on Amazon!

Several of my pieces have just been published in an anthology called You are Not Alone: Stories from the Frontlines of Womanhood. The anthology was inspired by the hashtag #Yesallwomen and was a collaborative effort between editor Leah Carey and ten active participants she chose from the hashtag. The book is all about the experiences of discrimination, harassment, and dehumanization that women experience just for being women. Below is the cover of the book, a video sample of one of my pieces within it, and the book’s first endorsement.

Book Cover

endorsement

My Second Self-Published Ebook: The Autonomous Manifesto

If any of you have been following my blog for a little while you might remember one of my early posts in which I described some writing I’ve been doing on the subject of Autonomy and the right to consent in all chosen collectives. I’ve been writing about these subjects on another blog called All Things Debated and on a Facebook page I made. Finally, just this last August, I self-published my second ebook and first on the subject called The Autonomous Manifesto.

The Autonomous Manifesto, my Second Ebook.

The Autonomous Manifesto is a collection of my essays, rants, and poetry on the subject of autonomy. It’s free for download on Smashwords.com.

For those who don’t know, the first ebook I ever self-published is called What Makes a Mean Girl, and is a collection of poems on negative experiences in sex relations and attempts to find one’s way back to an actual connection with humanity. The poems are short and unpolished, since I mostly just wanted to know I could publish something myself. I’m also the model on the cover.

What Makes a Mean Girl

My next self-published ebook will be called What Makes a Man Eater, and will be a larger collection of poems continuing where What Makes a Mean Girl left off. It will further flesh-out the stories with more polished poetry. I’m hoping to release that anthology by this coming October.