The Motherfucker Gene

August 21, 2016 § 1 Comment

One of the things that’s haunted me most about living with mental illness is my inability to explain or account for it–to myself or to others. My earliest internal experiences of anxiety, for instance, was of being strange to myself, having thoughts and feelings that not only overwhelmed me but that didn’t make sense, thoughts and feelings that felt somehow other to myself. Part of me but different from me at the same time. I had no language for what I experienced, which caused secondary trauma when I could not communicate my distress to anyone–or when I tried, later, and was met with confusion, skepticism or inadvertent invalidation. After all, the things I felt and thought didn’t make sense to me–why should they make sense to others? It didn’t make sense: that I would fear vomiting so much, for instance, that the arrival of a letter in the mail after school one day in 4th grade, stating that I had been randomly selected to audition for a kids’ game show, would make me ball up on the couch crying. To do that I would have to travel out of town! And if I traveled away from home I might get sick! I knew it didn’t make sense, and I was embarrassed. I knew I couldn’t tell anyone the real reason I was scared. It was too weird. But I was filled with dread and despair and a desperate feeling of being unsafe nonetheless. « Read the rest of this entry »

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nuff said

September 13, 2014 § Leave a comment

found this on the table at work. i could tell it was written by a madman or woman in that it spoke so directly to my own experience.

CIMG0233

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a sister, a double

December 25, 2013 § Leave a comment

it was a dream where s was with me. she was silent, she sat close by. a double, a sister. a dimension of self that protects. she was there when i was sitting in a chair before your desk as you worked, your attention elsewhere, anywhere else. me trying so hard not to disturb, reading words on a page with eyes cast down. not talking even tho i wanted to. because i knew you didn’t want it. trying so hard to please. thinking as i always have that if only i was small enough. to fit through the cracks of fear or indifference, the seismic faults shaken open in fragile ground. tiny enough, like the way i would slink inside the building to your office, hoping no one’s eyes would snag on my back, wondering who and what. later s and i drove together in a truck, me in the driver’s seat, she beside. still a silent presence, a season before men, a stillness within me making sure i know that i am free. to speak. that i am equal: to be spoken to, to be deserving of response.

Protected: come here, no go away

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