- Fewer or no more posts directly related to my diagnosis, counseling, and medication will be made here.
- Some posts on this blog may be moved to the easilyspooked URL.
- The blog is very open to questions and discussion.
- Trying to get listed on the Tumblr Mental Health and Tumblr Mental Illness Directories.
[Inspired by Belle & Sebastian’s “Expectations”]
The process of unwrapping her sandwich in the dark made it sound louder than it ever had before. Nicole froze when she heard the first atom-bomb-level crinkle of the tinfoil. As she unwrapped the rest of it with one tenth of her usual speed, she wondered why the janitor hadn’t seen it through to change the light bulb in his own supply closet. I thought that was kind of his job…
Class assignment: write about someone whose social life is the opposite of what you’d expect based on his/her occupation
Eddy slowly lowered himself into a prone position on the cold tile floor. He would stay here for just a few more minutes, he told himself, because the tile felt so damn good on his hot face.
January Schofield of Valenica, California doesn’t like to be called by her name. She has many nicknames. She prefers Jani. At the age of six, Jani Schofield was diagnosed with schizophrenia. She was showing signs just before she hit three years old, but in videos of January as an infant, just months after coming home from the hospital, her little eyes are already scanning empty walls. In the home video, you can hear her mother ask, “What are you looking at, sweetie? Something Mommy and Daddy can’t see?”
If you asked me if I could have one wish, I would say that I wish I could cast some sort of spell on myself so whenever those close to me are hurting and troubled, I can shrink down to some microscopic size and magically transport myself into their brain, into their conscience, and take a baseball bat and smack every demon right of their heads.
Oh dear diary, I met a boy.
December 21, 2012
Last night I dreamt that a cartoon character I vaguely remember was in a grocery store with me. There was some sort of attack. I wasn’t injured. Or if I was, I didn’t care. He was injured horribly. I bent over a half-destroyed shelf of canned foods to talk to him. I couldn’t see his face. I told him to grab my hand and squeeze. He barely could. IS THAT THE HARDEST YOU CAN GIVE ME? I shouted at him. I shouted at the rest of the world that he was seriously injured. There were people around but no one did anything. He was losing a lot of blood. CAN WE AT LEAST GET SOME BAND-AIDS? Where the hell was everyone?
My guts feel like they’re sixteen years old when I’m around you. My emotions feel eighty and my smile feels one hundred and forty-two. But my guts feel sixteen and my joints feel five.
December 20th, 2012
I used to think I was a green light that went ahead of everyone’s red, but you’re different. You were a different story. You were a blue light. I could bask in the odd combination warmth and coldness that you emitted. Obviously the warm part was your physical warmness. I wanted to hold you. I still do. And you were not a frigid human being. But you were cold because you did not want to emit warmth. I could not hug you. You kept it inside. You stand like you’re closed off to something. What are you doing? I always thought What is he doing, why is he standing like that, why is he so closed off, why is he so awkward, why are you doing this? Now I realize what it is. You’re trying not to let on that you’re warm. You try to stand like you’re not warm but you’re flesh and blood just like me.
Write a short in under 300 words.
Please include your word count in the title if you submit!
The paper bag was not strong enough to hold the gallon of organic milk.
And so, even in his cardigan and precisely faded new jeans, he collapsed to the floor, actually crying over spilt milk. Five upper-class families, four trendy gay couples, three young urban professionals, two Zooey Deschanel lookalikes, and one fitness freak in yoga pants all stopped in their tracks to stare at Cardigan and Jeans as he actually knelt and cried over a slowly-growing puddle of milk.
A minute or so passed and a manager or two walked over as a bagger with facial piercings grabbed a mop. The cardigan denied any hands or offers of sympathy. He got up and cursorily wiped his face. He grabbed the other bag (which held some apples and vegetarian chicken nuggets) and walked out the door (e did not quite walk out as if nothing was wrong, but he walked out with enough nonchalance that it should be mentioned in another parenthetical statement).
So the pierced one moved the bag and broken plastic bottle and mopped up the mess and went back to bagging. The managers wondered if they should have offered a coupon, and they wouldn’t bring it up again until a lunch conversation a week later. As for the rest of them, the Whole Foods-goers would never have stopped in their successful, organic paths if someone hadn’t taken the time to become a
walking sitting and crying cliché. And for that, they should thank him, but they won’t, because he got up, and so did they, and they will never stop again.