In silent rooms, where shadows speak, A voice within feels faint, yet weak. The past, a ghost that lingers near, Breeding silence, feeding fear. Yet deep inside, a whisper's cry, Yearning to break free and fly. Speak your truth, let shadows part, Find your voice and heal your heart.
I can never forget the sadness and the eerie feeling the date March 13, 2020 has brought upon my country. Bombardment of Announcements from Schools and Universities about the cancellation of classes filled my Facebook newsfeed. I stumbled upon news after news about how Covid-19 has entered the Philippines. It was a shock to everyone. With people of different ages and backgrounds and economic status severely affected, it was disheartening. Everything and everyone was all over the place. The lungs were damaged. From front liners demanding a rest due to the burnout they were experiencing trying to save patients here and there to blue collared jobs slowly dismissing and firing their employees due to insufficient funds, it was evident that it wasn't just the economy that was put into lockdown. The mind, soul and body of each and everyone was in a lockdown and light still can't be seen despite being almost at the end of the tunnel. Families were grieving because death came knocking on their loved-ones quite early than expected. It wasn't just the Covid-19 patients who were struggling to breathe. It was the whole world who were struggling to breathe. The lungs were crushed. The air seemed too condensed because of the blood, tears and sweat everyone had to undergo. How can the lungs breath air again? Despite the ear-deafening silence and frustrating response of the government, everyone continued to fight no matter how difficult the battles were. The lungs forcibly tried catching its breath. It grasped for air as if there was no tomorrow like an athlete on a race track trying to reach the finish line first. Each and everyone surely had a struggle they must overcome. There were the Covid-19 patients who fought for their lives. Front liners who had to sacrifice being with their family to take care of the patients. People who fought loneliness due to the lack of human to human interaction. Students who were brave enough to continue this schoolyear despite the toll it would impose to their mental health. Everyone fought. Everyone tried. The lungs kept fighting. It never stopped fighting. But the thing about Covid-19 is that, even if its existence took millions of lives away from all over the world, it didn't take away our humanity. In fact, a lot of people made use of their lockdown time to figure something from themselves may it be a talent or a hobby or even a relationship. Patients who took their time to study about their health and rethink their lifestyles. The lungs are slowly recovering. Covid-19 gave birth to many possibilities in spite of its nature of taking away. Quarantine produced time everyone was asking for. Quarantine made us realize that even if hope is slim and suffering was inevitable, our cries can turn into breakthroughs. Our lungs-the world's lungs has regained its strength.
Lockdown. Here's a word that we used to associate with dictatorship, war, or, in my case, George Orwell's 1984. For a young adult, it seemed unimaginable that I would ever experience times of fear, isolation, and a skyrocketing death rate. It was even more unthinkable that we could get something out of it. Back in March, 2020, staying at home was a chance to recover from life's crazy speed. That is, for most people. Me? I had already been working at home for almost four months as an English teacher for online students in Brazil. There was little change in my routine – I was mostly sorry I couldn't go to the gym, cause I'm an endorphin junky. Of course, we all thought quarantine wasn't going to last. It then became clear we had better get used to Zoom meetings, face-masks, or, in my case, keeping a distance from my family (who wasn't following all the guidelines as strictly as I was – still am). Like all newly bakers, DIYers, yogis, I too put my energy into one task: starting my writing career. With a zillion unfinished stories on my computer and a zillion more in my head, I didn't know where to begin. After all, I was exhausted from all the jobs I had taken thinking they would lead me somewhere, when in fact they were dragging me further from my writing goals. Luckily, I received an email announcing a writing contest for eBooks. And I thought “this is it!” (in reality, I was probably thinking, “why not?”). I only had a couple of months to do what most writers take years to accomplish: finish a story and publish it. After selecting one short-story that wasn't so bad and kind of had an ending, I rewrote it, revised it, then turned it into a great eBook (with the help of my uncle to design the cover). Basically, I was the writer, agent, editor, launch team of my first book. When I sent a message to my mom, with a link for purchasing her daughter's first published book, she had to call me to make sure she got it right: “What is that link you sent me? Is that a book? Your book? How did you do it?” And I was thrilled to have finally done it! After all, I had been dreaming of this feat ever since I drew/wrote a book about a mermaid when I was seven. As a perfectionist, though, I wanted to go further. My self-published, barely revised book couldn't be my only one. That's when I decided to really pursue my career as an author (at last, I can call myself that). So I quit one of my jobs (the one as an English teacher) and started writing a new novel in 2021 – its first draft is already complete, and I'm currently working on editing it (this time, to send to a literary agent). Also, I knew that, as amazing as that eBook was (a true accomplishment for the little time that I had), I needed lots of help on how to write mesmerizing stories, pitch them for agents, build my online platform (which I'm still working on, btw), promote my future books… So, I took some free classes (remember, I quit my job) and sent my draft to a friend who reads the same kind of genre to get some feedback. What I've learned so far from this process? That it only takes a crazy pandemic to make people rethink their life choices and pursue their dreams. Kidding. Sort of. I did learn that there are many master classes, webinars, blog posts, and guides that really are helpful to writers who want to focus on this part of their lives without spending any (or little) money. So let's take those Covid-19 lemons and make some lemonade!
As we know, this covid pandemic has shaken our entire life. It causes my salary cut & this virus has taken away my dad. I live with my mom who divorced from my dad since 18 years ago, but my relation with my dad was fine until mid of 2018 when a problem suddenly emerged that has crashed my relationship with him, after we've gone through a fierce argumentation back and forth via WhatsApp chat. Thereafter I didn't want to contact him anymore like used to be. I felt deeply hurt & very disappointed. I don't understand why he easily relinquished his responsibility as a father towards me as his only child. Actually since the divorce my mom and my close family already told their opinion about my dad's relinquishment towards me and I was the only one who never want to believe that. But his reaction performed towards me by mid 2018 has proven that my belief about him was wrong. He only concerned about himself rather than his responsibility to my crucial needs. I felt so hurt till every time I prayed I could only cry and hoped that my heartache could heal. January 11th, 2020, my mom suddenly informed me that my dad had a cancer, as what he told her. He was hospitalized in North Jakarta which is 48 KM from our home. Before the pandemic arisen, my mom & I could only visit him twice due to its very far distance. When we were about to end our second visit & I said goodbye to him, I couldn't take off my eyes from him like had a sort of hunch as I felt somewhat a whisper in my heart saying “this is your last meeting with him”. After the pandemic started we couldn't even visited him at all. Since end January to March 2020 my dad underwent chemotherapy and most of time he was hospitalized. April 4th 2020 at around 3;00 PM suddenly I got a bad news from my dad's close friend saying that he was critical. I was shocked & immediately checked with his younger sister who accompanied him at the hospital. She confirmed about his critical condition & was about to be moved to isolated ICU since his doctor just found out that somehow he got infected by covid virus. His lung X-rays shown white & his kidneys got suddenly failed. I felt so shocked, deeply confused, hard to believe that covid could attack him while he had been hospitalized. His covid status prevented me from seeing him. Fortunately I got a chance to talk to him despite shortly through my aunt's cellphone & expressed my feeling by saying : "I love you dad" while crying & also said : “actually I've already forgiven you”. He could still hear me & replied me : “I love you too” In the evening around 8;00 PM my aunt intensively communicated with me & my mother, updating about dad's declining condition. At 9;35 PM my aunt told us about his weakening breath. At 9;45 PM she told us that he has gone. I got hysterical, couldn't accept the fact that he died so fast, when my big problem with him had not been resolved yet. His death due to covid prevented me & all of our close family from seeing his body nor attending his cremation process. His ashes was kept in one ashes storage house in West Jakarta. I tried to accept the fact that my dad was no longer around. Remember his kindness, miss the times of confiding in him as he was the one to whom I could express my complaints about anything related to anybody & soothed my heart when I faced problems. But when I remember how he reacted that has crashed my relation with him, I felt again a deep disappointment. My feelings were messed up between longing, annoyance, disappointment, sadness, love, good memories. A week later I followed a big online mass of spirits and submitted his name to be prayed for. I also held a private online mass via zoom to commemorating 100 days of his death and asked our parish priest to lead the mass, joined by close family, friends and Catholic communities in our neighborhood to pray for his eternal peace and happiness. Those all I can do for him. 2 weeks thereafter my mom had an accident fell from a ladder around 1.2 m height, she fell straight on her buttocks and back. Luckily no bone cracks nor fractures happened, so she didn't need to be hospitalized. I took few days leave to take care of her to certain extent. However she needed 3 months to recover 90%, during which she couldn't drive nor accompany me to visit my dad's ashes while I'm not able to drive far distance myself. Only by November 2020 my mom was able to accompany me visiting his ashes. I cried a lot & “talked” to him, let all my feelings out towards him. I prayed for him. Felt rather released for finally I was able to visit him despite only in form of his ashes that was stored in a marble jar. I still need time to accept that he has truly gone moreover as a victim of Covid too. Until now I sometimes cry when remembering his kindnesses but I have to continue my life. He'll be always in my heart. May God forgive all his sins & grant him a heavenly happiness. I love my dad but I believe God loves him much more.
My mother clung to my small palm as if her life depended on it while staring up at my father, who was screaming furiously, shaking his clenched fists in front of him. “You never do anything right!” he yelled. As my mother backed up shakily, she ran right into the dining table, bringing me along with her in a fierce crash. I stared doe-eyed at my father then back at my mother. Why is daddy so mad at mommy? His screams became louder and his movements more forceful as he thrust his hand forward towards my mother's throat. Terrified, I let go of my mother's hand, running towards the bedroom. I pulled the covers over my head and wrapped my arms over my shaking legs, rocking myself back and forth. Tears began streaming down my face, but I was too afraid to make any noise. “Please stop!” I heard my mother's frail voice yell out. Slap! The crack of skin against skin echoed through the walls. That was when I heard my mother call out for me. I froze, my body still shielded under the blanket. “Help me!” I heard her scream again. I started to cry even harder, yet my body remained paralyzed at the corner of the bed. Her incessant cries for my help could be heard through the breaking glass and clinking furniture. After what seemed several hours, the chaos in the other room subsided. I stayed put even though it started to feel humid under the blanket and I was breathing in hot air. I knew my mother entered the room when I felt the bed dip. Whimpers racketed from her body. I peeked out of the covers and crawled over to her side, obediently. She looked down at me, a tear spilling from her eye. “Why didn't you do anything,” she says in her mother tongue. I cast my eyes downward and shrug. I had nothing to say to her. It was true: why hadn't I done anything? I could hear my father still yelling. He was crying along with his violent outbursts. That always confused me. He never apologized. It was never his wrongdoing. He was the one inflicting the bruises that painted my mother's body, yet he cried. It made me wonder if it was because he was hurting too. That was the day I felt true powerlessness. As a young child I didn't know what that meant, but fear controlled me when my body refused to move from its place. I was distraught over the daunting question my mother had asked me. I could have yelled for him to stop. I could have called someone for help. I could have stopped him. The last thought haunted me. And it made me wonder if it was my fault. Surely, my mother wouldn't ask me that if there was truly nothing I could've done. My father should've been the bad guy. But I was the biggest let down— to myself. I was a bystander in my own home. I wanted more than anything to protect my mother. But I was still afraid, which meant I was useless. I was angry. Not only with my father, but with myself the most. Reflecting back on this day as a young adult, I realize that so much was out of my control. The systemic, abusive struggle between my parents was not something I could have alleviated or fixed. Yet, to this day, I still seek the answer to a question I fully understand provides me with no refuge, no reward: was there anything I could've done?
The moment I was brought into this world, I was instantly branded developmentally-stunted, narcissistic and lazy. Apart from being a lethargic preemie (who forced doctors to take him out weeks early), my other crime was being born in the 80's. While newer evidence from psychology (mercifully) defends my generation as suffering from the dual struggles of discovering identity while enduring growing pains of the most rapidly-changing socioeconomic environment in human history, impulsive prejudice built up against Millennials towers over us like Mount Olympus (which, ironically, few detractors would ever climb such pre-conceptual heights to find out whether we fit their expectations). To our elders, strangers (elder strangers or was it strange elders?), we would instinctually be graced as “Generation Me”. Deep in my bones, I knew I wasn't this kind of person. Much of the joy in my youth, for instance, came from volunteering at the hospital or performing songs to soothe weary audiences of their troubles. Partying was a worthless social obligation (starting with boredom and ending with anxiety for the time I wasted). Whether my young mind knew it or not, I was determined to be something other than the selfish, entitled brats Gen Me were destined (by society) to be. It's probably why, at 24, I faced a quarter-life crisis. Days before my 25th birthday, I was unstoppable. Fresh off of earning my black belt in Shorin Ryu karate (a feat some believed beyond me), I raced to the wall in my room, placing the half-English, half-Japanese certificate above my ARCT in piano performance and my medical science degree. I gazed up at my trinity gleefully, only for my pride to vaporize instantly. I had accomplished nothing. Emptiness welled up inside me as I questioned the truth behind those certified proclamations. For all the blood, sweat, tears, time and effort I had poured into those milestones, my patient friend, Walter, from my hospital days (who always blessed me as a ‘good man' whenever we parted) was still dead. My musical performances were little more than transient pleasures. But shaking me most was that a tech at school (I had just finished my 3rd year of pharmacy) died suddenly from cancer. Surrounded by medical practitioners - and all we could offer were our sincerest condolences. Her death was the last straw: fueling me to choose cancer to cure since there's not a single person whose life hasn't been touched by the disease. Unfortunately, continuing to champion destructive treatments (yes, even Nobel Prize-winning immune therapies) in this civil war against our distorted cells (or selves, as it were) will still claim 1/4 of all Canadian cancer patients. With the impending arrival of the largest cancer patient population in history (due to aging baby boomers), 1.2 million baby boomers will die while the luckier 3.5 million boomer survivors will be forever cursed by a myriad of progressive chronic diseases. Three guesses whose generation bears this other impossible burden. Einstein once wrote: “A new type of thinking is essential if mankind is to survive and move towards higher levels”. To me, the answer was easy: non-destructive cures. If cancer isn't threatened, it won't desperately evolve against treatment. Sadly, humans have been killing cancer for centuries. Researching otherwise would be like growing a third head (a second being normal by contrast). Witnessing my (supposedly superior) assessor degrade patients with outdated data for her ego proved that my field also wasn't a solution. This left me one avenue to convey my theories somewhat seriously. Sci-Fi. The sting of incredible backlash still ails me to this day. My parents called me crazy. My colleagues shied away from my radical logic. Even my girlfriend dumped me, thinking I'd choose writing over pharmacy. All they saw was another selfish dreamer enticed by fame and fortune. All I could dream about were a hundred thousand terminal Canadian cancer patients pleading for euthanasia each year. What else could I have done? I shut out my heartache: setting out alone to show people that non-destructive cancer cures can solve this imminent medical genocide. At times I wonder whether publishing Destructive Salvation was worth it. I struggled through rejection, isolation and dark times when I believed my passing might be better on my parents. But in my waking nightmares, I uncovered strength within me: pushing me through crippling anxiety and fatigue I once thought unconquerable. Regardless of my gains or losses, my fire burns brighter than ever to make non-destructive cancer cures a reality. Whether my novel makes a difference is not just up to me anymore, (though I have faith good people will agree with me and want to help). In the meantime, my promise to all cancer patients past, present and future still stands: I'll never stop fighting to cure this disease properly. Not a bad calling for defying one's (preordained) destiny.
From liquidated friendships, to pure hardwork, to breath sucking laughters, to bundles of memories, to fufilled years. I made it whole out of the boarding house. Let me first clear up the popular stereotype you might have about boarding houses. I wasn't taken to a boarding house because I was ill mannered or behaved badly or my parents didn't have time for me, nope. I'm a Nigerian, I've lived in Nigeria my whole 17 years of existence, and in Nigeria most secondary schools have boarding house facilities and it is highly normal to start living in the boarding house once you start secondary education. All that being cleared it's time to move on. Before I started this write up, I was honestly confused. I couldn't actually make a decision on what to put down for my first bio page update, but as usual *eye roll* my brain went behind my back and consulted my traitorous heart and mind and made their decision. Can you imagine? No matter how long I thought about it, nothing else came up in my head than to share my boarding house life with you all. I'll just succumb this time but next time my organs must know who is in charge. My boarding house life was so *slight pause in my brain* I can't actually look for just an adjective to describe it. I will need like a gazillion. There are so many memories threatening to burst out with the help of my fingers, thank Goodness my fingers didn't join the rest to betray me. That being said, *drum roll* its time to pour out my tales from the boarding house. Wait. ALERT! ALERT!ALERT! There are so many stories to tell, and i just have to pick just one. Imagine! Sadly space is not on my side. The speed and force at which the rest are planning to come out is quite threatening.It might result into a volcanic eruption of words. Readers beware! Science inclined individuals please help in calculating the speed and force stuff. Kindly comment below in order to help new readers.*wink* Its time to splash a story that will get your eyes popping out. Due to space constraints, I will just center on one memory, just one story. I was in ss1 at that time, equvalent of grade 10. Inter-house sports was around the corner, this is a sport competition between the various houses in the school. Each house was meant to perform a march past and ss1 students were selected for that. Preparing for march was meant to be fun coupled with a lot of practice, but ours was quite a different story. Right from when i was in junior school, i knew how my school practiced for march past so it was something i was dreading and anticipating at the same time. March past was something only boarding house students in my school engaged in and practice was as well in the boarding house area. One normal saturday morning, the sun was shining, there was no power supply, trust me that was nothing out of the ordinary. Everything was going its normal way. Nothing pointed out that day would be the day march past practice will begin. I was in my dorm whiling away time with my friends, when one of the feared seniors in my house barged into my dorm shouting orders containing words which indicated us running down to her dorm. I was mixed with a pinch of fear and a full spoon of excitement. Few minutes later *sponge bob's voice* I was red faced, having troubles with holding back tears and in a whole lot of pains.So much for my full spoon of excitement. On my run to the senoirs dorm, i felt like mini Jesus carrying my cross to Golgotha. I fell, got flogged, stood up and kept on running. What was going on? I did not sign up to train to be a soldier. When i finally got to the dorm, it was beating, after training, after chanting so many songs and quick phrases that were honestly uncalled for, with a teeny tiny dose of fun. Note the order of arrangement, that was how the seniors prirotised it. We went back each weekend, and such was our story. Some students withdrew along the way and met their punishment. Finally the school management got a wind of it and cancelled it. I felt a mix of dissapointment and relief. Disaapointment because that was just part of the whole boarding house experience. That is just one out so many. Should I start about our dinning hall adventures or fight to get water or Seniors emphasizing their seniority *eye roll to infinity* or wait our struggle to go home or probably our legendary fights or boy trouble days or, at this rate I'll just keep on mentioning. There's still so so so much to say, but there is this thing called word limit that is posing as an ugly villain. Sadly I will have to stop here due to length of this write up. I warned you about the volcano eruption of words, guess it happened. Honestly, I don't want to stop writing. There are a lot of memories to share and I've not even scratched it. This is just beginning and I'm not planning to relent. Check out my bio to see what I have in store for you all. It's your favorite Nigerian Girl. Cheers!
Hello… If you are reading this, you have found humanity's third attempt at making contact with our intergalactic brothers and sisters. I send this essay along with the Voyager 3.0 in the hope that you find it and read it. Our cosmic address is Planet Earth, The Solar System, Milky Way galaxy, Virgo Star Cluster. I know our location is not all that special in the grand scheme of things but before you rule us out as ordinary, please read the following story of mine for this may change your viewpoint of us. I don't know about your planet, but our globe and its citizens are still firmly attached to political distinction and economic supremacy. As a result, small countries and vulnerable people are often bullied and exploited. My country Tibet happens to be one of them. It was invaded and taken over by China in 1959. I was born on foreign soil as a refugee in India and as ironic as it is, I have never been to Tibet. My father fled Tibet in the year 1981 at age 13 with thousands of other Tibetans to seek asylum in India under the guidance of H.H the 14th Dalai Lama and has never been able to go back since. My mother, like me, was born in India and has never been to Tibet. Throughout my life, people would ask me, “Where are you from?”: A question easy for many people to answer but not for me. I would say “I am from Tibet,” but in the next breath I would have to add “but I have never been to Tibet.” People would either frown or laugh hearing that response. That would always be saddening. I was desperately in search of identity whereas most people were entitled to it since they were born. Growing up like that might seem dark, and it was until the Universe found me. I was a small kid (age 8) when my mother showed me picture books of Dinosaur and the next thing I knew, I was attached to it. Memorizing and visualizing different dinosaurs became my favorite past time and digging the earth in search of fossils became my best-loved adventure. With curious ventures like this, I was already in love with science, but it was when we were learning the universal law of Gravity that I realized that science was much more than just 'curious adventures.' It was a way to see universal connections- connections spanning beyond Space and Time. The equations of gravity told me that everything in the universe obeys the same law of gravity and is connected in that way. In some deep sense, I am connected to you and you are connected to me as well. This glimpse of a universal connection started my quest to look for more of our connections. I read books like Selfish Gene, Feynman lectures, Upright thinkers and A brief history of time. I watched youtube videos from the World Science Festival, Vsauce, and Kurzegast. I listened to podcasts such as Waking up, Startalk and Infinite monkey cage. And the more I looked, the more our connections seemed obvious: How we live, interconnected, through a delicate food web, How all of us humans evolved from the plains of Africa sharing the same genetic makeup, and how all of us atomically came from the stardust of distant Supernovae. Only then did I realize how petty our human-made political differences are in comparison to our shared reality of physical laws. In the face of that realization, worrying about my political insignificance seemed stupid. Instead, I started to see how connected we are to each other and felt a strong sense of love for everyone. I also started to see how our actions affect our shared planet and became morally and ecologically concerned about it. So dear Alien, although I have never met you, I still hold a strong sense of respect and love for you. These series of realizations, for me, was an indicator of how strong knowledge of the Universe can be in the service of Unity and peace. That's why I became a ‘Student of the Universe' passionately in pursuit of the physical laws that the universe has to teach us in the hope that I can foster these realizations to create our Universe a better place to live in. So Dear Alien, if you are still reading this, I hope you understand now that our planet is unique not because of its location but because of stories like mine. Thank you for reading, Tenzin Jampa Student of the Universe
I'm a plusize 50 year old housewife from Llanelli Carmarthenshire South Wales,i am a novice writer with aspirations of becoming a well known writer of poetry and short stories,coffee break stroies to be exact,i like to say it as it is with no frills and crimped edges,my mother brought me up as a devout Christian alongside my 3 siblings,two bothers and a sister,growing up for a time by a fram which gave us a love of the outdoors,memories of riding on my neighbours horse Betsy overlooking the whole of Burry Port we liked tocall Lookout we had a middle class upbringing,my father a photographer in his spare time and a Garage Proprioter and my mother a small business woman selling second hand clothes in her shop in Pembrey she always used to say what a clothes horse i was as i was only 2 at the time but had racks of clothes to choose from,after battling with alcohol for severl years my fatherdied when i was just 12 years old leaving us his estate a house and land adjacent to it,children of the manor and spoilt for space we enjoyed picking from our fruit trees in our lawns and fields,my grandmother who owned a limosene company before she passed away 8 months before my father was a woman of substamce who loved to go to auctions and buy the picks of the day from under everyone elses nose,etiquette lessons from my bygone era wernt needed when i grew up as my grandmother maud was from the victorian era,then on the other side of mymaternal family my grandmother who was the lovechild of Josef Stalins son Benjamin who as research goes must have been illigitimate,after my great grandmother died after being shunned from the little village of Rhandermwyn in Llandovery her father Benjamin placed her in a convent to be brought up by nuns afterward he retured to rejoin the war effort,my grandmother then moved to South Hampton and she herself became a military nurse and became an SRN, at her time there she met my grandfather an army officer and they gor married,after having 3 children and one who sadly died at birth anmed Dewi the 3 chilkdren were brought up in Hendy Pontradulais West Glamorgan,my motherthe youngest of the three was a war child born in 1942,Colin my uncle then became a Royal Marine and served abroad,i often helped my grandmother to work at Industrial supply a rag factory cutting rags for industries in Wales for cleaning purposes,i grew up for the most part in Burry Port Carmarthenshire and attended an all girls school,making friends with girls i am still in contact with now thanks to facebook,my mother fraught wuth health problems has battled through 3 heart attacks and 3 bowel cancer scares,now 76 years old i pray every day that she reaches 80 and we'll see where we go from there,i got married to a man from the Bryn Llanelli part of a Catholic family the youngest of 9 siblings,a factory girl from the age of 16 i worked in Parsons Pickles , Swansea Components and Microloom L.T.D,amongst others,after getting married to Kevin at the age of 21,we settled down to family life as i had our first child in August of 1990 a son named Martin,then in 1991 i gave birth to our first daughter Kimberley,then in 1993 Rebecca came along our third child, and after 8 years Rhydian appeared our fourth and final child,struggling financially we worked hard to make ends meet byme working as a cleaner in Trostre works and Kevin working alongside me as a cleaner too, Llanelli being a black spot for jobs at that time we found ourselves living off the state for around 8 years,everyone blamed the unemployment on Thatchers Conservative rule, not being political myself i went deeply into the faith i had been brought up with and started to studythe scriptures,after 4 years studying with a lovely lady named Mabel one of Jehovahs Witnesses i got baptized in November of 1992 witnesses by my husband and two children by the poolside,protected by the congregation we found the struggle easier to bear,after Labour got into powere things were looking up,again not being a political person i put no hopes in the Governments as i was a concientious objector and still dont beleiev in taking part in the war effort unlike my previous family members some of which became Jehovahs Witnesses too,not wanting to talk about my bad experiences i will say just this , that in 2012 i was taken from my home by black -ops military Police and taken on a mission against my will and was gang raoed aboard a boat full of illegal black African immigrants,i got pregnant and gave birth to triplets 9 months later all insecret and kept quiet,the babies were taken away from me at birth,so now to summerize i am still living in Llwynhendy with my husband and two sons,my daughters having moved out to bring up their own familes,i have six beautiful grandchildren,i have a small business that i run from home jus eeking out a living my goal is to become a recognized writer of Coffee break stories and poetry,i'm entering this competition with the hope of winning the prize to spur me on
In this interesting article they wrote about childhood depression. They also talks about the difference between sadness and depression. About ways to tell if your child is depressed, symptoms of depression, and ways to treat it. The following quote gives an example between sadness and depression “ Because a child seems sad doesn't necessarily mean he or she has significant depression. If the sadness becomes persistent, or if disruptive behavior that interferes with normal social activities, interests, schoolwork, or family life develops, it may indicate that he or she has a depressive illness.” Shortly afterward in the article they talked about how to tell if your child is depressed and some effects of leaving it untreated. “The symptoms of depression in children vary. It is often undiagnosed and untreated because they are passed off as normal emotional and psychological changes that occur during growth. Early medical studies focused on "masked" depression, where a child's depressed mood was evidenced by acting out or angry behavior. While this does occur, particularly in younger children, many children display sadness or low mood similar to adults who are depressed. The primary symptoms of depression revolve around sadness, a feeling of hopelessness, and mood changes.” Some symptoms this article included were “Irritability or anger, Continuous feelings of sadness and hopelessness, Social withdrawal ,Changes in sleep such as sleeplessness or excessive sleep ,Vocal outbursts, crying, Difficulty concentrating, Fatigue and low energy, stomach aches, headaches that don't respond to treatment, Reduced ability to function during events and activities at home or with friends, in school, extracurricular activities, and in other hobbies or interests, Feelings of worthlessness or guilt” To properly diagnose your child be sure If the symptoms of depression have lasted for at least two weeks, you should schedule a visit with his or her doctor. Some treatment options for children with depression are (counseling) and medication. There were some things in this article i found important and i felt like sharing knowledge about. Something I found important from the article was this quote. “As in adults, depression in children can be caused by any combination of factors that relate to physical health, life events, family history.” Another important something I found “Studies have shown that depression may precede more serious mental illness later in life, diagnosis, early treatment and close monitoring are crucial.” And the last most important thing i found was “Warning signs of suicidal behavior in children include: Many depressive symptoms (changes in eating, sleeping, activities), Social isolation, including isolation from the family, Talk of suicide, hopelessness, or helplessness, Increased acting-out of undesirable behaviors such as sexual and behavioral. Increased risk-taking behaviors, Frequent accidents ,Substance abuse, Focus on morbid and negative themes, Talk about death and dying. Increased crying or reduced emotional expression. Giving away possessions is a good indicator”
“You see things. You keep quiet about them. And you understand.” -Stephen Chbosky I have this favorite book by Stephen Chbosky entitled ‘The Perks of Being a Wallflower'. He talked me out of how great it is to be a flower that blooms secretly on the side and not being plucked out because you are not getting noticed. He made me feel superior in that position where I could just get to see the other flowers being taken care of or being torn out, in another sense. Is that really it? I, in reality, see myself as a wallflower. I am proud myself going to campus, going to social events, going to various places and having people around me. I can actually converse with people and engage in normal conversation, such as, talking about exams, talking about our professors, talking about those new controversial couples in the department, or even talking about the shoes sale in the nearest department store. Nonetheless, in all cases, there is a part of me that hides, like a personality that wants to fly out, the ‘social butterfly'. I envy those people who are loud and vocal, can say whatever they want to say and can deal with arguments without feeling bad. Sad to say, I cannot do that, I am tied to the complimentary words and, with all the nodding and smiling. It feels like, I just always need to agree. I am afraid to hurt others' feelings. I am afraid they will hate me. I am afraid to feel alone, so I believe it will be better to hide the other side of me. I envy those people who can be friends with people whom they just met without being nervous and awkward. I am wondering where they get their charismatic personalities to attract numerous people in their life. Personally, it takes me years to be considered a person as a friend. I find it hard to consider a person as a friend whom I just see in the department, in the organization's meetings, at family reunions or even my roommate in just one semester. I envy those people who always have the energy to socialize without feeling tired. For myself, I feel so exhausted after talking to a few people in just a day or talking in front for a project presentation. I view myself as a battery that is being consumed for talking or even facing up people. My comfort zone is on the walls. I feel contented but restrained in that position. There are just so many words I want to say and so many things I want to do but believe they are not for me. I am attached to the wall and the struggling part is that I cannot get out of it.
~~Her eyes glance to the SonyPMW that glares a red LED light. She exaggerates a moan as her bottom lip tucks under her bite. 5-digit imprints begin to welt and ecchymosis starts to surface. He thrashes her body into the Kingsdown cushion.~~ My body hosts a habitat for not just one, but two. Beyond my classic blonde ringlets and wide blue eyes lurks a predator. I call her Vixen. She is a lecherous creature infested in my mind. I cannot rid her. We share the same body, but she deludes my cognition. She is the entity of our illness that resides in our ventral striatum. The conflict between us does not cease until I swallow the colored beads engraved with a systematic arrangement of numerical and alphabetical configurations and close my eyes. My mind disintegrates into a trance. Peace―finally, until REM generates its own unconscious version of Vixen, for Vixen has no regard for serenity. In fact, she preys on calmness. I have wild conversations and battles with voices in my head. The relationship among us is hardly fathomable. The only means I have to express the delusion and insanity that unfolds inside my cranium is through abstract metaphors. And even then, oftentimes I lose myself in the psychobabble and pronouns. There are too many identities. Is my nonsense merely a figment of my distorted reality, or is it true? I don't know. I am not her. She is not me. We drive the same car and run on the same fuel, but there is only one wheel. For some months she used her bondage to leave me tied and helpless in the trunk. Vixen drove me down unpaved roads and scuffed our tires. I persisted to plead for a break, but one of Vixen's chief qualities is her apathy. After months of intense therapy and rehab, I finally escaped the trunk. I shifted from the passenger and back seats, contingent on how much time could elapse before the car required a refuel. After innumerous efforts to achieve 30-day abstinence, Vixen took the passenger seat. I hesitated to touch the wheel―afraid I would wreck both of us. I had not forgotten how to drive, but I forgot the traffic rules. Simple guiding principles like stoplights were difficult to realign myself to conform to. The only light in Vixen's world signaled “go;” even red meant “keep going”. It seemed unnatural to stop and “yield” did not exist in Vixen's vocabulary. My folly was a recipe for relapse. Lest our psychosis lost you, allow me to elaborate. I am a recovering sex addict. In order to grasp a clue at who controls my behaviors, I compartmentalize. As such, I personified the part of my mind that is plagued with an illness. She, Vixen, is like an escape artist. She's mastered the skills to escape what is real and deny what is true. She abducts our body into her alternative universe and I return with black and blue and welted evidence of our travels. My unadulterated self is impaired with shame and disgust. I see Vixen's graffiti plastered on my body's canvas and it reminds me of her grueling obsessions and masochism. Not that I would ever desire to, but even if forced, I could never escape to the places Vixen is so familiar with. It is her realm, not mine. Thus, I struggle with dissonance and impulses on a daily basis. Dissonance is a frustrating state that devours my energy and cognition. Denial worms its way into my head despite my efforts to banish it. Rationalization, minimization, ritualization, manipulation and crazy-making are only a handful of potent enablers. The constant questions of “who” and “what” confuse even the simplest of ideas, hence the medication to keep me functional―if you would even call us that. Despite failures, I can now intellectualize my behaviors, but whether that belongs on my excuse list or my sobriety strategies: I do not know. But I do understand that ignoring Vixen only intensifies her outbursts, like the one I endured prior to my first lapse―the prerequisite to a relapse: Salty, fiery tears streamed down my cheeks and collected in a damp puddle underneath my bed. I clung onto the metal framework, hiding from voices that echoed off the innards of my skull. White noise screeched in the background like nails on a chalkboard. I am amazed that my neck did not snap while I tucked my head into myself like an isopod crustacean. I gasped for air as if I were being water-boarded by my own tears. I felt like an ant being tortured under a scorching microscopic light with malicious eyes watching its every movement. I could not help but wonder if death was the only escape. My fingers type anxiously as I complete this work. I have so many voices to speak for, but such little language to communicate with. Delusion skews my vision of reality. As I prepare to close my thoughts, Vixen insists to secure the last word, but no. Patrick Carnes' are the words I want to conclude my piece. “Addiction is an illness of escape….it cripples the core ability to know what is real because…rationalizations and delusions make it impossible to cope with details.”
