My mom had just taken me to get my hair cut. She had to run a few errands before we went back home. I was sitting in the front passenger seat. We were stopped at the red light by the police department when a friend of hers started talking to her from the next lane over. After a few minutes, her friend asked her who the boy was with her in the car.
“That’s not a boy, that’s Irene,” Mom said. She said it matter-of-factly like her friend was an idiot for not recognizing me. I was six years old.
Storyteller
They tell me I’m good at telling stories
but they don’t want to hear mine
it’s too dark
it’s too sad
it’s too scary
and they don’t want to think about it
They want me to tell them stories
but accounts need to be happy
tales need to be funny
a narrative which can be shared
“Tell me another story about your grandma,” they say.
Those are fun
those are nice
those make me think of my family
and not anything sad
They don’t want to hear my stories
of violence and anguish
they don’t want to hear my stories
of loneliness and torment
They don’t want to hear my stories
unless there’s a smile at the end
No one wants to hear descriptions
of potential snatched away
or chronicles of terror and screams,
suffering and tears
keep those stories to yourself
that’s for you to figure out
shoulders to cry on are rescinded
it’s too much for them to endure
I write my stories down on paper
for no one else to view
Everyone says they want to read them
but no one ever does
They say they want me to share my stories
but as soon as I open my mouth
the topic gets changed
keep that to yourself
Tears stain the paper as I go
memories I don’t want in my head
transferred to dead trees
but the visions live on just for me
They don’t want to hear my stories
of brutality and struggle
They don’t want to hear my stories
of solitude and sorrow
They don’t want to hear my stories
unless there’s a smile at the end
No one wants to hear
stories with terror, screams, and wails
of potential snatched away
or lamentations of what could have been
keep those stories to yourself
that’s for you to figure out
shoulders to cry on are retracted
it’s too much for them to bear
weeping should be kept solitary
Asleep or awake
my stories are continually shared
only with myself.
Everyone says I’m a good storyteller
but joy is all they want to hear
There is no desire to receive my speech
Their reticence serves to placate themselves
pat themselves on the back
with empty platitudes
thinking they provided guidance
and good deeds
while I process the images alone
I sit alone at home
putting horror and repugnance into words.
With my little blue book and black ink
I detail my stories
that no one will ever read
They don’t want to hear my stories
of trying to pick myself up again
They don’t want to hear my stories
unless it’s tied up neatly with a bow
They don’t want to hear my stories
unless there’s pleasantness at the end.
I recently sent the letter pasted below to my state representative, Brian Hardin. The bill, LB626 passed through the committee, on which he sits, and will now go to the floor for debate.
If anyone wants to use what I wrote, please feel free. As readers of this blog know, this is an important subject matter for me, one in which I never thought I’d have to be fighting. It is 2,285 words long. Regardless of whether or not Hardin listens to me, or even reads my letter, I said my peace. I truly hope the bill fails.
Over the past month, I’ve been watching videos from a variety of perspectives and disciplines. I thought I’d share three of my favorites.
When people work through traumatic events, their brains process what has happened so the person can begin healing from those events. While they are healing, the brain brings up intrusive thoughts, such as flashbacks and nightmares. The natural tendency is to push those intrusive thoughts away because they can be highly distressing. The brain’s ability to do this can be used to the person’s benefit, so that the intrusive thoughts and distress can be safely “contained” until the person is in a better situation to handle them.
A few days ago, I was taking a break from writing and came across a post on Reddit. It has lingered in my mind for several days. User DmitriyBragin shared five before and after photos of what the war has done to his home in a post titled, “My hometown Kharkov in Ukraine 2022-2022.”
Note: For some reason, the video works for some folks, but not others. Here is the direct link to the video on YouTube.
Today was World Mental Health Day. I spent it by taking the day off and doing things for my own mental health. This included watching some videos and a little bit of writing, but mostly just thinking and reflecting on life and how to get a better balance on the many things that intersect with my mind and my personal life from day-to-day.
The video above would have never been made 20 years ago. In that sense, the world has come a long way in being open about mental health. The drivers have some good things to say as well. We still have so much farther to go, but this is a good first step.
I came across this picture today of former Formula 1 drivers Martin Brundle and Ayrton Senna. Today is Brundle’s 63rd birthday. The first thing I noticed was the hand movement, which F1 drivers seem to make. It reminded me of the famous, and similar, conversation between Mika Häkkinen and Michael Schumacher. Then, I noticed the watch and said, “Hey. I used to have that watch.”
I have never had writer’s block. I have had plenty of instances of “this is stupid and why are you making me write this garbage,” but I’ve always been able to write. On Thursday, December, 2, 2021, that all changed.
Londo patiently waits for kitty treats.
Sometimes, I wonder if what I write here is worthwhile and if anyone cares. Other times, I think, “this is my blog. I’ll write whatever I want,” but there is always a nagging thought at the back of my head wondering if what I do matters.
On a recent day out exploring northwest Nebraska, my friend and I were chatting and he told me he was thankful for the writing I do here. He does not have PTSD or experience depression. He said he was once the type of person who would wonder why people who are depressed don’t just snap out of it and get on with things, but through my writings, he has come to learn it isn’t so easy.
On September 28, 2021, I had a flashback. I wrote about it the next morning, but didn’t really know what to do with it until last night.
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