Tag Archive for 'Creative Writing'

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Thank You Lucille

Published on June 2, 2009 in PTSD and Therapy. 5 Comments Tags: .

With all the restroom and toothbrush triggers, violent half baked roommates and physical exhaustion I figure it’s time to do a tad bit of therapeutic creative writing with a humorous slant.  So the extremes  in the writing make sense I need to explain a few things.

My restroom issues and OCD issues with my restroom basically have to do with my own restroom, not a facility or at someone’s home. My issues have to do with a toothbrush targeted for disgustingness and with abusive stuff centered on fecal material and urine. It can be highly triggering and overwhelming to walk into the restroom and brush my teeth. But what if I had a special kind of restroom that offered no triggers and was designed with me in mind? What would that look like? Hmmm….. (curious music fades in then out)

I have this huge stuffed duck at homeIt’s time to brush my teeth. I’ve left my small washroom and now must go to the super secure area which holds a claw foot bathtub and hand sink. As I walk I think of the yellow ducky rug on the floor and  rubber ducky sitting in the tub. I smile.  In a bright white, super soft bath robe and over stuffed red slippers I approach the stainless steel door to the top secret area. In order to gain access I must identify myself through fingerprint verification. Once the computer verifies that I am who I say I am all 5 dead bolts are released. Whack, whack, whack, whack, whack. Silence. The door opens with a soft release of air pressure then a sultry sexy female computer voice says, “Hello Little Duck.” “Hi Lucille” I say. Lucille is the name of my restroom security system.
Lucille: How can I best serve you, you  with beautifully clear skin, long eye lashes and a stunning personality?
Little Duck aka yours truly:  (awkward silence) Um….well….I’d like access to my toothbrush please.
Lucille: Of course. May I ask you to step on the proper floor tile?

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STORY: The Riddler

Published on March 3, 2009 in Depression, Mental Health and Therapy. 2 Comments Tags: .

(This story is about negative thoughts, inner turmoil and how hard it is to break the cycle of self criticism and destruction. Sometimes the old stuff is more comfortable than the new simply because the old is what we know.)

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I toss the covers off me in a pile on the same foundation I’ve rebuilt a hundred times. Eye to eye she and I stand. What now? Can I do this? Can I stand up to her?

I said you have to leave.

You don’t want me to stay?

No.
Are you sure? You seem anxious. Can I get you anything? A razor blade, a photo of your mom to sit next to your bed? Anything? You look like you could use a blade.
If you don’t leave I’ll call the police.
They won’t believe you. Everyone knows you’re a manipulative liar. Besides, they’ll take you instead of me.

She expects me to pause but I don’t. Today I’m steady with my words, determined to separate us for good. Tonight is the night she sleeps shivering and alone. Tonight is her lonely night. I’m sure of it this time so with everything I’ve got I tell her again, “I asked you to leave. You can either walk out of that door or they take you out on a stretcher.” Continue reading ‘STORY: The Riddler’

STORY: A Light Left On

Published on February 5, 2009 in Borderline Personality Disorder, Depression, Letters Home, PTSD and Therapy. 3 Comments Tags: .

“Follow this road. About oh one hundred meters or so you’ll see railroad tracks. Just before the tracks turn left and head up the hill. You’ll see it on the left.”

“Thank you.”

“Better hurry, the rain’s coming in.”

I rolled up my window and took another glance at the sky. The clouds are dark and heavy. They seem so heavy they could fall to the earth exhausted after holding themselves above us so long. They roam across the sky in a line of know how. Not one turns to the left or the right. Straight ahead, each spread across the expanse, one after the other waiting for permission to break. Break they will, on anything and anyone. Their relief is our relief. When they let go we breathe deeply. When they hold on we go longing. I, I am longing.

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Ice

Published on February 1, 2009 in Art, Pets and Poetry. 0 Comments Tags: , .

When ice falls from the roof top to the stones below it sounds like a window has been shattered.

When the furnace starts it sounds like a drum roll announcing a symphony.

When I lay my ear on Brody’s chest,
The way I use to with my brother,
Called to mind is the sound of purity.

Good shatters bad.
Purity’s herald is a symphony.

STORY: The Big House On Longing Hill

Published on January 27, 2009 in Abuse, Female Sadist, Letters Home, PTSD and Therapy. 4 Comments Tags: .

She has such big plans, this little girl with two braids and a red lollypop. She’s got big plans! With round brown eyes full of hope and assurance she looked up to Mama and said, “When I grow up I’m going to have 5 big houses and own lots and lots of play grounds.” Surprised that Jessica would want five houses her mother asked, “What on earth would you do with five houses?” “Well, they’re not all for me” the little one explained. “One house is for my husband, one will be for my toys, another for when people come to visit.” “Oh” said Mama with curiosity, “One is for you and three others. That’s 4 houses, who lives in the fifth house?” With all the seriousness she could muster in her 7 year old body little Jessica stood tall, looked Mama square in the eyes and said, “It’s for you, when you get old and can’t help yourself anymore.”

As Mama’s eyes lit up Jessica knew she’d set her trap well. Now all she needs to do is wait, wait for her mother to take the bait. The young girl well beyond her years strung together childish dreams and topped it off with candied sprinkles of love. Even the hardest of hearts would melt looking into soft innocent eyes as they delivered such a promise. Continue reading ‘STORY: The Big House On Longing Hill’

STORY: I Will Watch Over You

Published on January 16, 2009 in Poetry and PTSD. 0 Comments Tags: .

The Watcher pulls the covers to my shoulders and strokes the hair from my face.
“I’ll be in the other room if you need anything. Sleep well.”
“Will you stay?”

She pulls an old throw over her legs and sits in the chair that should have been tossed several years back. I can’t bring myself to do it though. There’s something soothing about that big old brown chair with kitty cat claw marks, coffee stains and other age spots. So I keep it, right there in the corner of the room. Sturdy, aged and proud, it sits beside a brass floor lamp that illuminates its precious position. And now my Watcher has positioned herself comfortably in it, for the night will be long and certainly difficult. Continue reading ‘STORY: I Will Watch Over You’