Getting back into writing after a couple years break. Going to start my first book this year. Tips appreciated but never expected.
I saw what was unfolding. I saw our car continue into the intersection, and the fast approaching date we had with the car in the through street. I saw the headlights, and I saw our early reactions, but the sound came later. Time stopped. Twenty-eight seconds left.
My mouth feels heavy and too wet somehow. The taste of the moment tumbles around my mouth, thick, unnamable, definitely unpleasant. The show Gidget is playing in the distance. Terrible show really. Horrible lessons, a certain blend of offensively sexist and earnest that only 60s sitcoms can manage. Everything here is outdated. Outdated and broken.
Dear Trump, There are a few criteria required for someone to experience trauma; first, they must feel terror, extreme distress, or be in life or death situation and second, they must feel there is no way out, a helplessness.
I wasn't diagnosed with depression and anxiety until my 20s but the earliest I remember experiencing anxiety is in my earliest memories; five, six maybe. Depression, the cunning bitch, didn't show up in earnest until late elementary.
When I first saw this prompt I balked at it. My hometown? Special? Yeah, okay. Despite my dismissal the topic kept settling in my mind; putting up photos, adding an accent chair, just making itself obnoxiously at home until I wrote my first draft of this. Except it wasn't this, at all, it was an incoherent rant about the illusion of hometown's mattering about how it's more about the intoxication of nostalgia than actual location, and, yes, there may be a little truth to that, it's not the whole truth.
I can't speak for anyone else but this last year has been hard. I know that. It's with me every day as we start into 2021 with some doozies. Still, when you live in chaos something inside of you deadens to it; we harden, hunker down, plow through - trauma reigns, so we exist in trauma rules. Survive. I know that. I say it again because I'm still amazed how small actions will stun me into realizing how hard it has truly been.
Nearly 6 years ago I graduated from my Master's program. I took a job on the other side of the state from where I had been living for what I thought was a great launching point in my career.
I am a messy person. I am an unorganized person. Since I was a child I have been making little nests of items and never picking them up. My family lovingly (and sometimes with some frustration) calls these 'Chrissy piles'; a few books and a knitting project on one end table, a bag of tortilla chips, a water glass, and an embroidery project on another end table, my socks and dirty laundry after sorted by the kitchen table, a blanket and a large crochet project and my nintendoDS on the couch with me with are regular sights when I'm around.