Miranda Jaensch
Bio
woman; reader, writer, sometimes teacher, mother, lover, fighter, sister, daughter, partner, and friend.
Stories (12/0)
You
“It’s you.” Your shoulders tense, and in your utter confusion, you stumble with your next step forwards, falling to the ground. You roll over, but you can’t lift yourself up, your legs are suddenly heavy, numb. You turn to look up at him, but all you can see is the wound he’s left gaping open, the one he thinks he hides, the one everyone can see.
By Miranda Jaensch6 months ago in Fiction
Erased
It’s 1:52am and my phone is ringing. I groan, reach to my bedside table and pick up my frantically buzzing mobile. My eyes, blurry from sleep and lack of lenses, squint to see who it is. Their number isn’t saved, but after years of dialing, I still recognize it.
By Miranda Jaensch2 years ago in Psyche
Why I Manifest the Metaphysical as a Mama
On May 1st of this year, I became a mother. I’ll preface this by saying, I’ve wanted to be a mother for as long as I can remember; I used to carry my life-size baby doll, cloth body with plastic little appendages, all around the house with me with her blanket, wrapped swaddle-style before I even knew the word swaddle. I would voice this desire loudly and without apology to anyone, particularly adults, that would listen, and often got the same response:
By Miranda Jaensch2 years ago in Motivation
Becoming Okay With Being Bipolar
Bipolar disorder, also known as manic-depressive illness, is a mental health disorder that is identified by the severe highs (known as mania) and lows (known as depression) in mood, affecting and causing changes in sleep, energy, cognition and thinking, and behaviour. There are two types of bipolar, type one and two, that are distinguished by the severity of the opposing moods. Those diagnosed with type two, like me, suffer only moderate highs called hypomania, though both mania and hypomania feature symptoms such as irritability, reckless behaviour(s), and risky, impulsive decision-making. Most people with bipolar disorder spend more time dealing with depressive moods than manic or hypomanic symptoms, but it can be debilitating when enduring symptoms of either of the two "poles". The time between the peaks in mood swings is relatively normal for those living with bipolar, which can lead others around the diagnosed to doubt or become frustrated with their seeming on-again-off-again attitude. There is no definitive cause for bipolar - though genes, stress, and brain changes are all considered factors. There is no limitation to those who may be and can be affected by it. Bipolar disorder is usually triggered in adolescence/young adulthood and can be hereditary in families. While both men and women are equally likely to become affected by it, women are more likely to experience rapid cycling (four or more mood episodes within a year) and also, on average, spend more time in depressive states than male counterparts. Many people with the condition abuse alcohol or other drugs when manic or depressed, though this is more prevalent with men, while others also have a significant change (either an increase or decrease) in their sex drive and sexual decisions overall. People with bipolar disorder are more likely to have seasonal depression, co-existing anxiety disorders, post-traumatic stress disorder, and obsessive-compulsive disorder.
By Miranda Jaensch4 years ago in Psyche
9 Things Your Readers Want You to Know Before You Start Writing Your Fiction Novel
A List From an Experienced, Wanna-Be Author I wrote my first novel at age eight and I still haven’t been published (no rejections if you’re too nervous to submit – right?) but there are somethings about writing them that I’ve either picked up on my own over the years or I’ve been lucky enough to learn from some incredibly talented (and mostly local) authors. One of things I’ve been asking people of this craft recently is what their biggest tip is on getting a full novel published in any form. Besides self-publishing, their answers have all somehow touched on being in tune with who your audience will be. If your intent for your novel is to be read, you need to make sure you have a group of readers you’re targeting with the message of your novel.
By Miranda Jaensch4 years ago in Lifehack
Bad Habits
I'm sitting on my bed, breathing in my last cigarette and all I can do while sitting there is count the stars. The poisonous, grey fog hangs in the stale air and, in those stars’ dim light, I watch it slowly disappear. Breathe it in, breathe it out. Each time it appears, a billowing puff of shocking white smoke, and then it slowly fades; I breathe in, out with a faster rhythm, watching. The more of it I exhale, the more there is of it to circulate through and infiltrate the dark, quiet room; I could fill this whole haven in the dank clouds, but I know that once this last cigarette’s smoke is gone, it’s gone. No longer will its dirty scent sting my nose or leech into my home – it will be gone.
By Miranda Jaensch4 years ago in Humans
Sense
His shirt smells of cheap cologne and his breath smells like beer, reeking of a bad idea, but when he turns to leer at you, you hold your breath and smile. You know what to do; the way to flick your hair, how to laugh even when he isn't funny - and he almost never is. He’s actually never much of anything at all, and maybe that’s why you go to him. You watch as he shifts closer to you, reaching out towards you. In his hand is some fruity drink, a clear cooler bottle filled with bright blue, sugary headaches. Instead of taking it, you lean in and kiss him.
By Miranda Jaensch4 years ago in Filthy
The Day I Killed Myself
The Day I Killed Myself On the morning of the day I killed myself, I awoke as I usually did – late, tired, and wishing I could just stay in bed all day. With that all too familiar weight creeping onto my chest, I slowly began battling my subconscious thoughts that all screamed at me to keep my eyes shut and block out the beeping of my alarm (the third in the last fifteen minutes), the beginning of my stressful and emotional version of a morning routine. By the fifth alarm, I realize the time, somehow a shock each day, and bolt from the covers. By the sixth, the one set to remind me I should be leaving, I’m dressed in clothes I pulled out of several piles on my floor, each article selected based on smell rather than appearance. The seventh alarm goes off as I struggle to find a second sock and throw my unwashed hair into a semi-acceptable bun before the eighth and final alarm blares. It tells me I’m going to need to call work because I’ll be late, again. My brothers have left for school, indicating the severity of my lateness, but my dad is still in the kitchen. He calls a goodbye to me as I rush past him, teeth unbrushed and meds ignored, to the door and leave with nine minutes to get to my weekly therapy appointment before work, a good thirty minutes away.
By Miranda Jaensch4 years ago in Psyche