There are only two places in which I can picture myself truly feeling comfortable being myself. One is inside a competent and trustworthy therapist’s office and the other is hiding behind the pages I write.

I am not what anyone would call a normal person and as such I have learned that it is best not to reveal my true self to most people. They do not understand me and do not want to understand me. This is fine. I should rephrase that. This is the inevitable reality I have forced upon myself due to my abnormality. Some would call this a self-fufilling prophecy. I just call it my life.

Writing has become a tool to express creativity, yes, but it has also opened a doorway I cannot allow to be opened in the real world. It allows me to express thoughts, actions, motivations, and impulses that society would only allow to exist inside the pages of fiction. It is a safe place to hide without actually concealing myself.

For challenge- “How has writing shaped you” by Lianna C

I did a lot of writing in high school, involving myself in my school's student newspaper and literary magazine back in the 90s. I started out college looking to major in writing, ultimately abandoning that plan for teaching. I did some on and off writing afterwards, but didn't really get into it again until April 2020, when I started writing Bible journals in a church community that I still participate with. I expanded to writing short stories in August 2020, continuing a sci-fi/fantasy storyline I initially started when I was in high school. My initial justification/benefit to returning to actively writing was to keep my mind creative and sharp while in quarantine from the pandemic. My goal is to get into voice acting, and writing seemed like a good way to stay in an artistic mindframe since my acting goals had been sidelined. I still do write to keep my mind flowing creatively, but there is now much more benefit to it besides that. On a religious take, I enjoy writing Bible journals to point to God as the One that has blessed my life and helps me through the life struggles I face. On a creative take, I am so thankful for storytelling that has enriched my life and inspired me, and I hope to be able to do the same with my stories. I also love the possibility that my writing could still exist after I am gone one day, and it will ideally be something I can pass down to my kids if they want it. I want my writing to be there for anyone that needs or wants it, and it is something I will continue to do as long as I am able to. Thanks for reading this, I hope I didn't ramble too much. I appreciate you and wish you well :-)

Where were you that day?

What were you doing?

The day started out normally;

people shuffled off to work,

as another day crept in on them all.

People boarded trains, planes,

subway cars, city buses,

as another day crept in on them all.

In one swift movement of a blind eye,

the day became anything but ordinary.

The Twin Towers fell.

Death exploded without ceremony,

and this day crept into the soul forever.

It all happened quickly.

The Twin Towers.

Then the Pentagon.

Then brave lives died for freedom on a plane.

September 11, 2001

Where were you that day?

What were you doing?

Many wept openly on the streets,

many privately prayed

many thought we could never be touched.

Twenty years ago

we were younger, braver, smarter.

Twenty years later

we are older, but we remember.

A father, a mother, son, and daughter,

neighbor and friend perished that day.

People we will never get to know,

but could have.

911 became our new day of Infamy.

Never forget the fallen innocents.

Where were you on that day?

What were you doing?

She smiled like a cheshire cat

He slammed his hands on his writing desk

And cooed, “Why do you do this to me?”

Her voice rose with a gentle laugh: “Come here!”

He smiled, too, and felt like he was in a trance

She pulled his tie, slowly removing it from his neck

Then tossed it onto the floor

He watched her as she continued to smile

Whatever she had in mind at such a late hour

Even the god, Zeus, would not be able to resist

Seeing her dressed in the rose coloured skirt

With a silk blouse to match, that was now loose

She slipped out of it and tossed it next to the tie

He raised his eyebrow and repeated what she’d said-

“Come here!” and added- “I will finish my work

Tomorrow...let’s go take a nice, long, bubble bath..together.”

#Bubbly (c) 8 Sept., 2021.

In March 2020, I was told I could quarantine only with my "immediate household." This is where, if you're one to look at stills from movies or just images from the internet, I am wiping the palm of my hand down the side of my face, looking in the direction of my roommate's closed door, and cringing.

In February 2020, my little sister told me via psych hospital pay phone that our relationship was over, forever. Sure, there is a particular sadness about being in a psychiatric facility, but I was utterly destroyed. I was there just to save our relationship. This is what can be called: too little too late.

I write frequently about that experience and one other. This one is possibly more important. My ex-boyfriend yelled at me one night in a rage and told me I was the most uninteresting person he knew. That he was bored with me. I had no interests, no hobbies. And I didn't. That's where my writing stems from: the humiliation of being no one at all.

It stems from being alone in my apartment besides one other person I didn't care to get to know during an international pandemic, where instead of being outside on the street fighting zombies, I was inside with nothing to do. I know how I can be interesting, I thought. I researched writing websites and joined Prose. Here's how I can both redeem myself and make myself more interesting.

It became a bit of an obsession. I remember my first piece, pieces, even, and I cringe. They weren't very good. Later, I developed a flow that makes sense - I hope, now. But then? I was parsing wild thoughts onto the blank page, with no experience or identity to think of.

Writing, and writing in particular on Prose, developed me as a human being. It became about being more than an interesting, or a worthwhile, decent human being - it became about finding out who I had become. I unraveled my past and decided I could recover from those two conversations.

Writing to an audience of strangers is one of the most freeing things I've ever done. I can write about mental illness and psych ward until my fingers run dry, without worrying about being judged.

I've attended open mics and read off things I've written for this website. My voice does not shake. A year after our pay phone conversation, I sent my little sister pieces I've since had published in journals. They are about our childhood. She said, these are good. I want to read more.

And perhaps my ex-boyfriend is out there, somewhere, existing as the angry, unhappy man he is. And maybe one day he'll hear of me, and feel sorry for himself. Nothing will have changed but me.

But that is the beauty of writing: it is for ourselves. It is for who I have become, someone who processes life events through a keyboard. In March 2020, quarantine was supposed to be a month long. I wasn't sure how long I'd be writing, but I'm happy to say it has not stopped, like the madness and discipline of disease.

.

And sometimes, I get so tired of getting tied up in my thoughts

You’re the only one that ever makes it stop*

The door opens, and my gaze falls on Jenna sitting at the kitchen island. As soon as she sees me, she gets up and rushes over, locking me in a tight embrace before I can do anything to stop her. The way she smells, it’s like hugging a freaking meadow. The smell is gorgeous but right now irritates my senses that are currently on very sensitive levels. My feelings balancing between numb and hyperactive - I never felt so broken before, as if someone had held me in their hands like a plastic toy, shook me for hours, then just dropped me on the ground, curious which pieces might still stay intact.

I watch as she moves a bit away from me, just so she can stare directly into my eyes. Yet I don’t look away. Her face features seem to be working soothingly, just like her sent that has now subsided to a more reasonable range. She runs a hand through my hair, smoothing it out and repeating the action a couple of times. Surprisingly, it makes me think of my mom, a long-forgotten memory but a pleasant one.

How are you feeling?

Her voice is full of concern as she guides me to the couch, settles me down and sits beside me, patting my knee lightly. I stare at her hand for a moment and eventually my gaze lifts.

Better than I was.

Jenna turns her head towards Charlie, who stands next to Robert, the only chill person in the room. Her gaze seems to be searching for an answer to fill in the gap that my short reply has left.

She’s will be fine, as long as she gets some well-deserved rest. She should have taken her pills, but walking around town at night seemed like a better idea to her.

It was a one-time thing, not my daily routine.

My words fill up with agitation as I’m still treated like a misbehaving child, a normal person wouldn’t be scolded just because she had one all-nighter behind her. Ever since the moment I regained consciousness in the hospital, I have been getting all these worried and patronizing stares that seem to only make my mood worse. I hated to feel so helpless.

Let’s hope so.

My eyes narrow at him, something in me bobbing up to the surface. It stings me and makes my fingers twitch. I’m about to say something I was definitely going to regret later when I feel Jenna’s hand sink deeper into my skin. My head turns and I look at her surprised.

Don’t worry about him, he’s always been this overprotective. We all had to go through this with him. It’s almost amusing how calm and professional he is at work, saving the pretenses for his patients. I have to be honest with you, Elle. We sometimes barely make it out without a headline in a newspaper, referring to some unknown 28-year-old male nurse, having a minor yet quite harmful accident.

She sends him a meaningful glance and watches him throw his arms in the air, exasperated, then walking over to the kitchen and opening the fridge door, pretending to inspect its contents while his back muscles visibly harden. It’s the first time I manage to smile genuinely, after leaving the hospital today. I tap lightly on Jenna’s hand.

I’m actually a bit hungry.

She stares at me and smiles as well, while I notice Charlie look back, eyebrows lifting slightly.

I will make you something, any particular thing you want?

Just some sandwiches will be great, thanks.

Both her and Charlie get busy preparing food in the kitchen while my stare falls numbly to my hands. I feel a heavy weight settle itself next to me and gaze up at Robert. He looks confident as always, but this time his eyes are also filled with pleased smugness.

I told you, I would get you here. Mission achieved.

Head shaking, I manage to build another small smile that doesn’t reach my eyes but still counts as a little victory.

You’re one of a kind, Robert. Don’t ever change.

It’s the first time I notice his stare change, the confidence subsiding a bit, a light blush spreading on his handsome face. He clears his throat, turns on some football game, with teams that I know nothing about, and crosses his arms, focusing very intently on the TV.

___

I have been here for the past 3 hours and all through that time, I could sense him watching me. From the kitchen, when he was cleaning up. From his armchair as I pretended to watch some absurd reality show, or as I passed the hallway, catching a break from everyone in the bathroom.

I feel what’s coming, but I’m not encouraging it, not rushing the situation as it falls down on my head. Almost like staring at the top of a building and gazing as the piano falls ten floors and lends on me, devastating both my body and mind, cold cement pushing itself against my back. I quickly snap out of that vision, shaking my head and massaging my strained temples.

Do you need back up?

He asks once I remember that I am not alone here; by now Jenna has left, and Robert backed away to his room, faint noises of snoring somehow relieving my migraine - who knows why.

No, it’s alright. I just have too much on my head today. Way too many thoughts.

Thoughts that you won’t share with me, even though I asked you many times before.

I was supposed to get better first.

You seem pretty fine to me.

But I’m not.

Well then, let’s go for improved, in this scenario.

It’s not something I talk about easily.

Not talking about it all, would be a better phrase here.

I stand up to look at him from an even level, not wanting to feel like he has the advantage here - even if he does.

You know that I try, it just takes time.

We don’t seem to have that time on our hands.

My gaze hardens, his words feel like a slap in the face. The words were true, but I didn’t like it coming from him. I was the only one allowed to torture myself, not him.

What’s your problem exactly?

My problem?!

He sounds shocked.

Nora, my problem is you, don’t you understand that?

My body flinches slightly, mind not sure how to react. I needed sleep, not this - but it doesn’t seem like he was going to let go, his mouth straining.

You know what? I will make you a kindness, and be the grown-up in this conversation, telling you exactly what my issue is.

My eyes stare as his whole body seems to tense up, waiting to erupt at any second.

I didn’t like the way I found you there. Grabbing on to the couch, like a drowning person clinging to the side of a boat, while Joan was trying to bring you back to life from that... from that coma state that you were in. Breathing, fighting, existing but not there. I don’t want to look at that again, to even be in a situation where you are in such a state.

My fingers roll into fists, this wasn’t a good day to through accusations my way.

Do you think I wanted to get myself in that kind of state? What, that I did it on purpose... that I ENJOY that kind of pain? Do you think that this is some kind of a thrill for me?

I feel the anger pulsating through my veins as we stare at each other in silence. He takes a slow breath, then rubs his face, trying to regain some composure.

No, of course, I don’t think that. But Nora, I was scared out of my mind for you, terrified that this was something that you wouldn’t get out of.

Charlie, you work in a hospital, you see these kinds of situations every day. And yes, I was in excruciating pain, and yes, I fainted but...

It’s different when it’s someone you care about, it makes it personal.

He interrupts me before I can say anything more, I gaze at him startled and confused. I knew that he cared for me, yet somehow, I never thought he would speak those words out loud and with such intensity. It catches me off guard. So much, that I stumble back and cross my arms. Defensive position, an all too known pattern.

I just fainted, nothing more to say here.

No, there is plenty to say here. You lost consciousness twice, from unimaginable pain that doesn’t even have a scale. From voices and memories that attacked you without any warning.

Sure, it was nothing at all.

My arms drop and my hands slide into my pockets. I’m not sure what to do or say anymore, exhaustion catching up with me. I haven’t slept in over 24 hours and couldn’t think straight, and the simplest things seemed to be a struggle.

I didn’t mean to make you angry or upset, to make you worry. I said that before. But this happened unexpectedly; one minute I was fine and the other...

What Nora? What was the real reason behind all of this?

The real reason?

My voice shakes slightly as I looked at his irritated and frustrated expression.

Yes. Why did you faint, why were you in such pain? Why, since the day that I met you, you are constantly in that pain?

My heartbeat accelerates and my head starts to pound. You won’t get away from this. The words ring in my mind as I realize how true they were. But what will I do when he leaves? After I tell him everything, what will I do then? I won’t survive this.

Charlie, please.

I have this nagging feeling that you know the exact reason why you’re sick, and at the same time, I’m sure you won’t let me test you.

My mouth starts to open but he stops me abruptly.

I need information, Nora. Something that I could stand on to let me keep a balance in all of this. I can’t be kept in the darkness forever, because I won’t be able to help you then.

But you’re already helping, the things that you are doing for me, I can’t even begin to...

To help you properly. To fix the problem.

My insides suddenly thicken without any warning, as if the always present cold substance in my veins was turning into ice, a solid rock, granite structure.

I’m not a problem to fix.

He looks at me surprised and taken aback, while red shades start to cloud my vision.

No, Nora. That was not what I meant.

His hands lift in surrender, he wants to explain it.

Just this strange disease that’s eating you up. I didn’t mean to make it sound like you’re the problem - because you’re not.

He walks over but it’s my turn to stop him this time. My hand lands in the middle of his chest, my whole arm stiff, nails grabbing and digging into the material of his shirt, into his skin; he winces slightly. All the voices in my head are buzzing louder, eager to get out, almost excited, craving for more. I taste the feeling on my tongue, and it feels bitter, deadly. This momentarily wakes me up just before the red can completely cover my eyes; I move away and cross my arms tight, too tight. I don’t look at him, just stare out the window. Silence fills the space around us and thickens just like my veins. I swallow, trying to let go of the anger that was dangerous for both of us, in so many ways. My voice is still hard when I speak.

I know what you meant.

A couple of breaths, just untangle it. Say something reassuring, try.

Is it okay if we talk tomorrow? I’m just emotionally drained, and jumpy because of it, on edge as you can see.

The phrase ‘I’m sorry’ doesn’t seem to fit into my vocabulary. My mouth feels dry as it sticks to my tongue. I feel nauseous again.

Alright, let me just do this.

He moves closer, freeing my hands from the tight hold - and this time I don’t do anything to hold him back, letting him slip his fingers around my wrist and then wait. It takes longer every time, and it’s something I still haven’t told him - though I think he already knows. The warmth spreads lightly through my skin until it reaches my bones, they never feel warm unless it’s him touching me. My eyes close and I ponder; each time all the bad thoughts consume me, it’s harder for him to break through my walls, my armor. Fractured heartbeats count my time and my eyelids flutter with content as I look up, finally reaching his stare. I feel it; the good spreads like a river filled with sun rays. My eyes lock on his. There were things that I couldn’t bring myself to say, and there were the ones that came out with ease.

Thank you.

He doesn’t answer, just heads to his bedroom, at the last moment turning around.

The couch is all yours, get some rest.

Thank you.

I repeat, voice much softer than before, the tone making him look at me. He ruffles his hair and sighs; the noise is tired and comes right from his core.

I know, now sleep, please.

My body sags and falls limply to the couch; I hated making him worry, I hated causing him any pain or distress, even if the smallest. He didn’t deserve this kind of treatment from anyone, but I was selfish and needed him, not imagining how I could survive without the help, his kindness, without the friendship that I knew would always be there, at least on my side. I walk over to his door and knock softly, hearing muted sounds and watching as the knob starts to move. I look up at him, twisting my fingers, ripping the sticky words from my throat.

I’m sorry.

My arms wrap around his chest and hold on tightly, as I stand on my toes; eyelids shut as if I was waiting for an earthquake. For a moment nothing happens then his hands land gently on my back, moving in circles, soothing as both. He pulls away and stares at me, head moving to the side, eyes analyzing my every single atom.

Nothing really bad happened, it’s just been a very long day, for you especially.

Guilt moves around my cells, squeezing and pulling at the same time.

I’m the bad character of this story again.

No, just a tough person that tries to stay afloat when everything keeps falling apart around her.

You always put my flaws in such pretty words. I don’t know how you find all those synonyms for the person you want to see.

I see you for who you are.

My whole body seems to shrug, as I put a hand on his arm.

Let’s hope not, for your own sake. Goodnight.

The door closes, all lights turned off, it’s peaceful and silent. I sit on the sofa and stare at the window, making myself find the calm that was needed so badly. My thoughts run to him, and it works, it always does. I lay down and cover myself with a blanket, eyes staring at the dark ceiling, my feelings heavy, mind wanting to give up and finally rest. I need it so badly.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Z25aDKQ7Ojw

P!nk - Hurts 2B Human ft. Khalid

I’m sharing this song, because lately Pink’s work from her last album seems to follow me and fit so well with the story, that it often leaves me in the state of mild shock and awe... but I enjoy it.

_____

If anyone is curious to know more about the story.

https://theprose.com/post/230936/with-all-my-senses (chapter 1 )

Previous 3 chapters :

20. https://theprose.com/post/292279/list-of-amends

21. https://theprose.com/post/301927/a-tired-mind-is-a-dangerous-one

22. https://theprose.com/post/306793/asking-for-help

next chapter :

24. https://theprose.com/post/318322/measured-truths-approach

Desire!

The word makes me sweat.

So I sit and think.

What do I desire?

Perhaps to be able to go through a day

Without being stimulated by random words.

Unwicked Witch; Unworn clothes;

Space Bar; Sea Space; Linda living the Wrong Life.

Maybe just one day

When a haphazard combination of random words

Doesn’t make my mind whir and gears click.

Or perhaps not.

Perhaps a day when the turn of an ankle

Or the drop of her hair onto her shoulder

Or the simple nape of a natural neck

Doesn’t send my mind into overdrive

And mangle my imagination

With hot sensation.

Or maybe not.

Perhaps I desire a day

Without devices

Tying me down

Checking for messages

And notification

Just letting me live without sensation.

I desire your words.

I desire your smile

Your kiss

Your touch

Your golden mile

Of sparkling stars

Of Milky Ways

And Milky Bars.

I desire peace, an end to war

To see your fangs and hold your jaw

To rest in peace

To drink and dance

To wish I hadn’t missed my chance.

Now see, now see

What you have done

With just a question

I could go on

For I desire

What I desire

To lift me up and take me higher.

And that is

Everything.

From you.

Because we have been born we have to think something and live. We have to earn our living. We can't keep quiet. If the desire is there, we'll achieve something. Otherwise, there is no achievement at all.

Buddha told,

"Desire is the root of sorrow"

But the opposite is also true. But it should not go beyond limits. The river should flow between two banks only. It can't cross this side or that side. So desire has margins on both sides ie upper limit is there as also the lower limit.

My desire was to achieve an engineering degree. Now I am retired and am working in the literature field and I want to write for movies the songs and jokes.

Home used to be my safe place,

One day every other week when I had time to myself.

No interruptions from friends and family.

A place where I could recharge myself for the weeks to come.

The solitude was peaceful and restorative.

Then the pink slip came.

He was around all the time.

Destroying my peace.

Invading my personal space.

I'm losing my mind from the disturbance of my solitude.

I don't even have autonomy over my body anymore,

As I have become his outlet to release his frustrations.

Goodbye solitude.

Instead, my peace has been replaced with anger and tension,

As I am finding ways to regain my solitude.

Even if I have to avoid my home to do so.

Please find him a job soon.

So I can have my solitary days at home which I desire once more.