Confession, Confessional Poetry, Memoir Poem, Mental Health, Poetry

Colleen Whose Name Means Girl

Maybe I should be out
Loud about it. Maybe I
Should talk. I know it
Sure would have helped me
A lot if the woman they
Kept in a box under the
Bed for seven years had
Been a little more chatty.

“These things do happen. They
Do.” We would commiserate
With each other through the
Knothole in her box and the
Keyhole in the door I was
Locked and chained behind

Also for seven years.

Lucky lucky.

“Colleen,” I would whisper so
The bad men wouldn’t hear.

Colleen whose name means
Girl

“Colleen,” I would whisper
“I get you Sister.
I do.”

-M. Ashley

If you are a survivor of sex trafficking, I cannot recommend the organization Journey Out enough. They have helped me tremendously and I am grateful every day that I found them.

Creative Nonfiction, Memoir, Prose, Writing Exercises

Lesser Sickness

Tell us about a sickness you once had.

My pediatrician just about whalloped my mom after listening to my lungs and determining I had pneumonia. My mom hadn’t believed me when I said I was sick. I had asked to stay home from school, day after day, and she pushed me out the door anyway, thinking it was just another case of chronic truancy, from which I had suffered mightily my freshman year.

I remember geometry class. I sat at a group table by myself and put my head down in my arms. I coughed and sweat and almost fell asleep before the coughing woke me up again. Two dudes I didn’t know walked by on their way up to the front of the room to talk to Mr. Wahl. One dude said to the other, “Why is she like that?” The other one said, “Because she’s sick. Can’t you see?”

Weird my mom didn’t see.

That makes me want to get into all the other things my mom didn’t see, but then we start getting into blind Freudian territory and I don’t particularly want to go there.

Tell me about your mother.

I don’t want to go there.

I’d rather focus on how I felt vindicated when my doctor announced I had pneumonia and not a case of the terrible truancy. One of only a handful of times I can remember actually being happy to be sick.

Speaking of psychoanalysis:

Have you ever wished you were sick, like physical sick, so you would know for sure what the hell was wrong with you? Have you ever wished you were sick, physically sick, so you would have a clear explanation for why you feel like shit all the time and a clear method to fight it?

Sometimes, when I’m very blue, I imagine myself in the hospital and…

I just realized how gross and self-indulgent it is to talk that way when people are dying of the virus. Why my mind didn’t go there first is beyond me. Blind Freudian territory again. Perhaps I’ve quarantined my head too far up my own ass to remember why I’m quarantining in the first place. It does things to the mental health. It brings a lesser sickness, or, in my case, exacerbates the lesser sickness that already was.

Truancy, I suppose, is a lesser sickness than pneumonia. Tough loving your children is a lesser sickness than ignoring them completely. Depressive narcissism is a pretty bad sickness, but a lesser sickness than the actually dying have.

The actually dying of the virus at hand. We are all actually dying. Most of us aren’t newsworthy, at least not to the nation.

This took a darker turn than I intended it to. Mostly I wanted to champion myself to the world that, in 1993, in the autumn, Michelle actually was sick despite what her mother thought.

Let it be known.

-M.

30 Day Writing Challenge, Humor, Prose

What I Did This Summer (Almost the Worst Thing I Can Think Of)

I moped around a lot. I saw Dr. Sexy. I told him I moped around a lot. He tinkered with my psych meds. We added more of the one that makes me feel like I have the flu for a few hours—the one that’s supposed to treat Parkinson’s but is not diagnostic, thank all the gods for that. It didn’t help—hasn’t helped. Summer is almost over and I’m still moping around.

I bought a blue lamp to help with my blues. I decided I get summer SAD. If that isn’t a thing, I invented it just now and that’s another thing I did this summer.

I bought a blue lamp to help with my blues because, being albino, all this goddamned sun gives me the blues. I get up in the dark and draw the drapes when the sun comes out because summer sun is brutal even through a window shaded by mock orange and concrete. In other words, I’m in the dark a lot. That’s another thing I did this summer: I was in the dark. A lot.

And my drapes are tinted maroon, so it’s red light all day and, as I am not a bat, red light makes me want to sleep instead of invigorating me to spread my wings and fly away, fly away, fly away. (I went to a Queen concert too this summer. Did you catch the reference, or did it fly away?)

So the blue light is to combat the red light of the no-light room I spend most of my time in, writing writing writing. Plugging away. Doing yarn crafts.

I’m making latch hook stockings for friends for Christmas. I’m making a wall hanging depicting foxes in a forest for a family of Foxes for their collective birthdays in November. I’m making a latch hook draft dodger for a friend’s mother. I’m making a penguin tree skirt. I’m making another wall hanging, this one of cardinals, for another friend for Christmas. I have no idea how to properly finish any of it, especially the round things. I’m going to have to learn to sew. That’s another thing I did this summer: started about twenty new projects and gave myself a reason to learn how to sew.

Of course, there is also iron-on binding and I could have merely given myself twenty reasons to learn how to iron in a straight line, but that’s not nearly as sexy, so let’s stick to the sewing thing.

My mother was in the hospital for a few days which meant I had to be a real grown up adult for a while—a real, grown up adult dealing with geriatric parent issues. I handled it swimmingly. She’s out of the hospital now and, as swimmingly as I handled it, I hope that’s not a stream I have to swim up again any time soon.

I ran for 25 minutes straight for the first time. I started listening to Dianetics. I did those two things at the same time. Abject nonsense takes the mind off how awful running really is and gets you more quickly to the place, post-run, of how wonderful running really was.

I told Dr. Sexy that I was able to run for 25 minutes straight for the first time. He’s a runner. Body body body. He was happy for me, but when I told him I intended to run my blue off, he cautioned me that the mental health benefits of exercise cap at thirty minutes, so I don’t need to run a marathon in order to be a happy human. I told him not to worry. I was never going to be a compulsive exerciser. Body body body. I’m sure he believes it.

I started this 30 day writing challenge. I started this essay for day 2 for which the assignment is to write the worst thing you can think of. This essay didn’t turn out half bad, but it has no proper ending. I could justify that by saying summer isn’t technically over yet and I could yet do more stuff, but I’m not gonna. Not having a proper end isn’t the worst thing I can think of, but it’s a lovely clunk that fulfills the assignment, so clunk. There it is. The end.

-M.

Mental Health, Misc Poetry, Poetry

Blue Light Therapy May Aid in the Treatment of Bipolar Disorder

Artificial blue to beat the blues
No sugar in your cookie, Cookie
Cutter approaches don’t often
Help problematic inflammation in the gray
Matter of fact exercise
Is another lever we can pull
Me closer Dr. Beautiful
Blues—nothing artificial about you-oo
Tell me again
How the mental health benefits of exercise
Cap at thirty minutes so I can’t
Lap sad to death in the beautiful chlorine blue.

-M.