I was hurt very deeply by a lot of people. Emotionally by my brother, physically by a relative, and mentally by kids at my school, in my class. I believed that I was not worth anything, I believed that I was alone, I felt abandoned, and that no one loved me. It really hurt. So, I started hurting myself. Cutting, suffocation, bruising, concussions. Because I wanted to fit in, and be loved. It was rough. But there was freedom. It took a while, and it’s still coming. I have long term trauma pain, and it still hurts sometimes, but it is healing. My mind is healing, my heart is healing. It hurts a lot when it first happens, but we got to keep pressing on, and not giving up. I’m still alive and breathing, you’re still alive and breathing, and God still has a plan for your life and for mine. It really hurts right now, but it’s gonna get better.

Driving me to school, my dad with a Tootsie POP in his mouth; he looked emaciated at only ninety lbs while over six feet tall. Silence hung heavily in the old Toyota, smothering my intention to speak.

Staring at the bag of lollipops on his dashboard, the bright colors leapt out at me. The owl in my imagination imploring to know how many licks did it take to consume one.

We pulled up to the school and I then realized how happy (how NORMAL) the other middle schoolers looked arriving with their backpacks and smiles. They were nothing like me. And my dying dad who said “I love you” as I opened the car door to exit. I said nothing, frightened of what they might think of me and my dying dad. And our sad lives that suddenly contrasted so much with theirs. Slinking out of the old car, I wished I were invisible. How many licks does it take? How many awkward moments make up a lifetime?

That was the last time I saw him alive. Cancer consumed him shortly after. This is my happy moment. With all it’s ugliness, shame, and sadness. It’s happy because I saw him alive.

The following represents a snippet from my internal monologue whilst I lie in bed with anxious thoughts racing through my head. This extract contains around 2-3 minutes worth of those thoughts.

It's your fault he died.

You can't go to sleep right now. All you did today was pretend to work and watch sitcoms you've already seen. Nothing real happened. Your depression won again. You're a loser. You're a failure. You don't deserve to sleep. You should get up, get out of bed, go get your laptop, finish your stupid novel, make a plan for your charity that will never happen, start that online CBT course which won't help, just get your life right idiot! Don't just sleep with your dreams! Don't you want to be happy? Don't you want to feel happy for once in your life? Stop blaming him for ruining you, when it was you that ruined him. He was so young. So gentle.

You saved him from dying quite a few times. So, you couldn't save him in the end. No one can save anyone.

F**k. What's that noise? Is someone in my house? I left my door open last night by accident for like 7 hours...what if someone snuck in, crept upstairs, picked the lock of one of my housemates' doors, hid in wait and is now going to murder me in my own bed...I need a knife. Or maybe my umbrella, I can grab it, keep it under the covers and use it as a weapon to defend myself. Shall I pre-dial 911? No, dammit, 999, this is England! Those American sitcoms have really got in your head, as well as your mother's anxiety. No one is in the house. Oh god! I hear footsteps! No one is in my house. I'm all alone. My bedroom is on the ground floor. I'm so vulnerable. I'm going to die. Hang on...the doors creak...I haven't heard any creaking doors...ah. The walls are thin. It's my neighbours. The noises are from next door. No one is in my house. But...what if ghosts exist? What if he's come back to haunt me...

What if he you didn't argue? What if you were a better friend, a better housemate? You should have done more. He has a family. Maybe he wouldn't have taken that overdose...maybe he would still be alive...

Oh shit. I forgot to eat dinner yesterday. I'm hungry. Do I have any cereal left?

#prosechallenge #prose #spilledink #streamofconsciousness #creativewriting #bereavement #anxiety #insomnia #mentalhealth #incompleteexpressions

I proclaimed “Bullshit” in full-tilt teacher voice as soon as the student finished his sentence. You could have heard a pin drop, had anyone in the class dared to drop anything.

Months later, a student would describe it to me as “that day you lost your temper,” but he was only half right. Genuine anger impelled the speech, but it was entirely calculated. I had seen the moment coming; I selected my words carefully. I had a message to send, and I wanted them to talk about it for as many months afterward as I could muster. I had only been waiting for the comment that would bring it all out into the open.

“You shouldn’t expect us to get this, Mr. Love,” John had said. “We’re just botards.”

botard, [BOE – tahrd] n. (slang) a derogatory term for one who studies vocational

education, suggestive of reduced intelligence. Origin a combination of BOCES

(New York State’s Board of Cooperative Educational Services, which handles

vocational training) and “retard.”

“Bullshit,” I spat. “That is absolute bullshit and it’s an excuse. I don’t care what you plan to do for a living, you are capable of this, and don’t you dare tell yourselves otherwise. Is reading an 18th century essay hard? Yes! But don’t you dare pretend you can’t do it because you go to BOCES. Do you know how much intelligence it takes to fix a car, or cook, or run heavy equipment? I have a Master’s Degree. I couldn’t change the oil in my car to save my life. I could write a lovely poem about it, but I have no clue how to do it. I can’t fix an engine. I can’t blend makeup. I barely recognize any colors that don’t appear in a basic Crayola box. Intelligence comes in a hundred different shapes. I don’t ever want to hear the word “botard” again. The idea that people who get trained in a trade are dumb is bullshit.”

“Jeez Mr. Love, OK,” John said, awkward, surprised smile on his face. (I was glad it was John. I knew he’d roll with it.)

“Not at all mad at you, John,” I added. “It could have just as easily been someone else. But you’re smarter than some people give you credit for, and it pisses me off.”

And then we discussed our excerpt from Wollstonecraft’s A Vindication of the Rights of Woman.

Want people to be smarter?

Stop telling them they’re stupid.