“The Written Word” Fiction. Based on a True Success.

“Anytime I don’t feel good, it’s because my body’s out of balance.”

– Jessica Wen

“The Written Word”

Fiction. Based on a True Success.

by The Lily Maiden

This journal entry is inspired by true events. Some of the characters, names, businesses, incidents, and certain locations and events have been fictionalized for dramatic purposes. Any similarity to the name, character or history of any person is entirely coincidental and unintentional.

Trigger Warning: our program often motivates people to discuss their trauma. If you find yourself feeling overwhelmed, please, take a step back to address emotional flashbacks and trauma before continuing to push yourself. If you are experiencing a medical emergency, call 911 or the National Suicide Hotline at (1-800) 273-8255.

I do my best writing:

-In the dark
-Wearing fuzzy socks and sweatpants
-Draped in a Snuggie
-With my curtains closed
-The corgi and the cat on the bed with me
-A cup of hot tea on the nightstand (even in the summer)
-On an empty stomach
-The noises of the highway trickling into my room

It’s only been recently that I’ve started to write regularly once more. I’m unsure when it became difficult for me to transfer my chaotic thoughts into concise words. It happened gradually, like an hourglass trickling backwards.

These days, when I sit to write, the dog whines and barks constantly. The cat climbs over my keyboard, and knocks my tea mugs to the floor. The highway sounds are replaced by a blaring TV broadcasting murder mysteries. The curtains don’t close all the way, and it’s too hot for socks.

Where my desk was once a sanctuary of organization, it is now a tornado of scattered pens and miscellaneous journals. When I leave my desk to kneel at my sacred altar, I find that it is barren, but for a cloth and two candles. The floor around it is scattered with my boyfriend’s dirty laundry.

There is very little food in my house. I stuff my face with stale muffins and boxed mac-and-cheese. My roommates’ leftover takeout festers in the fridge. I dream of spilling it on their pillows, for not everyone has the luxury of wasting precious fuel.

I don’t scream aloud, but in my mind, I screech and bellow. I want to throw my notebooks across the room. Sometimes I even fantasize about strangling the dog, but I’m no murderer. Instead, I close my laptop and barricade myself in my room. I run errands for the soul purpose of being out of the absolute cluster-fuck that is my apartment.

I begin a new job on the first of May, filing paperwork and entering data for the State. The cognitive dissonance is excruciating, but I’d rather be a pencil-pusher than a listless shade. Today, I was sent a picture of my new cubicle, titled with my legal name, and nestled next to my best friend’s. I smiled at my phone and felt the fading colors of my aura take shape once more.

This afternoon, I listen in on the murder documentaries, and scratch the dog under his ears.

I make a blanket fort under my desk with the cat.

I pray, silently.

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