Mental Health Friday #19

Mental Health Friday #19

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The cop came back into the living room where I was sitting, nursing my two and a half month old daughter. “The boy didn’t make it,” he said. “Ma’am, I need you to come with me.” I handed my baby girl over to her dad as I got up from the couch to obey the officer.

His words drifted through my foggy mind as I told myself, this is all just a bad nightmare— I will wake up soon. With no socks or shoes on my feet, I silently followed the officer out of my house not knowing that would be the last time I would ever exit that front door. Yet, I felt an unusual calm and peace enter my heart as I sensed that this was “my path” or “my destiny.”
Little did I realize my journey would lead me into years of torment and pain when the truth finally came crashing through my delusional head….
*****

I once had a previous life where I attended college full-time, studying business management. I held on tight to a 3.9gpa as I managed to make mostly straight A’s in my classes. I was officially divorced from the abusive “sperm-donor” of my happy little boy who seemed content without a man in the house. I smoked marijuana on a regular basis to help me with my terrible mood swings as well as to help me focus on my homework (which I started to find hard to concentrate on while sober).

Then a few years later, during my senior year of college, I became pregnant again with my daughter. I was excited and filled with joy at the opportunity to raise two children as a single parent. My daughter’s father was a good man that kids naturally seemed to flock to. My son adored him and in spite of our cultural differences, he accepted me and my son as family.

He helped me when he could; however, with his mother being in her late 70’s, he lived with her in an apartment across town to take care of her. As a result, we never officially “lived together” and this arrangement worked perfectly with my increasingly introverted self.

Then came the day that I started speaking in tongues (and no, I wasn’t at some radical church at the time). I was home alone with my two children. I also had an “internal interpreter” who could understand just what I was saying. I went to the bathroom to use the facilities and then I started to shout out a name. I heard my son saying “What?”
This happened about three times until my son opened the bathroom door and said, “What?” again.
“In the name of Jesus you shall flee!” I shouted at him from the toilet in English.
My son replied: “Goodbye.” Then he shut the bathroom door.

Once I got done in the bathroom, I went to check on my son. He was in his room holding a little ball. He told me,
“Mama, I tried to hit that boy with the ball, but he flew out the window.”
I knew then that a demon was trying to attack my son. Yet, I had a sense of knowing that this moth that was flying around in his room was actually that demon which transformed and it would be dead soon.

The very next morning, as I was nursing my daughter on the couch, my son came out of his room with the dead moth in his hand. So I “knew” the demon was gone… This initial experience along with my son’s statement and behavior started my trip into what most would call a very delusional and psychotic journey.
The command hallucinations held me like a puppet on strings for about a week doing various things to rid the demon from my son as I thought the voice in my head was God telling me what to do. For example, I started fasting and eating nothing, just drinking water. Read more

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The girl who Lived-

The girl who Lived-

 

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And if I leave this world,
Tonight in my sleep;
Weep, but only a bit-
Then live out my dreams;
Share my words,
Exhale my stories;
Say to the world-
Here was a girl who lived.

She lived, she sought;
She spoke, she roared.

She dared to dream-
All odds, she beat;
She stood her feet,
Atop thick rifts.

And when the ground is holed,
My mother’s eyes are filled;
Hold her, tell her the story-
Of how her daughter lived.

originally written (2014)

Facebookpage: Words of a random

The Last Time-

The Last Time-

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Was “I love you” the last you said to them,
Was “I hate you” the last you uttered,
Did you give them a hug with compassion,
Did your face reveal clear discontent.

Did you thank them for all they’d been doing,
Did you grumble for the chores they ordered,
Did you think they were harsh and unloving,
Did you think they were raising you right.

I love you wasn’t the last word I’d spoken,
I didn’t hug them when they walked out the door,
And I waited from dusk until morning,
It was too late- they never returned.

Today, is all that we are sure of,
Tomorrow is just a probability,
Gratitude shouldn’t wait another hour,
For tomorrow- who knows if we’ll be.

Facebook Page: words of a random 

Writer’s Quote: Loss

Writer’s Quote: Loss

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We’ve all suffered losses. Be it a missing pen when we’re about to write an exam, or a missing doll; the loss of husband to someone else or the loss of a loved one from this earth. Some losses, the magnitude of a life ending and some minute. Nevertheless, we have all experienced loss.

The poem I’ll be sharing today for writer’s quote/poem Wednesday is written by the poet- Elizabeth Bishop, and it talks about loss, all forms of it; the inanimate and humanly ones.

Below is the poem and I hope you enjoy it.

One Art by Elizabeth Bishop

The art of losing isn’t hard to master;
so many things seem filled with the intent
to be lost that their loss is no disaster.

Lose something every day. Accept the fluster
of lost door keys, the hour badly spent.
The art of losing isn’t hard to master.

Then practice losing farther, losing faster:
places, and names, and where it was you meant
to travel. None of these will bring disaster.

I lost my mother’s watch. And look! my last, or
next-to-last, of three loved houses went.
The art of losing isn’t hard to master.

I lost two cities, lovely ones. And, vaster,
some realms I owned, two rivers, a continent.
I miss them, but it wasn’t a disaster.

—Even losing you (the joking voice, a gesture
I love) I shan’t have lied. It’s evident
the art of losing’s not too hard to master
though it may look like (Write it!) like disaster.

Flash Fiction: Life at 8

Flash Fiction: Life at 8

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Uncle Shankar was Ma’s older brother but I often wondered if maybe one of them was adopted. They couldn’t possibly be genetically related. Uncle was as jovial as Ma was prim, he smiled as often as Ma frowned, he was slender in build while Ma was, well, thick.

We moved in with him and grandma after Dad passed away. I was eight. Every morning, when I went out to go to school, I’d find Uncle on his chair outside beside the flowers. His face would light up when he saw me; it appeared as if the sun shone out of it.

Good morning old lady“, he’d greet me and set me a pun question which, if I answered correctly, would earn me a chocolate. I rarely got that chocolate.

But I was eight and life, couldn’t have been better.


word count: 138. This story is in response to Flash Fiction for Aspiring writers photo promot challenge hosted by priceless joy. Thank you very much for this week’s photo  @shivamt25

Writer’s Quote: The Mother

Writer’s Quote: The Mother

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Welcome to another writer’s quote/poem Wednesday where I share some of my favourite poems written by other authors. Today’s poet is one I have shared recently- Gwendolyn Brooks. I guess, there is no hiding the fact that she is one of my favourite poets.

The poem I am sharing today is one close to my heart- it is about a woman who has previously had an abortion, and is now filled with remorse and regret. It is a narrative and reads as a message to, in her own words, “the child she got that she didn’t get”. She wants the child to know that she is sorry for what she had done and she loves him/her.
Below is the poem, I hope you enjoy it as much as I did.

The mother by Gwendolyn Brooks

Abortions will not let you forget.
You remember the children you got that you did not get,
The damp small pulps with a little or with no hair,
The singers and workers that never handled the air.
You will never neglect or beat
Them, or silence or buy with a sweet.
You will never wind up the sucking-thumb
Or scuttle off ghosts that come.
You will never leave them, controlling your luscious sigh,
Return for a snack of them, with gobbling mother-eye.

I have heard in the voices of the wind the voices of my dim killed
children.
I have contracted. I have eased
My dim dears at the breasts they could never suck.
I have said, Sweets, if I sinned, if I seized
Your luck
And your lives from your unfinished reach,
If I stole your births and your names,
Your straight baby tears and your games,
Your stilted or lovely loves, your tumults, your marriages, aches,
and your deaths,
If I poisoned the beginnings of your breaths,
Believe that even in my deliberateness I was not deliberate.
Though why should I whine,
Whine that the crime was other than mine?–
Since anyhow you are dead.
Or rather, or instead,
You were never made.
But that too, I am afraid,
Is faulty: oh, what shall I say, how is the truth to be said?
You were born, you had body, you died.
It is just that you never giggled or planned or cried.

Believe me, I loved you all.
Believe me, I knew you, though faintly, and I loved, I loved you
All.

By the graveyard-

By the graveyard-

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We passed by the graveyard.
An emotion- not unlike
The December weather,
Engulfed us.

The sun rays beamed on,
A piece of glass,
At the head of a sand lump-
A child’s.

Is his mother grieving?
Wishing the world,
Takes time out of its schedule,
To grieve with her,

Does she have other young ones,
Who fill her heart,
With a softening emotion,
Or does she,

look to his siblings,
And feel the overwhelming,
Feeling of his pass,
Engulf her,

Has it been long since His,
Or her pious soul,
Found its self among the,
Non-living.

Does the ache get easier?
For Mine still feels like,
a minute ago,
Since I lost him.

This Random is now on Facebook. Here’s the link to my page: Words of a random looking forward to connecting with y’all there. 

Writer’s quote: W.H. Auden

Writer’s quote: W.H. Auden

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Hello there! Welcome to another writer’s quote/ poem Wednesday where I share some of my favourite poems written by other authors. Today’s poem has to do with the overwhelming feeling of grief and mourning. I just realised that last week poem (O captain, my captain) was also regarding a similar theme. But despite the similarities in theme, the way the poems and the emotions are depicted in the two poems are completely different.

Today’s poem- stop all clocks, talks about a person who has lost someone dearly close to him. What I love about this poem is that it requires little analysis, written in simple clear words with vivid imagery. The first stanza describes what the character wants to occur now that he has suffered a terrible loss. In the second stanza, the grief is so overwhelming that the character wants the world to mourn with him. In the third stanza, he describes what the person who had passed away means to him and then finally in the last stanza, the character is so blinded with grief, he sees no light past it and wants the entire universe once again to mourn with him.

This I find so sad as the poem ends with the statement- For nothing now can ever come to any good, I pray no one dwells in such a state for a long and may we always believe in at least an atom of good to come.

Stop all clocks by W. H. Auden

Stop all the clocks, cut off the telephone,
Prevent the dog from barking with a juicy bone,
Silence the pianos and with muffled drum
Bring out the coffin, let the mourners come.

Let aeroplanes circle moaning overhead
Scribbling on the sky the message He Is Dead,
Put crepe bows round the white necks of the public doves,
Let the traffic policemen wear black cotton gloves.

He was my North, my South, my East and West,
My working week and my Sunday rest,
My noon, my midnight, my talk, my song;
I thought that love would last for ever: I was wrong.

The stars are not wanted now: put out every one;
Pack up the moon and dismantle the sun;
Pour away the ocean and sweep up the wood.
For nothing now can ever come to any good.

Indulge me dear readers. According to W.H Auden, poetry is the clear expression of mixed feelings. So I’m putting this question out to you all, “what is poetry according to you?” 

The thing about grief-

The thing about grief-

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The thing about grief is-
There’s no time stamp attached;
The hours seem heavy,
And the days all crawl by;
You’ll remember their laughter,
Like it’s just minutes past;
You can still feel the warmth
From your skins’ last contact.

The thing about grief is,
It demands it’s due right;
An overwhelming emotion,
Which demands to be felt
It demands to be lived,
As a passage, a rite;
In order to see past,
The darkness of death.

The thing about grief is,
There’s no time stamp attached.
And like most things in life,
It doesn’t last forever.

Life (as she knows it)

Life (as she knows it)

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What is life but a series of curveballs,
Of deaths which come unannounced,
Of heartaches and tear stained pillows,
Of forevers which end in the now.
Of betrayal by those whom you’d offer,
Your head on the pedestal for;
Of regrets and could haves, all the chances
For which a second, might not arrive.

She believed she had mastered life’s pattern,
All the crannies and nooks on its vast…
But the life that she knew was one sided,
Woven up and knitted out in pain…
She had seen loss one after another,
There was only so much she could take,
‘Fore the unbroken diamond she once was,
Lost its shine, by walling up pain.

If you see her she still is unbroken,
But her shine is never the same.


Side note: There has been a death in the family as a few of my blogging friends know. And that’s the reason for my absence from the blogging world for this month of may. Will get back to your comments and posts as soon as things settle down.