Writing Away the Demons

STORIES OF CREATIVE COPING THROUGH TRANSFORMATIVE WRITING

 From Linda’s story about love and alcoholism: The Woman Who Plowed Verses

 …He deceived me from the beginning. Yes, I was gullible. I was lonely and hungry for some intimate personal attention. Al was a magnificent, well-practiced liar, and I must confess that I wanted to believe everything he said. . . He was not what he appeared to be — a healthy, creative artist who was a bachelor. In reality, he was a married alcoholic whose work life was rapidly spiraling downward from inattention and irresponsibility. He kept his 29-inch waist by drinking and hardly ever eating. He lived on sugared coffee and straight-up gin which he bought in the jumbo size twice or three times a week and stored behind his workbench, and which he drank from first thing in the morning to the last thing at night . . .

*  *  *

from Preston’s story about war: The Poem That Was Snake Medicine

 … I was chosen to become a Navy Seal and was damn proud of it. By the time that training was complete I was invincible.  I felt like I could walk through a wall. I wanted to serve my country and now I had a way to do it. I never imagined what horrors would follow. I was trained to be a killing machine. I never questioned it. I performed as I was trained to perform. The drills were repeated over and over – Never leave a man behind. And KILL. It is okay to kill. KILL, KILL, KILL- Have no mercy. KILL. Hurrarh!    

       I spent seven months in Viet Nam. Little did I know then that these seven months would irrevocably shape the years that followed…

*  *  *

from Alysa’s story about breast cancer: Greetings from Cancerland

. . .Whatever emotion bubbled up – fear, anger, grief for the many losses, shame – whatever was burning inside of me found its way out and onto the page. I lived alone and chose to keep my diagnosis a secret from all but my small inner circle of family and closest ‘bosom buddies.’ So my laptop computer immediately became my new best friend; always alert, empathetic and on stand-by, sitting patiently at the dining room table, eagerly awaiting my next daily update. I ultimately printed out the journal and sorted the writing into sections with illustrative chapter headings:  Slash for my six surgeries.  Poison described eight rounds of chemotherapy.  Burn documented my radiation treatments. . .

*  *  *

from Joel’s Story about a turbulent childhood: The Journal That Was An Anchor

   . . . Mom is standing frozen in place with a look of fury in her eyes. She stands like Medusa, fury slowly turning into rage, as the children’s confusion turns into terror. The kitchen table stands between her and the frightened and confused children. “Que hicimos? (What did we do?)  Por que estas tan enojada? (Why are you so angry?)” 

A knife suddenly appears in her hand. She chants a mantra, through clenched furious teeth. “Los voy a matar! Los voy a matar!” (I am going to kill you!)

The children start to scream, their eyes fixed on the large kitchen knife. But they do not move. The boy is transfixed by the face of Medusa that has suddenly replaced the face of his mother. Her hair has changed into snakes. Her eyes are blood red in rage. She points the knife at the children, who start to scream in terror. The children’s screams bring the father running in. “Que pasa?! Que haces?!” . . .

*  *  *

from Rich's Story about Alzheimer's: The Journal That Was A Fortress

…Words are the bridge still connecting me to my mother, even though they are no longer my mother's way of being in the world. For me, words are a necessary anchor to tether me to this world. I tried to erect a safety net of words against the fragments of harsh reality that threatened my mother. And myself.

Artist: Malka Michaela Barshishat

from Chapter I: "The Woman Who Plowed Verses"

 A BOOK THAT

FEATURES REAL PEOPLE AND

REAL DILEMMAS :

DOMESTIC VIOLENCE

ALCOHOL AND LOVE

ALZHEIMER'S

DEPRESSION

AGING

A TEENAGE PREGNANCY

CANCER

MULTIPLE SCLEROSIS

VERBAL ABUSE

SEXUAL ABUSE

 WAR

All of the chapters are testament to Nietszche's quote, "That which does not kill me makes me stronger."

     if the
     scars
     upset
     you
     that
     much
     she said,
     just stop
     looking
     at them.
     you can
     take a
     shower
     without
     looking
     down.
     yes
     you
     can.

by Alysa Cummings

Journey in her Room

There are no more sentences
in my mother's life,
no more bridges for us to cross
the chasm. When she does speak
syllables tumble out like rocks, falling
this way and that.
She seems so lost, unconnected
in the world we make sense of,
homeless. I grab a book of Neruda
and cover her with his words
like a blanket... 

            by Rich Fireman