#personal narrative

[shattered-yet-whole]

WIP - I was gonna write an AU psych ward fanfic but then i just started writing my psych ward trauma. Antipsych. This happened a while ago, I'm okay now (and I'm not grateful it happened).

tw - suicidal ideation, descriptions of suicide rehearsal, psychiatric abuse, trauma

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“Why are you here?”

I look at the psychiatrist’s tie blankly. He’s dressed in a suit, a clipboard and pen in hand. I haven’t even gotten my clothes back, I have to wear a hospital gown and pants four sizes too large, and am not allowed footwear other than grippy socks. The only thing I have left that's mine is my chipped glittery nail polish. I've picked it halfway off over the past day despite desperately trying not to. But this guy is walking around in shiny Oxfords and a suit.

I don’t look at his face. I know he’s looking at me, expecting an answer. Something I’m learning here is that they wait for you to speak. Even if you take a long time. They don’t try to speak for you. Sometimes I wish they would. It would be easier to say what they wanted to hear if they did. Instead I have to guess. I suppose I’m used to doing that, but it’s a lot scarier. “Don’t you know?” I say.

“Yes. But I want to hear it from you.”

Great. I have to tell him in my own words. It’s like a school assignment, but the grade is how long I’m going to be locked up.

I had been in the ER for 13 hours before I came in, and then I stayed up 2 more hours getting here. I wasn’t allowed my phone until I’d been there for 6 hours. No calling my friends. No telling anyone where I was. No one to talk to. Just me and the book I brought, the book I couldn’t focus on because I’d just gone to the counselor’s office because I was having a hard time and now I was at the ER for a psych eval. The counselor who sent me to the ER had said he thought I would just get connected to resources in the community. He said he didn’t think I would be sent to a psych ward.

I’d done a lot of staring at the ceiling to just get through to the eval part, 4 hours in. 2 hours after, when I finally learned I was recommended inpatient, the social worker told me even if I hate it now, I will be grateful later. Once I feel better, I will approve of the decision to involuntarily commit me. My current wishes tossed aside for a theoretical future me who is glad I never a choice. If they’re right, I should kill myself now so I never become such a monster. All alone, with a life shattering brick dropped on my head, I finally cried.

After the eval, I’d begged the nurse for my phone so I could tell my friends where I was. So I could tell my roommate why I still hadn’t come back at 9pm when we usually saw each other by five. My phone was nearly dead when I got it. I called my friends. I called my parents. My friends stayed with me the rest of the 7 hours I was there. They hugged me and cried with me until I got taken away in an ambulance at 3am. I wondered how much a 45 minute ambulance ride cost. I wondered if it mattered.

What a fuck-up I must have seemed. I’d heard of some college kids going to psych wards before. I knew someone who had called a suicide hotline at 4am and got the cops called to take them in. I hadn’t thought it would happen to me.

It’s nice, in a way. To know how bad I’m doing. I’m bad enough that I need to be locked up. For my own safety. I’m so crazy that I can’t be trusted to make my own decisions. I hadn’t known I was that bad until now. I still don’t believe it. It’s a mistake. But it’s nice they think I’m struggling.

He’s looking at me again. I don’t remember what he asked. “Can you repeat the question?” I ask.

“Sure. Why are you here?” he says again.

Right, that was what it was. I smile. I smile when I’m nervous. “Well, I… I…” Why is he making me say this. He knows what I did. I didn’t even try to kill myself. It’s not that bad. “Well, I was… I was… Sometimes I get into these moods. A lot of times I’m normal and fine. But sometimes I just… sometimes I just want to die. I used to try not to think about how I could do that or anything.” I sigh. I had tried so hard to not think about methods. I must have known I wouldn’t be able to stop myself from doing shit like this eventually. “Because I know this sort of thing would happen. But this time… this time I did. I looked up bridges I could theoretically jump from. But that seems like it would suck.”

I laugh. It’s a nervous laugh. It’s a ‘isn’t it funny that jumping from a bridge to kill yourself would suck?’ joke. One of the classics. He’s not laughing.

“Anyway, I was just feeling… I don’t know. I felt useless. I just keep thinking about dying and killing myself. It’s stupid. And I—I wasn’t trying to kill myself. I don’t know if people think I was trying to kill myself and that’s why I’m here. But I wanted to do something. To—I don’t know. To see what’s even possible. So I—so I—so I—”

This is the part I always get stuck on describing. I don’t know how to put what I was feeling into words. I don’t know how to describe what I was doing. I don’t know why I was doing it. It seemed like a good idea at the time. But then again, it had seemed like a good idea to go to the counselor’s office at the time.

“I took—I took a belt. Right? And I hooked the metal buckle part over the door knob—it’s one of those long ones. And I kind of—I kind of—I don’t know. I kind of wrapped it around my neck once and held it with my other hand. So that if I passed out I would be fine. And then I sort of… pulled down. To see if that would… do anything. I did that a few times, and then I was scared that I did it. And I told the counselor the next day.”

It hadn’t been empty blackness like I’d hoped for. It had been a pulsing pressure in my head. I did it a couple times, to see if I could get the empty blackness. Then I stopped. Because it had seemed like such a good fucking idea before I did it, but then I realized I’d done something very worrying and should probably be in therapy. Even if the voice that had started the whole thing was telling me to do it again. It wasn’t real before I’d done it, but once I’d done it, it was too real to ignore.

He’s writing on the clipboard. I have a sinking feeling I’m not getting a good grade. “I wasn’t trying to kill myself,” I repeat.

“I know,” he says. He’s still writing. I wish I knew what it was.

It’s just me and him in my room. He woke me up when he came in. I went to sleep after breakfast. When I was admitted at 5am last night, one of the techs told me I should try to be awake during the day and asleep at night. Go to groups. Talk to people. It would help me get out sooner. But I’d already been up for 20 hours and it was 5am. So I was going to sleep and they were just going to have to live with that. Apparently you can’t skip the psychiatrist appointments, though.

“What’s got you so suicidal?” he asks.

The world. Everything. And yet, nothing. My life is great. “What do you mean?” I say.

“What do you think about that makes you want to kill yourself?” he elaborates.

“I… I don’t know,” I say. “The… the environment, I guess. Global warming. Kinda sucks to feel like the future is ruined. And the species and the ice sheets. Rising fascism.” I remember a tumblr post where a therapist talked about her patients talking more about those sorts of things making them depressed. That made it seem like an okay enough reason to give to a psychiatrist. And it’s not like that isn’t a big fucking bummer making me not want to be alive.

He makes more notes. “Anything else?” We both seem know that’s not enough on its own to make me constantly thinking about suicide.

I shrug. I’m just so stupid and worthless doesn’t feel like a cogent enough explanation. And I can’t phrase it like that. That would be stupid. “Feelings of… worthlessness, and um.” I search for something in my head. It’s fuzzy. There’s nothing there. I always remember everything so well when I’m crying in bed thinking about how much I want to kill myself. I could write essays on the subject in those moments. Instead I just rehash them to myself, over and over. But I can’t remember any of it now. “I dunno. I can’t remember unless I’m spiraling. A lot of anxiety. Around… people. Social anxiety.” I nod.

Sometimes I get attacked by my social anxiety, memories from years ago—three years, five years, a decade—sending jolts through me as I remember them. I remember what I should never do again. What I’ve learned. Lessons I can never forget, even when I can’t remember what taught them. I usually throw myself onto my bed and writhe in the agony of memories, clinging to ‘I’m sorry’ and ‘I want to die’ like I'm falling in an abyss and they're the only rope up. I can never remember what the memories are until they’ve started their assault. I don’t know how to describe that, though.

I’m not being as amicable to him as I usually would be. I haven’t been amicable since they recommended me for inpatient at the ER. Something broke in me then. I’d felt it snap, a crack of terror, and then—nothing. I’m more stone-faced now. Quiet.

I can be friendly when I need to be. I can be talkative and responsive and say all the right words and have the appropriate “mmhmm”s and “oh no”s and “yeah”s. I can laugh in the right places, when it’s polite to laugh at a joke I don’t think is funny. I can make eye contact and break eye contact at what I assume are appropriate moments. I never know if I’m doing it right, though. I poured over a book about body language in high school, trying to learn how the fuck to do it. It said that the exact percentage varied, but around 40% eye contact 60% not eye contact. I tried to get the proportions right for years. Every conversation. Look at their eyes a few seconds, look away a few more seconds. Look eyes, look away. I used to look between their eyebrows, because the eyes were too much. But I read somewhere that some people can tell and they think it’s weird. So eyes it was.

I’m dead now, though. I’m already in a psych ward. They know I’m crazy. What’s the point in trying to appear like I can converse like a human. I don’t want to have to do it. So I don’t. I stare soullessly past people when they talk to me. I examine their clothes. I look at their hair. I don’t smile when they talk to me. I don’t laugh at their jokes. They ask me how I am and I don’t ask them back.

He seems to conclude I’ve finished explaining. “Well—okay, are you voluntary?” He leafs through his papers. “Yes, voluntary. Let’s see…” He leafs through them again.

Voluntary patient. What a laugh. When I came in, I was involuntary. During intake, they gave me some forms and said if I sign them I’d be a voluntary patient. I asked if anything would change. No, they said, it was a distinction with no difference. A voluntary patient still can’t leave until the psychiatrist says they can. But I would be seen as complying with the recommended treatment. It would be beneficial to be seen as complying with the recommended treatment. So I signed. But I never mistook that little black-and-white print Voluntary for consent, even if everyone else did.

#antipsychiatry #anti psych #creative nonfiction #personal narrative #psychiatric hospital #psychiatric abuse #suicidal ideation #suicide tw #trauma #complex ptsd #work in progress #dissociation #depression #anxiety #climate change mention #psych survivor #psych wards #institutionalization

[justjozzyjitters]

Old Poem #109

A nursery rhyme.

Heads, shoulders, knees and toes,

Knees and toes,

She who cried wolf,

Written off for some sort of female hysteria,

Taking blame for the pain,

Just sort of there.

Why does it always come to

A game of fault

Disabilities can only be accepted when

Physically visible pardon written test,

No matter the wolf's signature,

Cut against sheep's fur,

No proof can come from feelings,

No more than dramatics.

Nothing to normalcy,

Chapter 59 of my everyday life,

The smart kid makes a doctor of himself,

Too bad empathy can't be taught,

Twelve years gone,

Wolf cries of smart kid syndrome,

If an answer isn't evident,

Why bother--

Risk exchanged with failure when

Respect is convoluted.

Even air has sharp, jagged teeth,

Biting at the uvula at the back of my throat

Pull it captive to your lungs

If not for a binding of nerves and skin

Inhale

Exhale

Stuck there in a clump

A beast threatening even in its sleep,

For fear of its return.

About 2023, age 18.

#creative writing course #amateur writing #my poetry #creative writing minor #personal narrative #poetry #creative writing #diagnosis less #female hysteria #chronic pain #mental health #chronic fatigue

[cryptid-ink]

I wrote this for my college English class. I was eventually chosen out of hundreds of students to perform it live in front of an audience. It's a true story.

TW: Domestic Abuse

Seizing The Day - Destin Cramer

The day that I left Josh was the worst day I possibly could have imagined. We had been together for five torturous years. I spent most of our relationship attempting to soothe his explosive episodes. His blood would boil until his face turned pink, the vein in his forehead throbbing as venomous words would drip from his lips. Living with him for so long, I felt hopeless, especially the day I left.

            That day was just like everyday that I was with him. Except, that day, we were living out of a hotel room. The walls of our previous apartment were haunted by the sounds of our screams, and the neighbors refused to put up with it any longer. We caused too much of a disturbance. So, the landlords didn’t bother renewing our lease, and we couldn’t find anywhere with our bad credit. I had been unable to work for years due to my nerve pain and PTSD. Josh had been unable to work because he was “tired.” I knew he was just lazy.

            Josh, my fiancé, a 23-year-old man child, was sitting on the unmade hotel bed, sheets strewn across the room, coffee in hand. His eyes narrowed at me as he noticed my eyes open to the sunlight streaming across the small hotel room. “I couldn’t even wake you up! We missed the apartment viewing!” His voice thundered against my tired ears.

            “I’m sorry, I couldn’t sleep at all last night. I had to take my sleeping medication. It must have knocked me out,” I muttered, pulling my aching body up from the pristine mattress to confront the demon that haunted my every waking moment. His face held a strong resemblance to a small child who just sucked a lemon for the first time, while simultaneously looking like a constipated old man.  

            “Well, you should have woken up. If we can’t find a place to live now, it will be all your fault!” his voice echoed against the empty hotel walls. It seemed extra pitchy and annoying today.  My service dog, Meatball, whined as he got louder. It seemed like even she agreed that he was being obnoxious today. She stared at me with her big brown eyes, begging for me to get him to shut up.

            “That’s not true. And I really can’t talk about this right now. I just woke up. You could have gone without me to see the apartment,” I said desperately attempting to avoid another argument.

The day hadn’t even started yet. I dragged my feet across the old red carpet. The fabric was rough against my feet, and I was grateful for the sensation to focus on as I felt a psychogenic seizure starting. I was diagnosed with “Stress induced seizures” a few years into my relationship with him, and to this day I believe he was the cause of them. Though of course, I did have another one when I found out my favorite band, My Chemical Romance, reunited. Perhaps I should blame it on that.

            “We’re going to be homeless for even longer now just because you were too lazy to wake up on time! I couldn’t have gone without you; you would have gotten upset if I left you behind!” I sighed deeply as his yelling penetrated my concentration.  “I really can’t do this right now. Stop yelling at me! I just woke up and I can’t have a seizure to start my morning.” I felt the anxiety swirl in my stomach, rushing its way up my throat, threatening to choke me. Josh was very aware of my seizure condition, but that didn’t mean he was ever respectful about it.

            “You can’t always use that as an excuse! You fucked up, and now we’re going to be homeless. Just apologize for not waking up on time!” His face grew more and more red. Oddly enough I remember thinking that he looked like a radish in that moment.

            “Just stop screaming at me! Please, I can’t handle this right now!” I started shaking, the stress rising in my body, and I could feel it approach the threshold. My hands were unable to stay still as I poured the store-bought coffee into the paper hotel cup. I heard his screaming grow louder as the world around me started to blur into a dark cloud. I felt my legs give out beneath me, and I felt the rough texture of the floor scrape against my face.

            I suddenly felt my vocal cords erupt as fear washed over me. I couldn’t control my body anymore. The tremors clenched every muscle in my body, straining all the strength I had against me, twisting me into horrific positions. I was a husk of anxiety and despair. I heard someone screaming “Please, Stop!” repeatedly. I hung onto that voice- my voice; hoping that I would come back to full consciousness when the screams ended.

            Suddenly, my voice was muffled, and I felt my breathing get heavier. I tried to see out my eyes. The suffocating darkness surrounded me, as I shook uncontrollably, I was unable to catch my breath. That isn’t normal I thought to myself.  I heard the door slam and the room got quiet except for my desperate sobs and gasps to get air. The seizure was straining every muscle in my body, causing an unbearable burning. I focused on the pain, and I slowly found myself climbing back into my body. I felt the feeling of control return to my stomach, then my legs, then arms, and eventually my hands. Desperate for air, I reached up to my face attempting to push whatever it was out of the way. My hands connected with something soft. It was a pillow. He had put a pillow on my face in the middle of my seizure.

            Shaky and exhausted, I pulled my phone out of my pocket only to discover that it was wet from the coffee I spilled. I wiped my hands and phone off on my pants and quickly told my friends what had happened. My fingers mistyped as I shook, still feeling off I texted on our group discord “He put a pillow on my face while I was having a seizure.”

            I ran into the white hotel bathroom and turned the shower on to drown out my voice. I hopped in the video chat section as I pressed my back against the door, just in case Josh came back. I cried as quietly as possible as I waited for them to answer. What felt like an hour passed until my friends’ voices broke through the noise of the shower and my sobs.

            “You’re going to move in with me, and you don’t have a choice,” My redheaded best friend, Julia, said sternly. Julia was my closest friend in the group chat, and she lived only 3 hours from me in San Diego.

            “What? I can’t do that on my own. I have nothing. I have no money, bad credit- I mean, Josh has access to all my bank accounts!” I said, panic oozing from my voice.

Morgan interjected, “Don’t worry about that- I’ll take care of it. You just need to break up with Josh and get in the uber that I order,” I could see her wispy brown hair in a messy bun as a cigarette dangled from her worried scowl. She was the “mother” of the group, constantly giving us stern advice, but always from a loving place.

“I’m scared- he won’t let me leave if I just say that I’m going to Julia’s.” Tears filled my eyes

“Goddamn it Destin,” Morgan raised her voice, “you can’t stay there, he could have killed you! If you don’t leave today, I will fly out there and pull you out by your hair!”

She was right, if I stayed something like this was bound to happen again. How many injuries from these “accidents” could my body really sustain? I was falling apart already. It was only a matter of time before he killed me and blamed it on my mental illness. How close was he really to smothering me with that pillow? I didn’t want to stay and find out.

            “Okay, can you guys stay on the phone with me while I leave?” I sobbed softly, whispering in case Josh was close.             “Of course, lets just go get your stuff.” Julia pushed.

I opened the door to the dimly lit hotel room. I sighed and pet my cats, knowing that this would be the last I saw of them. I had gotten them with Josh, but I knew Julia was allergic. Mama purred against my hand, not knowing my fate. I was going to leave this time. I didn’t know what the future had in store for me, but it had to be better than whatever level of hell this was.

            Suddenly, I heard a knock on the door and my breath hitched. It was him, it had to be. He must have forgotten his key again. Idiot, I thought as I brought my phone with my friends anxiously waiting on the other line. I held the phone between me and the door like a shield. I opened it to see Josh’s smiling face holding two plates of food. “Honey, I think you need to relax, I got you some food, and tonight I wanted to take you on a really nice date.” His sickly-sweet voice rang out against the tension in the air.

            My eyes narrowed into daggers as I realized what he was doing. He was attempting to get me to forget what just happened using bribery. I opened the door for him to come in.

“Actually, I’m not feeling well. I don’t want to go out tonight, and I need to talk to you about what just happened.” He looked at my phone as I spoke, noticing our audience.

“Yeah, we can talk, but I don’t want your friends listening.”

“I want them on the phone for this…” my voice quivered, along with my confidence. “What’s going on?” His voice darkened as he realized the seriousness of the situation.

There was a long pause as I drew my breath. The tension hung in the air like knives.

“I’m breaking up with you. I’m taking the dog and I’m moving in with Julia.” I stated bluntly. I didn’t care if I hurt him anymore. I was tired. This relationship was a dead limb, rotting on my body as I struggled and begged it to come back to life. It needed to be amputated and I was now my own surgeon. His screams broke my realization

            “How could you do this to me? We’re a family! We’re supposed to be together no matter what! You can’t take Meatball!”

            “Today you put a pillow on my face during a seizure. Last year you gave me multiple concussions. This was the final straw.” I stated, ice in my voice as I shoved random articles of clothing in my bag. He grabbed my phone out of my hand, screaming profanities as he attempted to stop me from packing. Usually I’d be scared, but that day, with my friends backing me up I knew I’d be okay.

            “Let me go Josh, or my friends will call the police.”  I pushed past him, grabbing my phone out of his hand as he attempted to fight me off, now only halfheartedly as he realized that I was serious this time. I pulled Meatball along behind me. Without missing a beat, she followed, wagging her tail as we left the monster behind.  I cried violently as I ran out the door, dragging my few belongings with me. I felt a wave of grief wash over me as I shoved myself and Meatball into the back of the black tesla that waited for me outside of the hotel. Meatball licked my hands, attempting to calm me down as we left the hotel behind, her blocky head nudging into my legs the whole ride. We drove across the barren southern California landscape for three hours and I allowed the emptiness of the scenery to fill me with a sense of relief and terror as I realized this was the beginning of an entirely new life.

#personal narrative #writing #english 101 #essay #did system #cptsd #ptsd #true story #my story #tw domestic violence #dv survivor #domestic violence #domestic abuse #tw domestic abuse #abuse #abuse survivor #tw abuse #pnes #fnd #non epileptic seizures #personal #mine #lgbtq #queer

[clementine-writes-things]

Personal Narrative

Hey guys, I just finished my personal narrative for my English class. It's only the first draft and I will be revising it in the future, but I thought I would share it with you guys <3 I'm very proud of it. The topic I chose was about my autism, how my life was like being undiagnosed, and then after being diagnosed. Word count maximum was 2000 so you know I had to make it 1996 haha. I wish the word count was higher though because it caused me to keep things short and to the point :( Anyways, read if you want to! <3

Autism: Ineffable

            If you were to describe your life in a few words, what would you say? More than likely, you would find this difficult. How can one person fit their entire journey in life so far into mere words? Days, months, years, decades of self-exploration, all shrunk down to miniscule letters. However, I’ve known the answer for quite some time. Lachrymose melancholic euphoria. What may sound like a jumble of fancy words to you, sounds like every day to me. There is a vast difference between each of those words, contradicting the one before it. It's absurd, really, using those words to define your entire life up to this point. But, what else can you say when there is nothing better to use? When I was 15 years old, I loved those three words. Each one of them invoked a feeling within me, indescribable and foreign. I felt attached to the trio, almost as if they were truly apart of me. Undoubtedly, I was correct. Those words become inescapable when you live with autism.

            When I reflect on my life, I find myself remembering small things. Things that seem unimportant and dismissible. Perhaps I try to cherish the nostalgic feeling of naïve innocence. But, below the bandage of nostalgia is a festering and rotting wound that reopens every time I go looking. A childhood that should have been full of pure joy and love was instead overflowing with confusion, dread, and a sense of unbelonging. Why should a child at the gentle age of 7 have to worry about being a ‘normal’ kid? It’s unfair and disappointing to expect a child to try to fit into the standards of society. I felt like something was wrong with me and I didn’t know what. My parents must have thought this too because they had me go to ‘Occupational Therapy’. I cannot recall how old I was exactly, but I was still in elementary school. There were multiple exercises that we did, but I only remember two of them. A large swing with a seat made of colorful rope hung from the ceiling in the middle of the playroom. The child was to sit on the swing and get pushed by the therapist. Its purpose was simple: to help with depth perception. Another exercise was to grab a small toy from inside a mason jar full of beads and marbles. This was to help children get used to different textures. I had no idea what these exercises were supposed to do at the time, all I knew was that I was in a bright colorful room with other kids. Well, eventually I stopped going to that place. After that, it was back to being a ‘normal’ kid. Though, I didn’t behave any differently.

            I wasn’t the ‘easiest’ kid to raise for my parents. Not only was I born with heightened hearing, but I later got diagnosed with ADHD as well. When I got older, I was put on Adderall, and it helped a lot. Things began to calm down, I was able to focus more and play with other kids. Elementary school went by fast, middle school came and went, and then I was in high school. As a child, I saw movies about high school and thought it looked like so much fun. I was eager to make friends, go to dances, join clubs, and have an amazing journey. Of course, that is not what happened. Freshman year was stressful for me, I couldn’t get adjusted to this new experience that I was put into. Everything was foreign and I barely had any classes with my friends. And just when I started to get even remotely comfortable, quarantine happened. Everything went back downhill, spiraling and landing in a fiery crash right before my eyes. By some miracle, I passed my classes, but only barely. Summer rescued me from the pit of sadness that I was slipping into, giving me a few months of happiness. No matter how happy I was though, the unwavering feeling of dread always hung over me. A dark cloud that grew bigger and bigger the more I tried to swat it away. Sophomore year came and I chose to do a different online school. As much as I wanted to do a good job that year, the cloud never left me alone. I procrastinated assignments, never doing any homework. My eyes were constantly glazed with tears and my heart was aching for reasons that I still cannot explain to this day. Eventually, the last month of school came around, and I still had nothing done. Every day for the rest of that month I spent working on school, nose to the grindstone. I was burnt out but was unable to stop, as I would surely fail my classes. It was during this time that I found something that gave me happiness again. And, as silly as it sounds, it was a tv show called ‘Gotham’. I would watch the show while I worked, smiling the entire time as I did so. This show provided an escape from my dire situation, while also giving me motivation. Because of this, I passed all my classes before the deadline. And even though my grades weren’t fantastic, I was still immensely proud of myself for what I had accomplished. The rest of my high school journey was smooth sailing after that. That is, until my senior year.

I paced my room, choked sobs echoing in my ears. Screams wanted to leave my throat, but I found myself incapable of even speaking. I have no real reason as to why I did this, but I ran away. Without telling my parents I went towards the river near my house and started to walk. The sky was starting to get dark, the river blowing up a cool breeze onto my skin. I had no idea what I was doing, but at the same time I did. My parents eventually found out, and I was sent to a behavioral hospital. In all honesty, I still feel like I should be there. I was only there for a week, and they didn’t help me with anything. The only thing they did was give me pills and have me take them. Once I was discharged, my mother told me later that the workers talked to her about me. They had asked if I had autism. Deep down in my heart, I already knew the answer. But it wasn’t until December of that same year, 2022, that I got tested. A few weeks later I got the results back.

            The diagnosis wasn’t the thing that hit me hard. There was absolutely nothing wrong with having autism. It was looking back on my younger self and seeing all the telltale signs that were either ignored or overlooked. It was the fact that I tortured and hated myself over something I had no control over. Something that I didn’t even know I had. That is what broke me. Everyone looks back on their younger self and wishes they did something differently, but I just want to hug myself. All of the times that I would cry myself to sleep because I had a melancholy feeling that was unprecedented, it finally had an explanation. All of the times I would get hyper fixated on a certain show or character so much that it would make me physically ill, finally had an explanation. It was gut-wrenching to know I treated myself because of how I was born.  Desperately trying to change myself to be like everyone else when all I needed to do was be happy with who I was. When I think about that, I can’t help but break down in tears.

            After the diagnosis, I felt like a different person. The diagnosis didn’t change me itself, I decided to change myself. Everything I was embarrassed to indulge in before, scared of getting criticized or made fun of, I was going to finally explore. I even wanted to change my name, hoping to leave behind the old me who deserved so much better. Clementine. A vibrant and cheerful name, reminding me to never think badly of myself again, but to always love myself. I had finally found confidence in myself, even if other people didn’t agree with my choices. My parents, maybe because they didn’t understand the importance of it, didn’t support my name change. I felt uncomfortable to even mention it around them. It is a shame that the people who you expect to love and support you no matter what would turn their back on something so important to you. However, I didn’t let that get me down. I focused on the things that made me happy, not afraid to show my true interest in them anymore.

            Stereotypes followed me wherever I went, whether it was school, with my friends, even my own family. I was constantly being told why I acted the way I did. My mother would send me links to websites, send me inspirational quotes, and would go so far as to tell me how to help myself improve. Now, I knew she meant well, but deep down in my heart I wanted to scream at her. I wanted to grab her by the shoulders, shake her around, and cry out ‘Why don’t you ever ask me?’. All those researchers and doctors, the majority of them didn’t even have autism, and yet everyone collectively agreed that they knew best. Autism is more than being a super genius. It’s more than being a non-verbal ‘idiot’. I was so sick and tired of people telling me why I was the way I was. Because they didn’t know anything about me, and they never would. They will never know why I pace around my room, sobbing violently, making up scenarios in my head to let me escape my life. They will never know why I have the motivation to draw a detailed picture but don’t have the motivation to do a simple chore. They will never know why I obsess and grow emotionally attached to a fictional character so much that it feels like a drug addiction. No one will ever know the reason behind these things, no one besides me. I can guarantee you, reader, that even you will not understand what I am trying to say. It’s impossible. I am fed up with people making autism seem simple and comprehensible.

            The purpose behind my personal narrative is to shed light on how autism is a spectrum. Not one person on it is the same. For me, I find that nothing makes sense, yet everything is clear. Simple tasks are difficult for me, but I can feel emotions that are ineffable. I am 19 years old and do not truly know how to pay taxes, I still need help. I am 19 years old, and I cannot listen to music without tears welling up in my eyes. No, I don’t have my drivers license, but I can tell you everything about the Riddler from DC Universe. I’m not the same as you, I still need help with laundry. But you will never be like me, nor will you know what is on my mind. I’m non-binary, I’m queer, I don’t conform to gender roles, I’m autistic, I’m in love with myself, I cry myself to sleep, and I have emotions that are indescribable. No one defines me except for myself. In a world where I am ostracized, villainized, and called slurs, I smile and show you a picture of my current hyper-fixation. I don’t want to be like you. I am an enigma in your eyes. My body is comprised of colors, music, and nature, swaddled in my flesh. I am ineffable to all; you will never truly understand me. Forever in a state of euphoria, always melancholic, and eternally lachrymose.

#personal narrative #writers #writers of tumblr #autism #actually autistic

[the-healing-mindset]

In the same way that the people who continue to hurt you believe that they are doing you a favor, you need to believe that better is out there and that you are capable of doing better. It may not seem like it right now, but it is possible. And you are worth it.

Just by believing, you can take actions that you never thought possible.

#reminder #gentle reminder #personal narrative #personal safety #personal growth #life #living #improvement #self-improvement #self-awareness #healing #recovery #growth #belief #belief systems #believe in yourself

[fettesans]

Fette Sans, Untitled (If I can’t sleep at night is it because I am awake [redacted] with Dr Younes), 2017.

Performance. Part of my five-month-long project at Hotel Zoo Berlin. I invite a friend to pass as my psychotherapist in New York—Dr Younes—and I organize two public sessions of 90 min which I also record. The truthful nature of our relationship is kept undisclosed to the attendees. I wear tie-dye leggings, a pink top, a muslin kimono offered by BIEST, and a light hair color bob wig. I have taken off my glasses and I do not wear contact lenses. I am sitting on the bed with headphones and Dr Younes can also be heard on the speakers. The only interdict I give him is to not ask about the sessions themselves, anything else can be discussed. We do not rehearse.

#personal narrative #analog

[bweadly]

Literary Journalism

A rainy yet fun day at our café

It was the start of the USC days and it was raining, we didn’t get a chance to had a proper opening day since it was raining. Instead of going to the big and open quadrangle, we instead just went outside of the classroom to celebrate it. Many people were there, deferent strands, such as ABM, HUMSS, and A&D. I was an art and design student before, so obviously were only got a small population, we only had three blocks, unlike other stands where they had many blocks which I can’t count. Although it was raining we had a blast at the opening day of it, though it was raining and making us moist, it was exciting to witness.

    After the opening ceremony, we went back into our classroom in which we turned into an art café, we called the café Art Appetite. We sell many arts related content, such as game posters, stickers, and miscellaneous art related stuff. To add to that, we as well operated an cosplay photo booth in where I got to cosplay as well, we had to get in our cosplay attire after the opening of the event. It was a gloomy and cloudy day, but we brought rainbows and sunshine to everyone in the school by doing the art café and entertaining our customers. It felt like we got to be the main character for that day since we were in deferent outfit than everyone.

Finishing with the preparation, we opened our little yet spacious café inside of our classroom. My first shift was to guard the door. I had to stand there with my cosplay on and attend to the customers and write down their names so we will know who and how much went inside of our café. Many wanted to take pictures with me and it made me quite happy, since it took many efforts in doing cosplay and I had to style my own wig, bought my costume, and put in a lot of confidence to walk or stand around in a cosplay in a gloomy and rainy day. After some time, my shift ended, and I was tasked to advertise our café, so we began to walk around and try to get some potential customers from the campus.

   After some walking, I heard from a friend of mine that they got harassed by a student when doing some walking around and advertising the café. I got so mad, confused, and protective of them since she is quite small and is quite delicate and sensitive. So we decided to create a buddy system in order to stop or avoid getting harassed by the naughty and misbehave students that can squeeze us tight making us not able to move in one bit and making us more uncomfortable from them. Most of us are introverts so we get scared by small interactions, but we had one extrovert that was in cosplay as well to help us in our job. But she was part of a cosplay competition so we first head to the venue where they held the cosplay event. After some time, it was over, so we decided to start promoting and advertising our little spacious café, but unfortunately my extroverted friend did not win.

    Due to the advertising and promoting our café, we got really tired and wanting to head back the café. Yet, we decided to roam again for some time before going back to the café ran. But when passing by a classroom, we heard someone said something really weird towards my other cosplayer friend that was with us. He yelled something that turned us off. It was another harassment that was being made by the seniors we had on the fifth floor, we side eyed the person and moved along. When we arrive back to the café, I saw familiar faces. I was confused and shocked like the cat meme that keeps on saying “huh?” and wondered why they are there, and they told me that they transferred there as well and were visiting the campus that I am in.

   After sometime in the café and managing some station, we head back out again and tried to look for customers. But of course, that was not it. Few minutes after going outside we went to another classroom and stayed there for a while. That classroom was for the student council, in which my one of my block mate was part in. The student council was selling used books to other students, it could be reserve or walked ins. Time flies and we started to head out again promoting our café, crossing paths with some of my block mates that were also advertising the café.

    Nothing interesting happened and we got tired again so we decided to head back to the café. Another moments of attending to the station, I got tired so I sat down, but a customer went in and ordered juice and some snacks. While handing in the beverage and snack, she complemented my long and black painted nails and it made me blush turning red a bit. I got shy and gain more confidence from the complement that she had gave me. It felt so nice hearing those words since my parents disagreed to the long and painted nails that I got before. It was validating.

    Nearing the end of this day, we went to the food court to try to get more customers but did not get any, so we instead bought some food there. When lining, I heard a junior high student sang something inappropriate for their age, and was thinking that I was the cause of it, which I am. Running away from my problem and with my food, my block mate bumped into someone that looked familiar to me. The person we ran into was my classmate from my elementary school. We were once really close but now she did not recognize me, it was probably because of my cosplay.

It was now closing time. We had to clean up all of the trash that was in our café after a busy day. The second and last day were no deferent to the event on the first day. In the end we earned 10k and above money from this. I had fun with my friends, meet new and old friends from the event. It felt like a fever dream to me because it was raining yet we still did that. I wish there was more of this, but all things have an end. This chapter of my life is engraved to my brain and is one of my core memory that I made in a new place.

#personal narrative #blog #school #cafe #cosplay

[calltoamentor]

Minthe: What to Do When Personal Narrative Becomes Destructive

Daily writing promptWhat’s something most people don’t understand?View all responses In most written media that joins the general cultural consciousness and gains a large following, there is often a character that the collective following absolutely cannot stand. They cheer when negative things happen to them, they are skeptical and frustrated if they are given sympathetic backstories or a…

View On WordPress

#dailyprompt #dailyprompt-1890 #How to find your community #how to leave a toxic family #how to leave a toxic friend #how to leave a toxic workplace #learned helplessness #Lore olympus #minthe #personal narrative

[bucket-barnes]

The Boy in the TV

I've been having a bad couple days, so I wrote this little story about a comfort character of mine. It's a first draft so it may not be great, but I might do something more with it one day...hope you enjoy the read!

Actors can live many lives, Pirates, Vampires, Dancers and Musicians, but the one that feels the most comforting…is a boy on the upper east side. 

I never understood comfort characters until I saw him, someone who seemed to be going through all the things I was but worse, but not having anyone to tell him he’d be ok, often being ignored despite a clear spiral, but there was something about him that made me feel less alone, like if he was going through the things I was, at least we could be sad together. 

I’ve had my share of bad days, days where it feels like the world is against me and I just want to lay down and cry, so I curl up in bed…and watch the boy on the TV. He doesn’t often get to be happy, but you can’t help but smile when he does, because you know he deserves it…like you’re watching something great happen to your friend.

Sometimes I wish I could talk to the boy in the TV, though I know if he were real, he’d probably not even give a second glance, but I wish I could just sit down with him sometimes, talk about our problems and how we seem to be so similar, hopefully not start crying in the process.

You always want the boy in the TV to get a happy ending, you watch and you watch waiting for him to get his happy ending…but then the show ends, and he gets left on the curb…so you give him one, you give him someone, someone who can give him that happiness, you imagine what they would do together, what their world is like… because the boy in the TV deserves to be happy, he’s gone through so much with no one caring, all them watching him slip until he seems about to break…and you just want him to be happy.

I never understood comfort characters until I saw him, someone who seemed to be going through all the things I was but worse…I hope the boy in the TV found his happy ending, I know I’ll never meet him, but I can always visit him through my screen…we may both be sad…but we can be sad together, and then get better. Me, and the boy in the TV

#writing #personal narrative #not really fanfic #but still nice to write #gossip girl #gossip girl reboot #max wolfe #thomas doherty #comfort character

[elliebyrrdwrites]

On Writing

If I do not write, I do not exist. I mean, I exist, obviously. But it isn't the same. I went through a period of time, shortly before having my first two children where writing wasn't a part of me. Reading was, of course. But writing had abandoned me for a brief moment in time. Or I had abandoned it.

And then one day, it came barreling back.

Or I did.

I do not know. I don't recall the specifics. But it came back! and I was suddenly looking at life from another lens again. The one I used to have, though probably less macabre than in my youth. As the slight manic mood disorder I seem to still suffer from, hit terribly wrong with puberty. Teenage angst, I like to call it. Though, it did seem to last deep into my twenties. It was just shortly before I met my now husband that I had started to twist into a different kind of mania. More highs and less lows. I call that success, if you ask me.

Regardless, writing had briefly swept away when I dove back into work and school as a grown ass adult.

And then sometimes after my son was born, it found me again.

And then I had my last daughter and a lot of other things happened that made me look at life like I needed to fucking LIVE. Really LIVE!

I wanted to be consumed by the passion of my marriage. I wanted to be consumed by the passion for writing.

And now I am here. Its here and there. It's everywhere. I compose in my head. I see words string together into intricate stories or moments in a wild life.

When I was young, the internet was nothing like this. I am probably part of the first generation to really grow up with the internet. I had already discovered that I loved words and stories and I used them more eloquently when I wrote them down than when I spoke.

And then I discovered that fanfiction was a thing. And I jumped in and it connected me to these two wonderful girls that I'll never forget. One in particular who had recently lost her father and she had told me that my stories were helping her cope and I didn't realize that I could ever create something that could help someone cope with anything so powerful.

I eventually turned into a wild young adult and lost some of my way but my need to write was always THERE. just there, almost out of reach but it was my constant friend. I loved her, she loved me.

I had journals.

Oh the journals! I would buy a journal every chance I got. When malls used be more vibrant and full of eclectic stores, I would leave the Starbucks I worked at after my shift ended and go to this wonderful little slice of heaven called a book store. Book stores seemed more common back then. I have to drive to obscure little parts of town to find one now that isn't a thrift store. And I would buy journals after journal. Journals with beautiful covers of far off cities or floral designs. Sometimes they would be simple covers of brown or black. But if they didn't scream something to me, I couldn't buy it. But if the cover had a design that did scream to me...nothing could stop me from picking it up and taking it home.

And recently, I've become a form of that girl again. Only I'm not a girl.

Not anymore.

But I write. And I write and i writeandiwriteandiwrite.

At least there's that.

#my writing #poetry #personal narrative #writing #creative writing #writers on tumblr #ao3 writer #writerscommunity

[fiadhaisteach]

The Day of the Thorns

by S.G.K. (age: 10 years)

In the summer, at about midday, I began to get hungry, specifically for blackberries. I walked to the back door, slid it open and began running to the back of the backyard. I ran past the lilac bush and the old, black trailer toward my goal. I scrambled to the top of a pile of dry grass that'd been there for a while and began reaching for the wonderful-looking berries on the brambles that touched the cinderblock wall.

The thorns wrapped around me like a spiky blanket, digging their tiny fangs into my skin, pricking and biting me. My arm stretched as far as it could, however, the plump, delicious berries remained out of reach. I had no choice but to push myself further into the bush's thorny embrace.

The pain was excruciating. I could barely take it, but I kept reaching for those perfect, ripe, shiny, blackberries. They were too tempting! They had to be mine! The sweet scent reached my nose, making the berries ever more enticing! At first, I couldn't reach them, but then my fingertips touched their waxy surface! I was so close! Leaves rustled as I strained to touch them, but I couldn't reach... until I could! I grasped them and pulled them off the branch.

The sweetness was a small respite from the pain that still lingered on my arms, even after the fact. The berries were every bit as perfect as they looked. I was feeling satisfied, so I went back inside.

Despite the perfection of the blackberries, I wasn't quite done with them yet. I needed more. So the very next day... I did it again.

#individual narrative #personal narrative #young writer #writblr #writer appreciation #(transcribed with permission) #blackberries #summer day #fifth grade writing #aisteach kiddo #aisteach reads #aisteach posts

[adj-thoughts]

How to write a PERSONAL NARRATIVE

Introduction -

Personal narratives are the stories we tell ourselves and others about who we are. These stories are built from all our experiences, big and small, and they help us make sense of our lives. By reflecting on our personal narratives, we can learn about our values, strengths, and weaknesses, and how we've changed over time.

Just think a story to write about or a experience or an epic scene

Like when I finally made a rabbit to be my friend! . I was at my old society Parth Apartments, so when I went there, the rabbit had forgotten me and I did like to play with pets, so I kept chasing the rabbit 🐰 trying to hold him once but the rabbit kept scratching me until it finally realised I wasn't going to give up and he became my friend.

After writing the scene, just tell what you learned from it

I learned from the experience that nothing is impossible if you keep on doing it .

Regards Advika Jain

#personal narrative #Story #narrative

[sagedbelladonna]

𝔈𝔳𝔦𝔩

𝔑𝔞𝔯𝔯𝔞𝔱𝔦𝔳𝔢 𝔟𝔶: 𝔜𝔬𝔲𝔯𝔰 𝔗𝔯𝔲𝔩𝔶 ⏁ 𝔅𝔢𝔩𝔩𝔰 𝔄𝔯𝔪𝔬𝔰

WARNINGS: Mentions and Recovery of Domestic Abuse, Toxic Relationships, Depression, Prescribed Drugs/Therapy. [DNI if sensitive to any of these topics]

*BEFORE YOU READ: This is not a poem, this is a personal narrative that I thought would be best to share. Taken that most of my poems here on this page share my experiences and the troubles I've succumbed to, I figured it be best to do the same to the narratives I've written, this one being the first. One thing that should be best known is that I will not allow my narratives, and my narratives only, to be reposted. Other than that, you are still free to repost the poems. Just please understand that these pieces of my work are more detailed to my personal life than my poems which is best that this type of work is left alone and untouched, and only meant to scroll through and read.*

I consider it my only saint, my only haven, to run for comfort and love. My skin wet, engulfed by its floods. My clothes are drenched and heavy as I lay on my back, floating upon the surface of a lake nearby my home. No mom and dad, no friends or foes, just me alone and the lake that carries me.

I look up from the stars decorating the black sky to the glowing moon and I remember feeling numb, but relieved and free. It was something I’ve missed and had never felt in so long after feeling trapped in the arms of who I thought I was my suitor that now finally having that feeling, I get to relish in it.

He says, “You never loved me” , “I’m the one who’s in pain not you”, “don’t do this, do that”, “you won’t like what happens if you don’t watch yourself”. I always wondered if there was something wrong with me, that it was always my fault, that I’m vile, toxic, and that I don’t deserve to be happy once our ties are cut.

“I recommend she starts taking these daily," the doctor says to my dad and then looks at me with pity I feel I don’t deserve. I’m sitting on a seat covered with the thin sheet of paper I’ve already crumpled and ripped underneath my clenched hands, looking only at my feet instead of the anti-depressants in my father’s hands.

I remember thinking, I didn’t want to take them, that I didn’t feel depressed. I only felt evil. If that really were the case then what am I doing in a room that wreaks of antiseptics? Why am I in this state if it is for nothing? I wouldn't need to heal from nothing, would I?

It was like I lost myself, like all my thoughts lost their balance and that my head is now dizzy that it’s the only thing that’s noticed right as I got quiet. I didn’t even realize I was talking until I heard a voice in front of me say, “Thank you for sharing”.

“You’re not evil.” I heard the psychologist say, breaking me out of my thoughts. “You’re not in pain for nothing”, at that moment I contemplated while listening, still figuring out if I should trust whatever comes out of their mouth. Being in denial as I sit in a metal chair alongside quiet people.

“You’re trying to heal from that pain until it is nothing. The guilt he made you feel, the ache he made you endure, the grasp he had on your vulnerability. That is not your fault, you did not break him. You did not want control, you only wanted to give.”

That’s when I looked up at her, then the people around me. “Sometimes sweetie, people like him aren’t worth giving”. One of the ladies said. My eyes were met with faded brown ones, it was a woman much older than me. She had beautiful dirty golden hair embroidered with white streaks.

She gave me a sympathetic smile, pursed lips. “Let him call you evil just ‘cause you ran honey, but don’t let it get to you. He’s stomping in his boots because he didn’t get his way with a lady just as wonderful as you. Take it from me, he ain’t worth shit”.

I thought I’d be deafened by the remembrance of his words forever until I finally saw my past self. I finally saw how he was the one who bit my hand whenever I provided everything that was yearned for and had him feed off of it. The words repeated in my mind like a mantra. ‘People like him aren’t worth giving’.

I gave my all and though I regret every piece of me for trying, I’m reminded of how I used to let his words eat me up, his threats, his actions. I knew it was never worth it in the beginning. I was glad that at that point I knew I had to stop feeding him, knowing he would bite it again and never stop until my hand falls off.

I don’t need my healed wounds to be used against me, nor my words being twisted like screws as if I’m the one who used them to nail the coffin shut when they were his screws, his coffin all along. Why need him as my tranquility when I have what I’m floating on right now?

I continue to stare at the moon, still floating upon the surface of the lake. I feel livelier and less sicker. I’ve known as soon as the waters gave me a loving embrace, one that's fresher than the rotten ones he used to give me. 

I had suffered long enough to have those pages burned, I loved him honestly and it was lethal. I never knew what it meant to be happy in what I thought was a relationship, so I ran. In his eyes, I guess that makes me selfish, so be it, but I’m free.

“I’m not evil.”

*A/N: Help is Available*

National Domestic Violence Hotline

*This link won't transfer you straight to contacting their provided number, this will direct you to a site where you can make your selection (call, SMS, chat, etc.)*

Hotline hours are in service 24/7

#writing #literature #poet #poets on tumblr #spotify #female poets #poem #poetry #original poem #personal #personal narrative #domestic violene poem #Spotify

[basicallyblobbity]

Sometimes, the power of friendship is the rage that comes with losing them

Story behind the piece:

Many year ago my mom decided to try digital art and bought an iPad. She ended up not liking digital art so the ipad was shared between me and my brother (we were the artsy ones of the family). It took me a while to get the hang of it, but I ended up falling in love with digital drawing. At the time, my main inspiration was anime, especially magical girl animes (Fuck you mitch) so one of my first real pieces (as in, not just to test stuff out) was a drawing of a generic anime girl holding a ball of energy and staring directly at me with the most lifeless stare ever. It looked awful, but I was proud of it! My first digital anime drawing! A while later (iPad was now only mine), I was scrolling through my past works and I saw it again. I had improved a lot since originally drawing it and so I wanted to see if I could redraw it better. I grouped my remake with the old one and decided to come back to that later to keep redrawing it. After a while, I had 6, fairly different drawings of the same anime girl holding the same orb. The nice thing about this was that because the original drawing was so simple, it could be interpreted in a lot of different ways. In some, the girl looked like a child; in some, a young adult; some had her proud, scared, surprised; the pose was changed somewhat each time as I binge watched lavendertowne and got better at drawing arms. I loved going back to these drawings and just seeing my progress, it was really comforting. Then my mom caught me reading fan fiction instead of homework so… no more iPad! Right before this, however, I had to do a scheduled password change. When I finally got the iPad back, I had completely forgot what I changed it to. I couldn’t get into the iPad. We had to reset it. This meant, without any of my art saved elsewhere, the anime girl drawings were gone. I remembered recently and wanted to redraw her, but I didn’t have the original picture. I did. it anyway, from memory. The fact that I would never see the original piece again was making me really emotional. This influenced the drawing (along with my more… edgy interests) and made her mad and emotional as well as a darker background. The orb in this is extended to be a magical power of friendship weapon. And in the story that I intended the story to portray, this girl is channeling her grief and anger into this orb as a final attack to avenge her friends (which would be the other magical girl teams) I’d imagine they are in a team and the others died in the battle. Kind of a dark story for a cute pink magical girl but I mean- I read ask Ketchum angst on ao3 it’s normal for me lol. My art has definitely improved. Especially the shading, emotions, and the hand. If my past self could see this, he would be proud.

#art #digital art #procreate #beauty #digital drawing #artists on tumblr #memories #childhood #childhood memories #anime art #magical girl #pink #angst #feels #anime #anime girl #artwork #art redraw #personal narrative #technically #wholesome

[alwyscrtns]

Song Storytime Sunday

feat. LS6 by Slaney Bay

(the song goes with the story, and its good, so play it as you read if you want!)

SO back in freshman year I took geometry (I took alg in 8th), the class was easy and my classmates were nice (mostly). At some point thoughout the year me and this girl, I'll call her C, get sat next to eachother. She was funny, I was funnier (in my opinion) we get along and become good friends.

I, a artist, noticed that her headphones were audio-technica m40s, valued at $100+. for those who don't know, that's a popular audio brand for professional audio. (Aka, not just regular headphones). I asked her where she got them from and then she told me about this radio camp she went to. Now also, as a artist, every single one of us gets excited when we hear the word "radio". Getting radio play is usually the #1 milestone for any small artist. So, when she said "radio" + "camp" I basically went like "!!!!".

We talk about it for a few days and eventually she shows me her radio "learners guide". It's really all common sense but it had a few funny moments. There was a list with words that you can't say on the radio. Including:

(all censored in my unique way)

Sht, P*ss, Fck, Cnt, C***sucker, MF, T*ts, BS

So anyways, I get her discord and apply for the summer camp that year (past the deadline). I wasn't expecting to get in, but I put down that I knew C on my application. School was ending, but me and C keep in touch through sending each other memes on Instagram and Discord.

C texts me, "she (wxox leader girl) says you can come in the last day of camp if youre free". i was SOOOO EXCITED. I replyed cool, when where how?". One thing led (lead?) to another, and I was inside the broadcast center one afternoon in July.

i did the hellos you usually do when you walk into a building, and waited on the couch in the lobby. (there was some cute boys there but i digress), C walked in and we start to talk about the books in the room. eventually, thats boring so she led me around to say hi to the other DJs who were early in a tour like fashion. there's not much to say about that, but I will note that I introduced myself as DJ Fruity 🏳️‍🌈 to the other DJs.

We go back in and the leader girl walks in and does a presentation/speech type thing and introduces me to the djs who came in after my tour. not much to note here, but everyone was very nice.

we go into the studio and a very professional looking guy comes in with us. he shows me this LOOONG radio contract. I dont sign without reading, so I sit and read it for a moment.

"we reserve the right to use, share, publicize, and monetize your radio show in perpetuity"

(normal talk: we own everything you say on the radio forever)

The other guys before us were doing some talk show, and were running overtime (a serious infraction in the radio world apparently). very professional guy comes in and ushers them out. I fiddle with the headphones (also m40s) for a while (they fold on themselves), professional guy helps me, and then it was time to go on air.

we snap a pic first:

C: "Hi, this is me, DJ C (forgot her dj name) and today the show is about national r&b history (something). I'm here along with..." she pauses for me to answer (thankfully)

Me: "dj create!"

(I figure you can't identify as DJ Fruity on radio)

I forget what she says next, but somehow we get onto the topic of my music "career" (i still consider it a hobby).

C: "which one of your songs did you you have the most attachment to?"

me: "I released this one song back near the start of my "career" titled albu, its real emo. the whole song is a extended metaphor with internal conflict and a lake"

She starts playing the first song, 🎵Killing Me Softly With His Song🎵. (by Lauren Hill) Anyone who's listened knows that that song knows that it ends with... a not so radio friendly bit. so we had to quickly abort halfway through the song and we go into a interview type thing.

C: "do you wanna play a song?"

me: "idk any good r&b songs"

C: "it doesn't have to be r&b, just radio friendly"

So, I played the song of the day, ls6 on the radio for r&b day. if you're listening to the song you obviously realized, it's not a r&b song, but everyone loved it anyways. I loved the experience, and I hope I get to attend the full boot camp next year. Shout out (to whoever read this whole thing) to WXOX 97.1 FM radio Louisville ❤️ (they also go by ARTxFM sometimes, Idk the difference, sblmk)

link to wxox website

Picture of all of us:

(Profesional guy is far right, leader girl is the one next to him with sunglasses on)

the end

there's more to this story, but I don't want to write too much if nobodies listening. if I get enough likes (like more than 20 ig) I'll write out what happened afterwards! comment any questions you have!

post song bonus ideas:

(r&b trivia and "the force")

(pizza party)

the actual end

#Bandcamp #radio #indie artist #music #artists on tumblr #musician #singer songwriter #radio play #WXOX #louisville #story #blog #ls6 #rock music #stories #writing #english #personal narrative #lgbtq #lgbtqia #queer

[justjozzyjitters]

Old Poem #113

"Abbey Cream 5-66"

This color saturate our walls,

Of this home we built together,

Where everything is spick-and-span

In a walk through of the house,

But the bedroom door is shut.

Pillows are still on the floor,

The bed isn't made,

Window shades pulled shut all that they may,

Overlapping in the middle,

Light still seeping through.

This I explain so honestly,

The shades aren't thick enough--

How better shades are needed,

But you sneer-- Light. Darkness.

We're exact opposites.

I like to sleep, walk and see,

Abbey Cream 5-63,

But in coming to, as with you,

Wake shan't come so soon,

Dark a little while longer.

Since it's my preference,

Wake so soon,

Light a little prompter,

I must be doing it-- Accidently-on-purpose.

Thoughts voiced directly from my lips,

Don't really matter,

Only 'cause they're mine

"Facts can't be feelings";

Only your perception-- that's what you said, isn't it?

Clarified till the things I really feel

I cease to mention.

Nonsense spoken.

Make art.

You've always been pure chaos,

But only on the inside--

Shadows on a stand still

Casting Abbey Cream 5-68,

A deer-in-headlights-type situation,

Nothing to say in the moment.

Just a simple nod,

Fingers crossed behind my back,

Promise to do better but

How fan things be fixed when

Communication lives single-sided?

One just barking orders,

Nothing to refute--

You can do nothing wrong,

Unlike me-- if only you could tell me

What it is I've done.

But yours is a truth lingering quiet,

Moving on it moments,

While I sit brooding later,

Writing out my script,

So much easier to think with pause

Pencil and eraser with which mistakes can be erased till

All I could have said

Logical and if not,

Is left only to my knowledge,

The way to hurt the least

I toss my words to the fire.

I could go to you,

Start the fight this time,

Force open the curtains,

Eyes straining against the light--

Gleaming like glass,

Reflecting each other

But you just cloze them again and

Shut me up.

The fight is done

We've moved on

Notes burn in the fire

Ash and Abbey Cream 5-63.

It's so much easier when I've done wrong,

Fixing me is just so much simpler,

Blame game just with me at fault,

No critique from me and I can keep the

Light a little longer

For now I get my compromise

Dark a little prompter.

About 2023, age 19.

#creative writing course #amateur writing #my poetry #creative writing minor #personal narrative #poetry #creative writing #love poem #broken hearted #break up #toxic love #toxic ex #blame game