If the trauma moments lasted days long, it would be different. That would be Hell. But they don’t. It’s not a constant carousel of corruption, not like the movies where the protagonist spends the whole of the 24-hour day span in her room, on her bed—or under it—trying to hide from the memories and triggers.... Continue Reading →
He stares down at the infant in his arms. Opening his mouth in protest, he stammers, “Wait, nurse. This is some mist—” “It’s no mistake, Henry. Xavier is yours. Maybe you’d think twice before deciding not to wear protection,” Nurse Walter responds, uttering the last sentence under his breath as he walks away to focus... Continue Reading →
What they don’t tell you is that when the cold fire of metal handcuffs encircles your wrists, even loosely, you’ll believe, for a second, that you are a criminal. You are not safe. You’re a danger to yourself and these metal rings prove it.
Dear writers of trauma, You and I both know that writing about trauma can be cathartic in any form, be it fiction or nonfiction, novel or personal essay. We are encouraged, as writers and storytellers and trauma survivors, to “write our truth” so we can heal but there is an underlying occurrence that I don’t... Continue Reading →
I met him in the Spring—by accident.He was sweaty that first day, like hehadn’t showered in weeks, though the real culpritwas the scorching heat of the sun that seemed to have no end.Our friendship grew into a tangled web of danger,and trying to navigate his room was harder thana ballerina tip-toeing on a tightrope.I felt... Continue Reading →