Showing 10 Result(s)

To the Graduates on the Eve of Graduation

Dear friends, you made it. And I wish I had words of advice for you, but I don’t. Not really; there’s a bunch of things I’m still trying to figure out for myself, about myself, about life and adulthood. But this I know: you made it. You made it, with friends by your side, family …

It’s not yours to carry

As I write this, I’m sitting in front of the altar in the sanctuary of my church—the church I attend and the church where I work. Twenty-four hours ago, I told a pastor and close friend that there are some days when I walk into this building I call home and feel like I can’t …

The girl in the brown pajamas

They take your phone away, lock it up with the rest of your belongings. You can’t have them in the Psych ward. But they do have ginger ale and water; graham crackers and ice cream; visiting hours and showers. They also have a tv. But there’s only so many times you can watch Chopped before …

living life palms up

finding the will to live amidst the trauma The first thing I learned in therapy was to validate myself–validate the past versions of me that were hurt, validate the parts of myself that are hurting now; another thing I learned while completing the ‘Emotional Regulation’ section of DBT theory, designed to help manage the effects …

Maybe home is more than just a place

Six months ago, I never thought I’d find myself here–in a room with white colored walls and a stippled ceiling, a place to call my own. “There’s no place like home.” Dorothy once said, as she tapped her ruby slippers Together one by one. “Home is where the heart is,” They all say as if …

Letter to a suicide note

I found you tonight, tucked away amongst books I haven’t read in years but love too much to throw away. I’m getting ready to move, packing books in suitcases and clothes in boxes because I can’t stay here forever. I can’t stay here forever: trapped in the past–but I can’t move forward until I move …

I’ll suffer, but at least I’ll have $40 in my pocket

Her name is Anne. I sit kiddy-corner from her in her trailer home’s kitchen dining area. Beneath her purple glasses and her aquamarine knit sweater, her cloudy eyes shine. She has the classic, comforting old lady smell: mothballs and cats. There are books and cats everywhere–cat memorabilia and other mementos, that is. Her hands tell …