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methodofmancy · 9 months

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Bloom

Lately, I can feel my soul as if it would fill me physically. I feel tendrils of my Self snaking out like vines and roots, tiny leaves budding from the ends as I breathe in and out. I am no longer a stone, waiting to be eroded by some external force; I am a living, growing, expanding thing now, and I can feel every movement I make, no matter how small.

One bitterly cold afternoon, I attempt to convey this to my Dear Friend. I struggle a bit through the words, and by listening carefully, he meets me halfway.

But, before I can get far, The Boy is suddenly there. He has not been given his appropriate amount of attention yet and thus plops down in front of me, all bigness and shapes.

Unsurprised and unimpressed, I continue, “it’s like I can feel myself physically growing leaves as I grow and change as a person–"

The Boy, desperate for the spotlight, begins a pantomime around my head as I’m speaking. I watch him for a few seconds, then stiffen, disdain slithering within me.

“Are you… plucking my leaves?"

“Yeah,” he replies easily (too enamored with his own joke to realize we’re teetering on the edge of a cliff).

I breathe it in, thorns sprouting through my skin.

I haven’t been looking him in the eye because it makes me weak, but this time I meet his gaze, demanding to know what’s behind it.

“You do realize that’s kinda fucked up, right?”

My Dear Friend reaches out, trying to give The Boy a parachute on his way down. “He’s pruning you,” he suggests. (The implication: so I will grow stronger and healthier.)

The Boy is the picture of innocence, completely unaware of where he stands as he shakes his head. He’s still smiling and I’m stiller than stone.

He opens his mouth, pouring his ignorance on me like rain. And even as his tongue shapes the words, none of us are prepared for the caustic accuracy of his statement.

“I’m making you lesser.”

One.

Two.

Three beats of silence.

A smile creeps onto my face, tasting of metal.

“Oh-oh.” The mutterance, from my left.

It’s such a funny thing, the pain. It churns within me, scraping at the soft tissue. And then, it bubbles up from my chest and out of my mouth as hysterical laughter, a cistern of unstoppable giggles. The Boy’s face slowly burns into confusion, shielding a glimmer of fear. (Because he doesn’t know how right he is. Because he made this choice again and again and again.)

I can tell he feels the weightlessness, the danger of his freefall. I’m still laughing but he doesn’t get The Joke and his smile finally becomes a grimace as he instinctively leans away from me.

I keep laughing–(Because there’s no good way to tell someone who loves you that they make you worse. Because it’s too late for him to take it all back.)–I keep laughing and I don’t try to break his fall this time.

He doesn’t feel the impact when he hits. And it’s not even the ground he’s met (with a sickening thud), but a concrete wall between us. We are blood and bruises and fragmented body parts, and he doesn’t even realize it yet.

On the other side, I remain–stubbornly, lavishly green. Yes, despite it all, I’m even more verdant than before, fueled by spite rather than sun, so I stare him down.

I stare him down.

I stare. Him. Down.

And when he finally looks away from me, I silently begin to bloom.

#methodofmancy #method of mancy #poetry #narrative #narrative nonfiction #writer #writers #writing #writeblr #m.m. The Boy

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cilawarncke · 10 months

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Michael Downs on Method Writing

Welcome to ‘Between the Lines’ – interviews with teachers, writers and writing teachers on specific aspects of their craft. All photos courtesy Michael Downs Light filters into Michael Downs‘ basement office, as if it were underwater. Twin decorative dragonflies, backlit on a windowsill, and a red goose-neck lamp stretched into a honk, heighten the effect of a numinous natural space. It is, he…

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#Cila Warncke #creative writing #method writing #Michael Downs #narrative nonfiction #storytelling #Towson University #writers #writing #writing professor #writing teacher

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makingqueerhistory · 10 months

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I’m actually serious about this, if at all possible, right now is a very good time to request queer books from your local library. Whether they get them or not is not in your control, but it is so important to show that there is a desire for queer books. I will also say getting more queer books in libraries and supporting queer authors are pretty fantastic byproducts of any action.

This isn’t something everyone can do, but please do see if you are one of the people who has the privilege to engage in this form of activism, and if you are, leverage that privilege for all you’re worth.

For anyone who can’t think of a queer book to request, here is a little list of some queer books that I think are underrated and might not be in circulation even at larger libraries:

Refusing Compulsory Sexuality: A Black Asexual Lens on Our Sex-Obsessed Culture by Sherronda J. Brown

Silver Under Nightfall by Rin Chupeco

Harvard's Secret Court: The Savage 1920 Purge of Campus Homosexuals by William Wright

The Perks of Loving a Wallflower by Erica Ridley

God Themselves by Jae Nichelle

IRL by Tommy Pico

The Pink Line: Journeys Across the World's Queer Frontiers by Mark Gevisser

Passing Strange by Ellen Klages

The New Queer Conscience by Adam Eli

Fierce Femmes and Notorious Liars: A Dangerous Trans Girl's Confabulous Memoir by Kai Cheng Thom

Queering the Tarot by Cassandra Snow

Wash Day Diaries by Jamila Rowser

Queer Magic: Lgbt+ Spirituality and Culture from Around the World by Tomás Prower

Before We Were Trans: A New History of Gender by Kit Heyam

Beyond the Pale by Elana Dykewomon

Hi Honey, I'm Homo! by Matt Baume

The Deep by Rivers Solomon

Homie: Poems by Danez Smith

The Secret Life of Church Ladies by Deesha Philyaw

The Companion by E.E. Ottoman

Kapaemahu by Dean Hamer, Joe Wilson, Hinaleimoana Wong-Kalu

Sacrament of Bodies by Romeo Oriogun

Witching Moon by Poppy Woods

Tell Me I'm Worthless by Alison Rumfitt

Dead Collections by Isaac Fellman

Disintegrate/Dissociate by Arielle Twist

Dear Senthuran: A Black Spirit Memoir by Akwaeke Emezi

Peaches and Honey by Imogen Markwell-Tweed

Nepantla: An Anthology Dedicated to Queer Poets of Color by Christopher Soto

#queer books #queer history #lgbt history #honestly #libraries are a massive resource in terms of preserving and uplifting marginalized narratives #and as a community #that has been so very excluded from both fictional and nonfictional narratives #this is a great way to reclaim and care for the stories that have been surpressed for so long

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dfmapa · 1 year

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The Power of Narrative Nonfiction for Telling True Stories in History, Science, and Current Events

Narrative nonfiction is a genre of writing that combines the factual accuracy of nonfiction with the engaging storytelling techniques of fiction. It encompasses a wide range of subjects, from history and science to current events and personal memoirs. This style of writing has become increasingly popular in recent years, as readers have become more interested in the stories behind the facts. In…

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#accuracy #current events #editing #examples #history #narrative nonfiction #research #science #storytelling techniques #true stories

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biglisbonnews · 1 year

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Big Love A woman, an elephant, and an uncommon love story spanning nearly half a century. https://longreads.com/2023/03/08/big-love-sanctuary-elephant-atavist-magazine/

#Nonfiction #animal sanctuary #animals #elephants #narrative nonfiction #Shannon McCaffrey #The Atavist #zoo #Longreads

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alkarinque · 11 months

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i enjoyed Trees in Paradise: A California History soo much

#finally sorting through the three hundred little bits i highlighted #transcripts in alt text!#favorite kind of nonfiction.... extremely dense in interesting anecdotes & facts which are often also funny #compellingly arrayed in a little narrative arc

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writersbeware · 2 years

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My Birthday Party

I had never wanted a party. I was lucky to have been born in August when school was out. It was impossible to hand out invitations, a true blessing. It didn’t bother me when I learned about other kids having parties to which I had not been asked to attend. After all, since I had no friends, who would I talk to? One year my younger sister wanted a party. Unlike me, she had…

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#birthday party #celebrating birthdays #Emotions #Essay #essay about birthdays #essay about feelings #essay about life #Essay and Thoughts #Feelings #Life&039;s lessons #Narrative nonfiction #Nonfiction #nonfiction essay #nonfiction story #nonfiction story about a birthday party #Personal Essay #relationships #Thoughts

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chantireviews · 1 year

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NEW: The Military and Front Line Awards from Chanticleer

The Military & Front Lines Book Awards recognize emerging talent and outstanding works in Narrative Non-Fiction and Memoir, exploring the lives of those who serve their country and others. The Military & Front Lines Service Book Awards is a genre division of Chanticleer International Book Awards and Novel Competitions (CIBAs). We have long wanted to hold a Book Award Division for Narrative…

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a-typical · 6 months

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The Ethnic Cleansing of Palestine - Ilan Pappé (2006)

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shattered-yet-whole · 3 months

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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

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