Writer's Workbook #22

#22 Dysphoria

How does it feel to disconnect

from your own skin?

To look at yourself and say

“This body is not mine”?

To see the traits you were born with

and know they weren’t for you?

It feels foreign, and wrong.

It is a being unfamiliar to you

despite having known it your whole life.

To want to escape your own body

and replace it with one that feels right

Is the greatest dream of some.

How does it feel when someone calls you

the wrong name?

You’ve told them time and time again

the right name

the better name

and they know.

They know that name, and refuse to use it.

How does it feel when someone

refers to you with the wrong pronoun?

They know what is right

they know what makes you comfortable

And they ignore it.

It feels like you’ve gone numb

and you have lost all trust.

They don’t make an effort to better their ways

and it’s a dagger in your heart.

I walk the world, open and out

to the people of the universe.

And the ones that care most

are the ones who know the right words

and use them.

I have ones I love dearly

that disregard me every day

and I’ve lost touch.

How does it feel when someone

shows they care?

When someone has the right name

the right pronoun

respects the struggle with your body?

It feels like they hung the sun

just for you

and you know, truly know,

who cares and loves you greatest.

Writer's Workbook #21

#21 It wasn't her fault.

“It’s not fair!” she yelled, slamming her door shut. “Everyone blames me for everything!” She flopped down onto her bed and screamed into her pillow to try and release some energy. She rolled over to her back and glared at the ceiling, hot angry tears spilling over her cheeks. She didn’t mean to break the vase. She was just trying to show her brother how to throw a ball, and the vase was in the way. She had tried to aim away from it, but the ball had hit and smashed her mother’s expensive clay vase.

It’s not my fault, she tried to convinced herself. If the stupid vase hadn’t been in the way, I wouldn’t have hit it. If Jeffery didn’t need to know how to throw a ball then I wouldn’t have hit it. If mom didn’t collect so many expensive vases then the vase wouldn’t even have been there for me to hit. She cried some more out of self pity, realizing how she was in the wrong. If I had thrown the ball outside like I was supposed to then I wouldn’t have hit the vase.

She wanted to leave her room and tell her mom she was sorry, and that she wouldn’t throw any balls in the house any more, but was afraid she’d get in trouble for coming out before she was supposed to. She felt a little helpless, and was ready to cry some more when the door opened. “Sweetie?” her mother asked. “Can I come in?” She nodded and sat up. Her mom walked in and sat next to her on the bed. “Sweetie, I-”

“I’m sorry Mom!” she cried, cutting her mom off. “I shouldn’t have thrown the ball inside the house! I didn’t mean to hit the vase, I’m sorry.” She was crying even more now, but her mother smiled down at her.
“It’s okay sweetie, I forgive you. Thank you for being such a big girl and apologizing to me.” Her mom hugged her tight and kissed her forehead.

Writer's Workbook #20

#20 The dusty, old book was sitting there, just begging to be read.

The problem with being under five feet tall and an avid reader was the fact the all the good books were on the top shelf. Well, that and every librarian tried to direct me towards the children’s area, but mainly the first issue. This time I had my sights on an old, thick novel. It had a dusty green jacket, worn edges, and mouse-eaten pages. The paper was yellowed and looked as if it would crumble the second it came into contact with human skin. The title on the spine was silvery and hand painted, but so faded that I couldn’t read it. Despite that, I knew this book was for me. I needed to get my hands on it and open to the first word, needed to absorb the words off its pages and delve into its story. The dilemma was getting the book.

I could barely touch the bottom of the fifth shelf, and the book I wanted was on the very top twelfth shelf. I entertained the notion of scaling the shelf to reach the book, but decided against it as I didn’t want to get kicked out of my favorite library. There weren’t any wheely ladders nearby, which would have been the optimal solution, but there was a stack of thick encyclopedias lying on the floor. I carefully pushed them over to where the book was, then went to grab more encyclopedias and dictionaries and other thick, dense books. I stacked them like stairs, hoping I could reach the book I needed through my improvised idea.

Now, I don’t weigh very much, but books aren’t exactly made to support the ridiculous proportions of the human body.

Writer's Workbook #19

#19 What makes you proud to be an American?

America is home of the free and land of the brave. Free rights are offered to all-unless you’re different. Excuse me while I break the fourth wall, but are you a cis, heterosexual person? Congratulations, you don’t have to receive any backlash as to your identity. I happen to be a queer person, who identifies a little differently. I have to deal with issues such as: transphobia, bigotry, and misogyny. I’ve been lucky enough to come out to a large number of my peers and have them be accepting, but there are many people who still refuse to call me by my correct name and pronouns. Names aren’t so hard (though some still insist on calling me by my birth name), but for some reason pronouns are a tricky subject. I use they pronouns, and have been told, and I quote, “You are one person, and that is plural”. Singular they has, in fact, been used since the fourteenth century by playrite artists such as Shakespeare. It is a valid pronoun to use for one person, so the argument that it is solely for plural use is incorrect.

Bigotry isn’t exactly a hard issue to correct, if the bigot is willing to listen. Sometimes bigotry is ignorance and education is a a very simple way to fix that. However, there are some people that still refuse to acknowledge any identity they don’t like. Excuse me, but my lack of attraction is none of your business, and you do not get a say in whether asexuality exists or not.

Despite being nonbinary, I still have to deal with the day-to-day effects of misogyny. Sexist comments from students and having to see objectifying images are virtually inescapable. The hatred against femininity can be overwhelming at times (who needs a woman in a skimpy bikini to sell a hamburger?) and it can affect men as well, with the expectations that they cannot be feminine and have to be Mr. Macho Man. I am just plain sick and tired of having to see half naked people in every single advertisement. I am far too asexual for this.

I am proud to be an American because America is a beautiful country with wonderful

landmarks and a rich history (though it does involve the slaughter of many other races), but the overwhelming inequality makes me ashamed.  

Writer's Workbook #18

#18 Who is the best role model in your life?

I don’t have a set role model in my life. I can’t find anyone that sticks out bright and clear with actions I wish to emulate. I can see the appeal of having a mentor that helps with issues and acts in a way I want to act, but I don’t have anyone in my life to play that role.

The kind of person I would want as a role model would be kind hearted and know how to treat people, but able to be firm and stand by what they believe in. I want to be like someone that is generous and thinks of other people first, someone that is able and willing to help and does so without thinking twice. I want be like someone that thinks similar to how I do, and shares my morals. I would want to have a close relationship with my role model, so that they could act as a mentor for me and teach me how to leave a positive influence behind on the world.

Writer's Workbook #17

#17 Write about your definition of success.

Success is not just about making it big in the world. It is not becoming a famous entrepreneur, or a rich celebrity. Success is a personal thing. It is someone feeling accomplished in their actions and satisfied with the mark they have left on the world, no matter how small it may be. A person who did something as little as hand a sandwich out to a homeless is successful, because their small action left a positive imprint on that person the sandwich was given to.

True success is in making the world a better place, in any way someone can. It is trying hard to achieve a goal, and persevering despite the unavoidable failures. It is found in anything from little projects to large-scale productions, and easier to achieve in some circumstances than in others,  but it means just as much in every situation.

Writer's Workbook #16

#16 As I approached the deserted house at the end of the road, I saw...

It looked as any deserted house should-broken down, peeling paint, missing roof shingles, a few broken windows. As I approached, I saw that there was a single tree in the front yard of the house. It had bright green leaves and strong, thick branches. No other plant life grew in the sandy dirt surrounding, and I wondered how the tree managed to to remain healthy for so long. Maybe someone in the town nearby took care of it, but why the tree and not the house? I finally reached the tree and walked around it. The trunk was wide, and the bark was thick with layers. On one side, I found a couple carvings in the wood. There were random hash marks, names, and carved initials surrounded by hearts. It appeared to be the tree where couples liked to make their marks.

“Appreciating the old thing?” a voice said behind me. I started a bit and turned around before answering.

“Yeah, I’ve never seen such a big tree by an abandoned house before. I was just looking at the carvings.”

The old man that had approached me smiled kindly and walked up to the tree. “Many memories are with this tree. It’s been around longer than I have.”

“Do you know who tends to it?” I asked. “It obviously doesn’t stay this well kept on its own.”

Writer's Workbook #15

#15         How forgiving are you when a friend lets you down?

                Friends are supposed to have your back through thick and thin, right? So why is it that every time I need them, they aren’t there? When my dog died when I was six, I had no one to console me at school. When I got sick and had to stay home for a week in eighth grade, no one was there to bring me homework. When I get too stressed to function and my sanity starts to slip, I have no one to talk to in an attempt to relax.

                The funny thing is, I’ve had friends. I’ve had the same friends since I stepped foot into an elementary school. I guess I was a filler-there to take up space and fill out the group. None of my “friends” seemed to actually care about me, and it became even more evident as we grew up. When we were old enough everyone was getting into relationships and offering advice and setting up dates, whereas I was barely handed a tissue when I needed one during allergy season.

                Organizing my thoughts like this should be a wake-up call that makes me say, “Oh hey, I should drop those friends and find some new ones”. But it won’t. Because I’m the kind of person that clings to the routine, and my friends were one. Dropping them now and trying to find new ones would put somewhere cold and unfamiliar.  I had already established myself in a place cold and distant, but at it was familiar. Just not in a friendly sort of way.

                A lot of people ask me how important trust and support is in a friendship. I simply answer that I’ve never been able to find out. 

Funny How

Funny how love elicits a physical reaction.

My chest aches

My fingers twitch

My arms itch

My lungs don’t want to fill

In your absence.

Funny how a beautiful thing can make you cry.

Tears fall to the ground

Laughter erupts to the sky.

Joy and sadness mix

From the reunion.

Funny how we’re romanticized.

No one wants to be us-

split apart with nowhere to go.

No one wants our struggle-

alone in the world without comfort.

No one wants to fall in love

It is far too painful.

Funny how young we are.

We dream of adventure,

We dream of hope,

We dream of life together,

We dream of an escape.

We are far too young.

Funny how stubborn we are.

Never will we give up.

Never will we give in.

Never will we listen

When they say it won’t last.

Funny how much people hate love.

Funny how often they say

We’ll never make it.

Writer's Workbook #14

#14 Once upon a time…

There was a boy, sad and sick from loss. He was alone in the world. No family, no friends, no benevolent monarch to take him in as their own. The boy only had himself, and he was barely much at that. His body was withering away as starvation and illness ate away at him. He was too weak to even attempt to steal food.

There was almost a mother. A mother who lost a child before they were born. Her face was stony and lifeless as she lived with the pain of her lost child. She had family and friends to comfort her, but no bouncing baby to cry and whine for her with every instant. On the rare occasions she went out her heart twisted and ached whenever she saw children with their parents.

The fairytale only comes to life when, on one of these such rare occasions, the would-be mother came across the almost-gone boy. She saw him, sick and close to death, lying in the streets. She approached the boy, asking if he had a family she could take him to. With what energy the boy had left, he croaked out a single “No.” New strength of heart in her, the mother picked the boy up in her arms and took him to her home. She fed him small amounts at first so his body would not reject the nutrients, and dialed a hospital to get him better care.

Once upon a time, there were two souls, wandering lost in the world without the love they needed. These souls found family and care in each other, mother and son, to be with each other in these simple roles.

Writer's Workbook #13

#13 This church gave me a creepy feeling…

I know churches. I know cathedrals. I know that they have ornate altars and dazzling stained glass windows and huge crucifixes hanging from the ceiling. This church had that, but it was all wrong. The altar was metal instead of wooden. The stained glass portrayed images of  massacres and sacrifices, red glass scattered to show blood and the black glue distorting the faces of the people depicted. The worst was the crucifix. Normally those are saddening and horrible to look at as is, but this one was twisted. The cross was gnarled and the wood looked rotten. Nails stuck in the hands and feet of the Jesus upon it as usual, but this one had extra nails dotting his stomach. The red paint seemed to still ooze from the wounds, and there was a distinct smell of rotting meat. Jesus’s face, however, was positively grotesque. His features smiled manically, eyes rolling back in his head and a sloppy grin pasted on his thin face.

I sat in a pew, trying to figure out why the decorations so often used as decoration were so horrific.

Tick-Tock Annoying Clock

It was a child crying over candy

It was a dog yapping at a television screen

It was someone chewing too loudly.

The clock tick-tick-ticked

Sound filling the room.

It was maddening

Infuriating.

Counting down like a bomb

Warning of the hour to come.

Idly dragging its hands across its face

The clock continued to cry out

Its tick-tick-ticking a screech

The tock-tock-tocks a calmer breath.

The clock struck the hour

And it wailed in five short bursts.

The calm that followed was more

Incredibly incessant

Tick-tock Tick-tocks.

The seconds lapped the minutes,

The minutes made the hours,

The hours cried out

Making the clock an infant

That had woken from a nap.

Book's Beating Heart

Cracked, weathered papers,

Wrinkled like the skin of an old man

Worn corners and edges

Worlds and legends held tight in the pages.

Many voices call

From the faces trapped inside.

Love and fear and excitement

Easily trek alongside.

Warmth and safety are illusions

Brought forth by this book.

It holds a beckoning promise

But its empty hands outstretched.

The story whisks minds away

Wonderful, bright, curious

Willing to be absorbed into the words.

It takes hearts and souls alike

Melds minds together

Bends and warps reality

Defying all logic and time.

The letters stand with importance

Together forming words with strength,

Strength enough to defeat armies and repair societies.

Answers are sought

And some may be found

From this book of secrets

With a beating heart, alive with wisdom.

This book is not one, but many stories.

With the passion of romance

The thrill of adventure and horror

The intrigue of mystery

And the foreboding of knowledge.

The book is alive with wisdom

If only it is held correctly.

Writer's Workbook #12

#12 I’ve done something very stupid and embarrassing…

One thing that does not quite make sense is why people never explain to kids why they aren’t supposed to say certain words, and how to recognize said words. I always knew the stigma of swearing, but never what words constituted a Forbidden Vocabulary. My dad has one of the most colorful array of words I have ever heard, and young people are very impressionable. On many different occasions I have uttered the Cursed Words that were so dastardly to say, and had no idea the significance of them. Too often did my mom have to explain to me why I wasn’t supposed to say them.

A prominent moment in this time of accidental swearing was in fourth grade-when I was much too old to be saying curse words without realizing what they meant. I said “screw you” to my teacher, during a moment of joking, thinking I was adding to the humor of the moment. After everyone had been dismissed my teacher had to sit me down and explain what connotations that phrase held behind it. The horror that settled upon me was a blanket too itchy and hot, and had a large ugly stain added when I realized that I had taught twenty minds as easily influenced as my own that exact same phrase.

Luckily, I always managed to avoid saying the Mother of All Swears prematurely, despite how fond of it my dad was when he was frustrated. However, this was mostly due to the fact that my family had a special tradition of watching A Christmas Story every year on the very holiday the movie revolves around. If not for that innuendo-packed film, I would have almost definitely have learned the alternate to fudge.