Childhood
Who am I?
Writing to Heal Writing for me is a way of expressing myself. Having PTSD and the symptoms that follow it can be very lonely. I didn't see my first therapist until after my youngest son was born. So, writing was my way of coping with depression and anxiety. I wrote my first poem in English class when I was in the 5th grade. It had to with the blooming of a rose and love. The poem was so good that my teacher accused me of copying it out of a book. She told my mother that there was no way a child in special education classes could write a poem like that. That's when I discovered my love for writing. I was never one to keep a diary. I kept a folder with loose leaf paper in it. When I felt down or mad I would write everything I was feeling down. Afterward, I would walk down to the creek, rip the letter up into little pieces and drop them in the creek. It was like sending my worries to float away downstream. Writing is just a calming, therapeutic way to my world of peaceful bliss.
By Angela Gatch4 years ago in Confessions
Growing Up Beyond Poor.
I am grateful for running hot water to do dishes in. No more heating water over the stove, pot after pot, adding what felt like forever to dish time. No hauling jugs of water from the spicket to the house, gallon after gallon. So much work for a kid on a hot Arizona day. Nope, now I just walk up, turn on the faucet, hot water appears.
By LittleTree Oppy4 years ago in Confessions
I Haven't Forgotten You Either Steve. Top Story - October 2021.
The year was 1998. I was an awkward twelve-year-old with acne on my face, braces on my teeth, and an afro due to the tragic mistake of asking for a curly perm during a haircut. You know, the poster child of those pesky awkward years. Once, while looking through one of my grandma’s magazines, I came across an article about a new children’s show called Blue’s Clues. Along with the article was a picture of the host, a cute young guy with brown hair and big beautiful brown eyes. One look, my heart was struck. That young guy’s name, Steve Burns.
By Judith Jascha4 years ago in Confessions
Self Conscious by 9
My parents were my biggest fans. My mom tried to get me into modeling after several friends said I was the perfect fit for it. I was told I was pretty so often though that had grown to hate the conversation as a child, and as an adult I hate it even more.
By Jessica Thompson4 years ago in Confessions
Far From Home
When we are just children, we all have the big dream of growing up and having fun, because that is all we know. It's all about having fun and never sleeping. Get into trouble maybe, get grounded, get told you can't go out with your friends, you have chores to do, you have family events to attend, you are told what to do by your parents and by your older siblings until that magical age you get to move out on your own, be your own person. That's exciting, isn't it? It's a huge deal when you finally leave the nest and you are responsible for only you now. What a huge step in life that we all have had to take. Find our way, find our meaning, find our purpose for living. And don't forget, not having to go to bed when you're told, you get to stay up, you get to make a mess and leave it till the next day. You get to toss your laundry over any chair in your home and leave it without someone screaming at you to clean up your mess.
By Paige Kostyniuk5 years ago in Confessions
I Drink of My Sisters
Three friends and I walk into the woods. It's a hot July day. We remembered sunscreen but not insect repellant. I've got the picnic basket, which doesn't have a meal for us. It's full of candles, incense, matches, seashells, feathers, a rusty steak knife, a quilting pin, a coffee mug, and a half-empty bottle of grape juice.
By Deanna Cassidy5 years ago in Confessions
Letter to an Old Friend
Letter to an old friend, In the late seventies I used to walk blocks and blocks away from home to visit you, the one person I could call my friend. Your lovely home was one of the only places I could feel safe outside of the insanity of my own home. It’s odd looking back, but I never said anything about my life, and you never asked.
By Mary O'Connor5 years ago in Confessions
