Journaling Day 6; lots of swearing


I’ve been so unstable on the drugs, and my body so in revolt, that I’m pacing myself off them. Anti-depressants don’t work and there is a subset that the mood stabilizers don’t work for either.  The panic attacks are relentless right now – and I’m not getting any meds for that – I might get addicted they say. Fuck. I took Xanax for years just fine. Stopped them just fine. Now quit messing with the stuff that makes me a zombie and give me back my Xanax. I could cope. This stuff. I can’t even stay awake so that’s how I cope.

I’m so tired of doctors telling me that it’s my fault I don’t get stable – like I purposely mess with my meds so I don’t. Chaos and pain may be my comfort zone, but I can’t even begin to move beyond it til something either steadies me out or I go clean and deal with it that way. Why feel like shit with a bunch of drugs fucking up  when no drugs makes you feel not much worse.

I just deleted several paragraphs because I’m not ready to be that publically honest yet – if this is going to work, I’m going to have to do this privately. I don’t know if anyone would be interested in getting passwords to my private journal – I’m not sure I could even give them out. Guess there has to be two journals – the surface one and the deeper, darker one. I’ll let some of the dark stuff up sometimes, maybe.

Pain is rising – got to stop typing – makes my jaw worse. My moist heat treatment heating pad came today so I can start doing my home exercises while I wait to see if the new health insurance will allow physical therapy on my head and neck muscular structures. The pain is really wearing me down into the depression abyss.



#tuesdayuseitinasentence: void

Stephanie runs a neat little prompt on Tuesdays that’s fun and challenging:

Here are the prompt rules:

Make a sentence with the word of the week. Leave it as just a sentence or write a post to go with it.

Try to do it on Tuesday.

Include the hashtag #tuesdayuseitinasentence.

Post it on Twitter and/or Facebook (if you have a public site) and/or Pinterest and/or WordPress and/or any other social media site you belong to.

Participate as many times as you’d like. You can write a different sentence for each platform, but please keep it to one sentence per post.

I will be trolling Twitter for the hashtag, so watch my Twitter feed in the sidebar for retweets. Make sure to connect on Twitter with other participants!

If you post your sentence here on WordPress or on any other site where there’s a clickable link, include the link in the comment section for this week.

Google #tuesdayuseitinasentence to find other participants! The more you connect, the bigger it gets and the more views and followers you’ll have.

Have fun!

What are you waiting for? Make up a sentence and join in!

Tuesday use it in a sentence was created by Linda G Hill and I’m lucky to have the chance to share duties with Kelli from Forty, c’est fantastique. Thank you both.

This week the word is void.

She was on her way to have a shower when the wave hit. All she could do was fall onto the bed, clutching her towels to her chest as if to staunch blood from a wound in her chest. But life-wounds don’t bleed; they ooze sorrow. A life-wound, repeatedly slashed, becomes a magnetized void, an attractant to more pain and grief.She rocked and wailed until the feeling passed,until she no longer keened as if grieving a lost child. Spent and tired, she took an hour to assemble her shower items, and turn on the faucet.





image: weheartit

a wound

in my abdomen

size of a fist

size of my heart

                            bleeds my luxuria

bleeds my trust                               

no web of thread        

                                             will close it

no bandage

can bind it                   

f i l l s    t h e    r o o m

with my need

with my hurt





© adh 2016

Thursday prompt for #writephoto, caged: fog of forgetting

Sue Vincent’s Thursday prompt for #writephoto: caged, had me thinking bleak, disturbing thoughts.

She felt hung in the cage, chains wrapped around her hands and wrists. Strap to keep her head up. Attached to the gallows. All of her own making; all of her own design. Gray clouds, dark skies would soon wrap her in the blissful fog of forgetting. Pain gone – only weightless in the air to be felt.

Nick Birds SE Ilkley 2015 uffington avebury cropton Helmsley 112



the darkened house

untitled 4

@ adh from Thomas Raddall Provincial Park

12:00 am? pm? She didn’t know. With windows shuddered, and further darkened by thick curtains, either was possible. But then it made no difference in her daynightdaynight. In the hierarchy of tears.

Sometimes she left the lap top on, wiggler attached so the screen didn’t sleep – creating a glow against the wall. She might open up to the outside just enough for full moon, or sun, cast free of the storm to form puddles of natural light. She might walk the halls, feeling her way along, eyes closed or blanketed by moon/starless night. Her tiny bright red Maglite flashlight dug for in pockets or fingers splayed, searching how far it had rolled after she fell.

To them – it didn’t matter if she had pulled the shutter tight with a dust-moted slam or  if they had forever closed down it with a kick and a hooted laugh. All the same – assumptions. Assumed she choose the life she did. Assumed someone as unimportant, forgettable, unnecessary, unneeded and unwanted as she was better inside a dark hovel. And, they without her

Forget the person trapped the house in the nano-instance it took to see true importance, true need, true specialty in someone else. Someone who rated, who ranked, who should be honoured, loved, admired. So-one who really fit on the hierarchy of tears. Not a poser, a faker, a phony obviously just looking for attention.

“You know the type,” they say, when new folks moved to town, pointing at the darkened house with their all-knowing fingers, “those drama queens who think they matter. She thinks her life is important, ha. The “as if we’d really care.” The egotistical bitch – it’s always about me. The cry-babies who won’t grow up or suck it up.” Then general laughter as all nodded. Everyone knew someone like her: lazy, spoiled, unattractive, “thought she coulds,” but of course couldn’ts, who thought they and what they sought mattered, but, without someone like that, of course, didn’t. In fact, complete losers and failures.

She could close the shutters, hang thicker and thicker curtains, but her bitter, brittle truths, no amount of darkness or white noise sound could make them go away. She had tried going out the door, tried to make up for what she lost. But after pry-barring open the slashed, kicked, cracked-painted door with ten thousand deadbolts, at least 5 thousand on the outside, she saw the circus was always in town.

Many performers, faces blurred, or changed, but the signs they held, the slogans they chanted didn’t. Slam the door again. “Please no more pain” as the sobs doubled her over.

For some, there is only one house – a darkened one. No matter how much people think that’s where the person wants or deserves to stay.

Do people really think the departed what to watch as the tombstone maker remarks to his assistant – “another simple one:


Born. Died.

Time to get at that special one for the woman who . . ..”


@ adh 2016

doubled over in pain and tears

The door’s closed, but here’s my submission anyways.

DOOR Template Instructions


Flash Fiction

She rocks, doubled over in pain and tears. The endlessness of tears is a gut punch. A blow that can reach into the future. Grieving loss has intense physical and mental pain; it hurts. But for most, grief ends. Or at least the grief that rips and bleeds like a gun shot wound. But for some, a flaw, a failure in their character, means waking, walking, living is grieving. There is no spring of rebirth. Not for the inconsolable constantly grieving what has been lost, missed, wasted, and the inability to move ahead without it. (95 words)

untitled a (2)

plexus of pain

plexus of pain

inside my skull

crackles the surface

with fissures

mutilating brow bone

submersed in migraine

filaments weave kelp forests

of flashing synapse

throb migrates from

temple to temporal

melanin of red and black

streaks across inner eyelids

sip water, taste nickel-plated blood

wait for euphoric phase

when ungainly shroud lifts

with nonchalant shuffle

as if never there


Mindlovemisery’s Menagerie, Wordle 85; 2.11.15 (never-ending migraine has me entering again)

© a darkened house 2015