Here is another little piece of me. A short story I wrote a few months ago, about two friends that suffer from depression. It's the first time I ever really tackled anything 'serious' in my writing, but it felt really good to get out. I'm able to sort out my thoughts and emotions a lot better through writing, than I ever feel like I can through talking. I feel like I can pause, reflect, erase, re-word. But once you say something, you can't un-say it. Plus, I always turned to writing because I could say all that I wanted without being ignored. My characters were able to have conversations that I wanted to have, they were bolder and accepted and listened to. I didn't want to write about 'real' things because I needed an escape from my awful reality. Now, I find, that I really do need to reach deep down and pull out this stuff in order to write something that is meaningful to me.
Here is an excerpt (it's short because the story itself isn't terribly long):
"Sam didn’t want to take meds, didn’t want to see doctors. She knew that was the long journey and it didn’t guarantee she would ever stop feeling useless and undeserving.
That was all I could guess anyways, about why she’d tried it.
It.
The rumors were much more gruesome, blood and razors. I knew different, thanks to a grim conversation many months before. I missed her birthday party and she was so angry, I came clean about my meds, having just switched over and feeling too nauseous to attend.
Everything spilled out then. She had thought I was the paragon of normal, albeit a little antisocial. Then she shocked me further by revealing how apathetic she felt sometimes—like so little really mattered.
As our conversation unfolded, I was both cheered and distressed. We were closer than ever, but more similar than I was used to. "
The full story can be found at http://mc-writes.blogspot.com
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