The Pretenders - Hymn to Her (music video)

NaPoWriMo 2019 Day 30 + Poems in April 2019 Day 30: Thank You Jimi

Copyright Nico van der Stam

I want to thank you

For some much-needed wisdom

Across many years

~Cie~

Notes:

I watched the Jimi Hendrix documentary, Voodoo Child, this evening. 

I didn't really become a Jimi Hendrix fan until I was in my teens. He died when I was only five years old. I saw a documentary about him when I was eighteen or nineteen, and it was good, but this documentary reveals more of his personal thoughts. He was brilliant and he left a lot of wisdom for the world. 

The wisdom he imparted to me today is to stop looking for adulation and approval from others. This is something that I've struggled with my entire life.

When asked how it felt to receive so many compliments about his work, Jimi said that he really didn't care about compliments, in fact, he found that they distracted him from what was important: creation.

I think that's what it really means to be secure in oneself. Not so much thinking that one is flawless, but to be able to see the worth of one's goals and actions regardless of the opinions of the masses. 

Lots of views and comments stroke the needy ego of the insecure and wounded child that remains within the crusty, curmudgeonly, and likely not at all tasty exterior shell which houses my soul. 

This becomes a distraction to the creator. I start wanting to please my visitors rather than express myself through my words.

Next time I get stuck in that unharmonious groove, I need to remember Jimi's wise thoughts on the matter.

I will always be a fan of Jimi Hendrix the musician. 

Perhaps most people won't understand this, but that doesn't matter.

I also appreciate Jimi Hendrix the philosopher, and I'm grateful for the wisdom and works that he left behind.

(Don't move: this has been a Haibun!)

Alan Watts

"A prolific author and speaker, Alan Watts was one of the first to interpret Eastern wisdom for a Western audience. Born outside London in 1915, he discovered the nearby Buddhist Lodge at a young age. After moving to the United States in 1938, Alan became an Episcopal priest for a time and then relocated to Millbrook, New York, where he wrote his pivotal book "The Wisdom of Insecurity: A Message for an Age of Anxiety." In 1951 he moved to San Francisco where he began teaching Buddhist studies, and in 1956 began his popular radio show, “Way Beyond the West”. By the early sixties, Alan’s radio talks aired nationally and the counterculture movement adopted him as a spiritual spokesperson. He wrote and travelled regularly until his passing in 1973."

 “Perhaps the foremost interpreter of Eastern disciplines for the contemporary West, Alan Watts had the rare gift of ‘writing beautifully the un-writable’. Watts begins with scholarship and intellect and proceeds with art and eloquence to the frontiers of the spirit. A fascinating entry into the deepest ways of knowing.”

       — LA Times - The above is from the official Alan Watts site.

Sit quietly and be with your breath, your mind, and all your feelings. 

It doesn't matter whether you are sitting cross-legged or on your knees with your legs folded under you. The point is to settle into a posture that is stable and comfortable. You can cross your legs in front of you, or if you are limber you may wish to try the half-lotus or full-lotus position.  You can sit on a cushion with your knees bent and legs on either side or you can sit in a chair..The idea is to be comfortable and find a position that you can maintain effortlessly.

As you settle in, remember that although stillness is emphasized in meditation, this does not mean that you that should hold still in a rigid way. Becoming still physically helps one find stillness of mind, but if you need to move, get comfortable so that you can settle even more deeply.  - From Alan Watts book "The Still Mind."

NaPoWriMo 2019 Day 28 + Poems in April 2019 Day 28: Major Changes

Greetings from Grover, Colorado

Guess we're making an offer on a place that is

Really in the middle of nowhere

On the outskirts of the outskirts

Very far back in the backwater

Everything in the past leading us to this

Rural hotel in a very tiny town

Can't imagine that most folks would want to

Own a place that's such a 

Long way from everything

Out on the Northeastern plains

Rippling grasses and whispering winds

Accentuate the solitude

Dreary it may seem to most

Only the broken dream of such a view

~Cie~

Notes:

A daunting move filled with possibilities.

This place appears in the dictionary next to the phrase "fixer-upper" and the word "boonies."

It is zoned as a multi-use property and has given new life to my dead dreams.

This may be the most important move I will ever make.

Mental Illness and Comments

I wanted to share this because I go through this a lot. The original post is here.

IFRIDIOT

As a writer, i adore comments, and i treasure all of them. I do my best to respond to them, as quickly as i can. But as a mentally ill prrson, sometimes it's overwhelming -- especially when the comment is really long, and i end up putting it off because im depressed or anxious. Is there a cut off to replying to a comment, in your opinion? If i wait too long, should i just not answer at all? I just feel embarrassed and rude after a while...

threshie:

ao3commentoftheday:

I have the same issues and I also feel guilty and anxious about replying, but speaking as someone who has replied over 6 months later on more than one occasion, if anyone minds I’ve never heard about it. 

I generally apologize for my lateness within my reply (even if I’m replying to the same person multiple times - I feel that bad), and if they do reply back they tell me not to worry about it. 

I’ve also put it out on my personal blog that I’m sorry I’m so late replying and people are generally speaking really understanding about it. 

Do your best. It’s all you can do. Don’t feel guilty for not doing more. ❤

NaPoWriMo 2019 Day 27 + Poems in April 2019 Day 27: Ghost Town Salvation

The former Grover Hotel

This dusty old hotel in a run-down ghost town

Might be salvation for a broken spirit

~Cie~

Notes:

The optional NaPoWriMo prompt was to reinterpret a Shakespearian sonnet, and the Poems in April prompt was to write a stark, two-line poem. At this stage of things, guess which prompt is going to win!

This is a photo of the building that my son and I may be buying. We will be going to see it tomorrow. 

I know this blog does not have many followers and that in general people don't like me very much, but some of you may be curious to see what happens next if we do make this place our home. And yes, it is in a place which is literally in the Ghost Towns of Colorado guide.

What really happens when you Die | End-of-life-phenomena • At Home with ...

My father had a major hemorrhagic stroke in 2004. He had several smaller strokes after that. At the point when he passed away in 2010 he was bed-bound, had congestive heart failure and vascular dementia. His death was anticipated and mostly I was exhausted from watching him get sicker and sicker. I didn't cry much when he passed.

I was working in a retirement community as a resident assistant and I had to do a nightly patrol to set pins on the doors and make sure everything was as it should be. I am what you might call an open-minded skeptic. I realize the possibility that some of the phenomena I experienced while working in this community (including seeing a couple of spirits) might have been "all in my head," but I was not under the influence of anything and I wasn't tired to the point of hallucination like I was the night I saw the penguin standing in the hallway. I knew that wasn't really there and I needed to get some sleep.

One night as I was doing my rounds, I suddenly saw a glowing white feather floating in front of me. I was not under the influence of anything. I was not overly tired. The feather lingered there for about a minute and slowly faded. I knew it was my dad stopping by to visit me. I can't discount the possibility that something of us survives the death of the body because, to put it a bit crudely, I've seen some shit. It's never been anything scary. The presences I encountered were always benevolent.

~Cie~

What is a Tissue?

Inspire Me Monday #224 + Spread the Kindness #119: Real Cie Reviews: Eighth Grade

This post is a duplicate of my review of this product for Amazon.

4 out of 5 stars

Elsie Fisher does a marvelous job as the insecure, likable Kayla and Josh Hamilton plays his role as the sweet but sometimes irritatingly out-of-touch and overprotective dad perfectly. Kayla's high school mentor Olivia is adorable if a bit clueless. There is the eye-roll-inducing stereotypical pretty mean girl Kennedy, and Kayla's crush Aiden has all the personality of wallpaper paste.

The movie does a nice job of addressing sensitive subject matter such as Kayla's panic attacks. I was a teenager in the late seventies and early eighties, and was unable to discuss my psychological issues with anyone for fear of being placed on a psych ward or dismissed as "seeking attention" or being "overly dramatic." When I read about bipolar disorder (then called manic depression) in my junior year psychology class, I recognized myself in a lot of the symptoms. I approached the subject with the teacher and she told me I couldn't be manic depressive because manic depression was a psychosis and I wasn't psychotic. I would not be properly diagnosed with type 2 bipolar disorder until I was nearly 40 years old.  If nothing else, movies such as this one approach issues such as panic attacks without pathologizing the person suffering from them.

The movie also does a good job of addressing the pressure on teens, particularly teenage girls, to be sexy and sexually active. Olivia's creepy friend Riley attempts to pressure Kayla into removing her shirt during a game of Truth or Dare when they are alone in his car together, and Kayla's crush Aiden is rumored to have broken up with a previous girlfriend because she wouldn't send him nude photos.

The movie is appropriate for teenagers. Kayla is a relatable character, an ordinary and likable if socially awkward young woman. I found myself thinking that it was a shame for her to waste any time or energy on a shallow, self-absorbed twit like Kennedy or a limp dishrag like Aiden. 

Teens struggling with feeling like they don't fit in and those of us who used to be (and sometimes still are) the odd one out will feel a kinship with Kayla and be proud of her as she learns to stand up for herself.

~Cie~

Also sharing to the Spread the Kindness blog hop on Tuesday April 23, 2019.

NaPoWriMo 2019 Day 22 + Poems in April Day 22: My Vicious Villanelle: 1000% Done

At this stage of the game, I'm done with rules

I'm tired of word counts and prompts of the day

I've decided that rules are for fools

I could write about my family jewels

But they're all plastic anyway

At this stage of the game, I'm done with rules

I could create something with power tools

With drills and chain saws I could play

I've decided that rules are for fools

I could see about going back to school

But I'd probably just cut class anyway

At this stage of the game, I'm done with rules

I don't want to be so mean and cruel

But I must say, for the end of prompts I pray

I've decided that rules are for fools

The calendar says that the end is in sight

So though I wish I could quit I guess I'll stay

At this stage of the game, I'm done with rules

I've decided that rules are for fools

~Cie~

Notes:

I've always said that I write two kinds of poems: dark and silly.

I'm a despicable liar.

I actually write three kinds of poems.

Dark, silly, and snarky.

Guess which kind this is.

The Real Point of Meditation - Gelong Thubten

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In this excellent talk, Gelong Thubten explains why meditation is so vital to us. Not just Buddhists or Taoists or Hindus but us all. I have often said Meditation should be taught at school. Gelong holds the same view. You can hold dear to you whatever faith or philosophy you have and still practice Meditation. It will improve your life and thereby all the lives of those around you.

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NaPoWriMo 2019 Day 16 + Poems in April 2019 Day 16 & 5: Poetry As the Place Where the Spirit Within Hemorrhages Truth

Image by Enrique Meseguer from Pixabay

You return whenever I write poetry

Troublesome little ghost

Not sugar and spice and everything nice

You mournful, shadowed thing

Troublesome little ghost

Your nights filled with wanting and regret

You mournful, shadow thing

Needing to bleed out your words

Your nights filled with wanting and regret

I allow you to emerge from my cold shell

Needing to bleed out your words

"The poem is the way," I say

I allow you to emerge from my cold shell

Offering truth a way to be set free

"The poem is the way," I say

You need not put on false airs with poetry

Offering truth a way to be set free

Poetry, I think, is ultimate honesty

You need not put on false airs with poetry

Or so it is that I have always believed

Poetry, I think, is ultimate honestly

You need not pretend to be aught but what you are

Or so it is that I have always believed

But there are those who disagree on poetry

You need not pretend to be aught but what you are

You need not present as light when you are shadow

But there are those who disagree on poetry

Poetry, they say, is the domain of sugar and spice

You need not present as light when you are shadow

Sad little ghost, pay no mind to the Poetry Police

Poetry, they say, is the domain of sugar and spice

Bleed your truth as freely as you need

Sad little ghost, pay no mind to the Poetry Police

You mournful, shadowed thing

Poetry, they say, is the domain of sugar and spice

You return whenever I write poetry

~Cie~

Prompt #5

Prompt #16

Notes:

The poetic form is Pantoum. Fortunately, a Pantoum need not rhyme.

The Poems in April prompt #16 was to create a poem with a title starting with "Poetry As..."

The Poems in April prompt #5 was to describe a supernatural creature who is a troublesome housemate. I can think of no more troublesome a housemate than the child I once was who each day laments that the big dreams she had for her life slip further and further away from her grasp, fading into the impossible.

I think the NaPoWriMo prompt ended up eating the dust of the other two prompts.

A couple of years ago when I was doing OctPoWriMo, I almost ended up ceasing participation in poetry blog hops for good when I allowed the troubled spirit who will always be a part of me to express itself and was admonished that my poetry was "catharsis" and I would one day become "a beacon of light in the world" or some such thing.

To me, these well-meaning but inaccurate statements showed two things.

First, that people who are not happy by nature are unacceptable as they are and must become, or at least pretend to be, the sort of person who is "a light in the world." 

Second, that dark poetry (and depressive people) are not as valid or worthwhile as happy, well-adjusted people writing poems about the joys of life and how grateful they are to live under the rule of a benevolent deity in a happy and joyful world where there are no Debbie Downers or Negative Neds messing things up with their dark ickiness.

To me, poetry must remain the domain where you can TELL IT LIKE IT IS, not like other people think it's supposed to be.

Poetry must remain the place where one can hemorrhage one's soul all over the damn place and not have people constantly trying to slap smiley bandages on their spiritual wounds.

Poetry must be allowed to be dark and filled with pain.

During the final years of my nursing career, a statement had been popularized that "PAIN IS WHATEVER THE PATIENT SAYS IT IS." 

I greatly advocate for this belief. It is so much more helpful than awful epithets such as "drug-seeking behavior," which had previously been the dismissive go-to whenever a patient requested pain medication earlier than it was scheduled. 

People who experience high levels of chronic pain do not respond to pain medications the way people who do not experience chronic pain (or who experience chronic pain of lesser degrees) respond to pain medication. A person with high levels of chronic pain could ingest enough pain medication to knock out a large horse and be perfectly coherent, and I'm only being slightly hyperbolic.

FYI, low-grade chronic pain (such as I have) isn't a walk in the park either. I'm tired all the time and have a tendency to experience brain fog and disturbed sleep. My pain levels aren't such that I require narcotics, but NSAIDS don't really help. 

I experienced intense chronic pain for about six weeks when I initially injured the median nerve in my left arm. I couldn't sit up for more than about 45 minutes before I had to lie on the arm to try and numb it. Intense chronic pain is no joke, and anyone who says things like "people need to just push through the pain" or fail to understand why people become so desperate for relief that they obtain medications through illegal channels because the medications they've been prescribed legally aren't cutting the mustard need to get off their high horse. 

At this point, my left arm constantly tingles. I've gotten enough sensation back in my left hand that it no longer feels like a lump of clay, but I was damn grateful for "lump of clay" as opposed to constant searing pain up and down the arm. Physical therapy saved my life, literally. I would need more P.T. to get rid of the constant numbness and tingling, but Medicaid will only pay for 12 sessions per injury. Better than nothing, but ridiculous to put a limitation on the sort of thing which doesn't tend to behave in a predictable fashion.

In any case, just as pain is whatever the patient says it is, POETRY IS WHATEVER THE POET SAYS IT IS.

My poetry need not be "catharsis." It need not lead to me becoming "a beacon of light in the world" to be absolutely 100% valid. The wounded inner self is allowed to express its truth without expectation of transformation.

People with depressive personalities are valid as they are. They need not be drugged into compliance. For some of us, the drugs don't work anyway, or they make things worse. Drugs are not the answer to everything.

I don't need to be like you. 

I am valid just as I am.

Apologies for jumping on ye olde soapbox, but some things cannot be said enough.

NaPoWriMo 2019 Day 15 + Poems in April 2019 Day 4 & 15: The Haibun Ballad of Cie

My Eyes Have Seen Version 4

Photoshop Manipulation by The Real Cie

(Yes, that's my big, ugly, Neanderthal forehead)

So, you want to know about me.

My truth will make you uncomfortable. You may end up thinking that I’m lying because surely in modern society, nobody could be allowed to fall through the cracks that much. But you asked, and so I’ll answer as briefly as possible.

I was born in 1965 in Denver, Colorado to a doctoral student in literature who had once wished to travel the country like his hero, Jack Kerouac, and his wife, a former nurse with a degree in fine arts.

My parents had abandoned the church but returned to it when I was seven years old. My then-three-year-old brother and I were baptized and became Catholic.

My bipolar disorder onset when I hit puberty, and I was always misunderstood.

I am fifty-four years old and live in poverty.

If you are broken

If you are damaged or odd

You will be cast out

~Cie~

(Telling it like it is)

Prompt #4

Prompt #15

Notes:

By the way, I do write flash fictions in Haibun form because I like to.

Come at me!

The ending verse was inspired by a quote from the character John River, portrayed by the brilliant Swedish actor Stellan Skarsgard.

In this world, no-one can be different or strange or damaged, or they lock you up.

--John River

William Blake's Poem "Jerusalem"

William Blake, born 1757,  died 1827, was a passionate Christian but one who vehemently disliked the Church of England as equally as he did all organised religion. Odd that his poem about the Christian Messiah's mythical journey to this island home of mine has become both an alternative national anthem but also a hymn sang by members of the multi-faceted, fractured Christian faith. Here it is beautifully sung by choir and congregation at St. George's Chapel, Windsor.

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NaPoWriMo 2019: Day 14 + Poems in April Day 14 & 3: Late Night in Lakewood

Image copyright The Real Cie

Late at night in Lakewood

As the snow is falling

Keeping the snowplows working

Every hour they drive by

While I, up late as usual

Once in a while look out the sliding door

Out into the world white and cold

Dreaming of a day when life is not so difficult

~Cie~

Prompt #3

Prompt #14

Notes:

I broke my pattern with the catch-up game on the Poems in April challenge. It should have been 14 and 5, but the day 5 prompt didn't work as well with the day 14 prompt.

I didn't follow the NaPoWriMo prompt today at all.

The poem form is an acrostic or name poem.

I am so pleased with everyone's kind comments! I will try to catch up with all of you soon.

Introducing the Blog Hops Index and Keeping it Real

Image by RitaE from Pixabay

No, not the kind of hops shown above. Although my son is interested in starting homebrewing once he has a new place.

I want to introduce you to my comprehensive index of blog hops that I participate in. April is my busiest month for blog hops. There are two poetry blog hops, NaPoWriMo and the Imaginary Garden With Real Toads Poems in April. Like, one of y'all couldn't do your poems in May or something? There is also the A to Z Blogging Challenge. Then there are the photography blog hops that I at least semi-regularly participate in.

You will notice that most of the blogs on my list are literary or artistic. Some of the blog hops I participate in tend to lean towards fashion, and I feel like the odd one out, which, let's be honest, isn't unusual. I am pretty odd. 

I don't feel like I belong with most of the participants in these blog hops, who share very glamorous photos of themselves in pretty clothes with flawless make-up. I am the opposite of glamorous. I look like an unmade bed on my best day. I am not pretty, and I can't afford pretty clothes. I haven't worn make-up in more than fifteen years. 

I look like this. You can see my endocrine problems in my puffy face with the red patches. I have problems with eczema, which make-up makes worse.

That's my buddy Crowley with me.

The one thing I believe is that nobody has the right to ridicule anybody regardless of how unattractive they may find that person. No, I am not young, thin, or pretty. I still deserve to be treated with common decency and respect.

Image by Jonas Svidras from Pixabay

Still, when you look like I do and you know damn good and well that nobody thinks that looks pretty or fashionable, and you're visiting blogs where the people have photos of themselves looking like the image above, you start feeling like maybe you came from a different planet. 

I used to use self-deprecating "humor" when it came to my physical appearance. I won't do that anymore. Physically speaking, I see other people as physically attractive or neutral. There are no physically ugly people. The ugliness comes out in their personality. A person can look like the physically attractive young woman above and still be an ugly person, or they can look a little bit something like me and still be a genuinely beautiful person. 

I'm not saying that I think that I'm beautiful. That's not something I could ever think. However, as far as looks go, mine are neutral in my eyes, or at least I strive to make them so. Nobody gets to build themselves up by tearing me down anymore. I will rip them a new one without a second thought.

Eleanor Roosevelt at the United Nations, July 1947

Here is a photo of one of the most beautiful people who has ever existed. Period. 

Eleanor Roosevelt was also quite fashionable, but she cared more about helping people than she did about making herself look pretty. I highly recommend Ken Burns' documentary on The Roosevelts, which I saw on Netflix last month.

Whenever I feel unpretty, which is actually quite often, I remind myself that no-one, including me, has the right to make me feel bad about myself based on my looks. Sometimes that shuts the hateful tapes in my head down enough that I can move on to something else.

You won't find fashion-based blog hops on my list, although some of the blogs on my list feature fashionable people. Only the most beautiful blogs have made the cut! 

This is an ever-growing list. If you're looking for mostly creative but not always fashionable blog hops, consider bookmarking the page!

~Cie~

NaPoWriMo 2019: Just Another Day Again

Image by Sophie Janotta from Pixabay

Awake

Breakfast

Cook

Drive

Eat

Feed

Groceries

Hair

Imagine

Joke

Know

Learn

Mend

Nosh

Opine

Pay

Quest

Read

Sleep

Try

Utilize

Vent

Work

Xeric

Yawn

Zzzz

~Cie~

Note:

The NaPoWriMo prompt asked for a poem involving a list, and I took it literally and made a List Poem.

Xeric is a word meaning a state of dehydration, containing very little moisture. With my endocrine problems, dry skin is a real problem. The areas that had the worst problems with acne in my youth are now prone to flaking and redness. 

"Kiss the Earth" by Ajeet Kaur

GUIDED SLEEP MEDITATION - The Cottage in the Snow (4K)

NaPoWriMo 2019: Day 4: Unwanted Girl

Image by lisa runnels from Pixabay

Will you ever leave

Me alone you damn

Stupid girl who I

Once happened to be

Why won't you be gone?

Why must you come

Back into my

Psyche why don't

You remain dead

Little girl

Zombie girl

Girl I was

Why don't 

You stay

Gone

~Cie~

Notes:

The NaPoWriMo prompt was to write a sad poem.

Come on, y'all, that isn't even a challenge! I write two kinds of poems: dark and silly.

The form I used is a diminishing hexagram.

I really wish I'd done the A to Z challenge on this blog this year because I'm crushing it!

Oh, one more thing.

The effects of abuse and bullying last a lifetime.

I learned to hate myself long ago.

I still have trouble tolerating myself, still hear the cruel words admonishing me that I'm ugly, stupid, unwanted, and will never amount to anything.

It isn't like I'm eighteen and just out of school.

I'm fifty-four and the setbacks I've had during the past few years only reinforce the belief that I am nothing.

NaPoWriMo 2019: What's Done is Done

Image by Peter H from Pixabay

There is not

A single thing that

Can be done

To change then

We can only change today

We only live now

~Cie~

Insecure Writers Support Group: Subduing the Destroyer

Image by John Hain from Pixabay 

I am a failure and a reject.
I don't want a pep talk admonishing me not to speak of myself in those terms. I want to speak my peace.
Looking back on my school days, those not so good old golden rule days, I am acutely aware that I was always a failure and a reject. However, there was one place where this loser came out shining. I did well in English. I was always above my grade level when it came to reading and writing.
My life outside of creative writing class was anything but stellar. I was bullied by my peers. The people I thought were my friends rejected me too. 

Being unwanted in the real world, I turned to a world of my own making for solace. I was ten years old when I first started writing (really bad self-insert) Star Trek fan fiction. Writing has remained part of my life ever since.
I realized years ago that I really should give up writing and concentrate on more lucrative activities. After releasing two badly failed books, I knew that my stories had no popular appeal, much like the person who created them. I almost gave up writing for good after the first book's meteoric flop, but I ended up coming back, ignoring Stephen King's advice that sometimes dead is better.
If I were to profess my commitment to taking various medications for my myriad of mental health issues, people would be praising me up one side and down the other for "taking care of" my health. However, I have tried psych meds, and all of them had intolerable side effects. I have type 2 bipolar disorder. I am not normally manic and psychotic. When I was taking psych meds, I was both.
I never wanted to think of my writing as strictly therapeutic. I didn't mind it having a therapeutic component, but I wanted it to have artistic merit as well. I know it sounds stupid, but writing was ME. I wanted to believe that the world needed my stupid, crazy, weird voice. I wanted to CHANGE THE WORLD!!!11!!! with my stupid, crazy, weird writing.
Deep down inside, I still secretly believed that when people read my writing, they would change their minds about me and I would be accepted after all and at long last.
Over the weekend of March 10 - 11, 2019, I wrestled with myself regarding whether or not I should delete all the writing I have stored digitally for the past 30 years and burn any writing I did utilizing a physical medium as I find it. My description of this struggle and the dream I had at one point can be found in this post.
This internal battle was brought on by my breaking a cardinal rule I made for myself. The rule is simple. Never read reviews of my work, and pay no mind to whether or not I win any competitions I enter because I won't win.
I wasn't going to read the post announcing the winners of the February 2019 Write-Edit-Publish writing competition. I knew I wouldn't be one of them. But a (really stupid) voice inside me whispered:
"but, Cie, what if this time is the time when you do win?"
"It won't be, Voice," I said. "Trust me on this."
"But what if it is? It would be really rude of you not to accept the honor."
"Yes, it would, if I were receiving the honor. But I won't. So, kindly fuck off."
"All right, I agree that it's unlikely that you'll be the overall winner. But what if you're one of the runners-up? It would be really rude of you not to acknowledge that honor!"
"Okay, I suppose you're right. So, if I read the post, will you please kindly fuck off?"
I didn't realize it at the time, but the stupid, needy, reject of a fuckup that I was as a child was hoping that THIS TIME would be HER TIME TO SHINE!!11!!! Finally, she was going to be deemed worthy! Finally, she was going to be praised and accepted, respected and adored, and...
As I expected, I was not one of the winners, and now I was that awful, unwanted, reviled, wretched ugly duckling of a girl again, my so-called "friends" fucking me off and going up to the gravel pits without me, the kids on the school bus refusing to let me sit with them, the boys in the lunchroom stealing my Raggedy Ann doll and throwing her around, the teachers aides finding my distress amusing and doing nothing to stop the boys.
I hated that simpering, needful girl so much at that moment that I was determined that this time I would stop writing for good and destroy everything I'd ever written. I wasn't going to indulge this holdover from my pathetic childhood any longer. My one-time dream of becoming a FAMUS RITER!!11!!!1!! did not pan out and I was not going to indulge my namby-pamby, special snowflake neediness for another minute. My son asked me to take a day to think on it, which I agreed to do, but I was convinced that I would be pulling the plug and setting fire to my ludicrous little imaginary worlds once and for all.
I was determined to go into work early, to work longer hours, to give up all the artsy-craftsy foolishness, and to be completely pragmatic from that moment forward. Instead, I ended up having a mental breakdown, watching hour after hour of medical and historical documentaries, and not going to work at all.
I grudgingly admitted to myself that my peculiar and unpopular writing was therapeutic and that the idea of destroying everything I had ever written, meaningless and awful though it may be, was literally traumatic to me. Loath though I am to admit it, the wretched little special snowflake inner child won this round.
People postulate that those who are overly sensitive should not share their work because they will only get their fee-fees hurt. I despise this attitude. I hate social Darwinism. I don't think that only the boldest and most beautiful are worthy of sharing their words and works. This is why I will continue to share mine when I am inspired to.
However, I will not read the posts announcing the winners of any future contests I may enter. This is not because I'm being intentionally rude, it's because I have the psychological equivalent of World War III going on in my psyche, and I am not going to deliberately stand there taunting the enemy to nuke me. It isn't arrogance, it's self-preservation.
This may inadvertently make me appear to be a poor sport, but that is not my intent. My intent is for my pathetic little literary world to survive while I still live. Once I am dead, the moronic world of my idiotic imagination will be buried by time and dust, no great loss.
Until then, if it helps you to do so, just think of my writing as the artistic equivalent of an SSRI, only without the mania and psychosis that take over my mind when I take those. You do believe, after all, that nutters like me are entitled to art therapy, don't you?

~Cie~