Emily Thomas
1221 Mountford Ct.
Charlottesville, Va 22901
Dear Ellen Hopkins,
Reading all four of your free verse poetry books has not only been a pleasure, but, ultimately, an uplifting experience. The way you use poetry to tell the stories of love and struggle makes me understand that I’m not alone. Not only am I touched by your style of writing, but I can relate to the stories you tell, which makes your book very compelling to read. Your writing flows, and is very easy to read quickly, which is much appreciated by those readers (myself) who are not the fastest readers.
While reading Crank and Glass, I didn't know that the story was about your daughter, but when I read the end note for both books, which told that these books were based on the true story of your daughter's Crystal meth addiction, I was blown away. But the story was compelling, filled with twists and turns, and unfortunate real life situation. According to this book, your daughter also became pregnant and had a baby while addicted to a very dangerous drug. Reading this was heart breaking, but when you refereed to the character that stood for your daughter as having left her child in her shadows, I was shocked that you could express your feeling about it to the public. I look up to you as an author who is able write about a very personal experience, while still sounding graceful by telling your story with poetry.
Out of your four books, Impulse was the most relevant to me. Going through a similar experience myself, reading about three teens who attempted suicide and were admitted to a psychiatric hospital was comforting. I especially connected to your character, Vanessa, who hid the secrets of her sorrows, and revealed them only to a sharpened razor. She knows something is wrong with her brain, something that is controlling her beyond her own behavior. Her involuntary need for male attention also reminds me of myself. Although it was fictional, knowing that other people go through the same thing that I did was uplifting. Writing the three stories in a poetic way gave them a deeper meaning, yet makes them easier to comprehend.
And on a lighter note: reading your work is a breeze. The flow of each page makes it easy to devour your books in only days. Being dyslexic, I have never finished a book in less than about a week, and when I picked up your book Burned and couldn’t put it down, I finally felt like I read at the pace of a normal teenage reader. Your books gave me the confidence to read more than I had in the past.
Your style of writing and subject matter are inspirational to me, and both have changed the way I see the world. I love your books so much, I have read several more than once. Reading your work is a pleasure that never grows old. Thank you so much.
Sincerely,
Emily Thomas
Thursday, December 4, 2008
Monday, December 1, 2008
Writing Assignment 3, Draft 2
Dear Ellen Hopkins,
Reading all four of your free verse poetry books has not only been a pleasure, but, ultimately, an uplifting experience. The way you use poetry to tell the stories of love and struggle makes me believe in every word you write. Not only am I touched by your style of writing, but I am moved by the stories you tell.
While reading Crank and Glass, I didn't know that the story was about your daughter, but when I read the end note for both books, which told that these books were based on the true story of your daughter's crytstal meth addiction, I was blown away. But the story was compeling, filled with twists and turns, and unfortanet real life situation. According to this book, your daughter also became pregnant and had a baby while addicted to a very dangerous drug. Reading this was heart breaking, but when you refered to the character that stood for your daughter as having left her child in her shadows, I was shocked that you could express your feeling about it to the public. I look up to you as an author who is able write about a very personal experience, and still make it sound graceful by putting it in poetry form.
Out of your four books, Impluse was the most relevant to me. Going through a similar experience myself, reading about three teens who attempted suicide and were admitted to a psychiatric hospital was comforting. I especially connected to your character, Vanessa, who hid the secrets of her sorrows, and revealed them only to a sharped razor. She knows something is wrong with her brain, something that is controling her beyond her own behavior. Her involentary need for male attention also reminds me of myself. Although it was fictional, knowing that other people go through the same thing that I did was uplifting. Writing the three stories in a poetic way gave them a deeper meaning.
Your style of writing and subject matter are inspirational to me, and both have changed the way I see the world
Thank you
Sincerely,
Emily Thomas
Reading all four of your free verse poetry books has not only been a pleasure, but, ultimately, an uplifting experience. The way you use poetry to tell the stories of love and struggle makes me believe in every word you write. Not only am I touched by your style of writing, but I am moved by the stories you tell.
While reading Crank and Glass, I didn't know that the story was about your daughter, but when I read the end note for both books, which told that these books were based on the true story of your daughter's crytstal meth addiction, I was blown away. But the story was compeling, filled with twists and turns, and unfortanet real life situation. According to this book, your daughter also became pregnant and had a baby while addicted to a very dangerous drug. Reading this was heart breaking, but when you refered to the character that stood for your daughter as having left her child in her shadows, I was shocked that you could express your feeling about it to the public. I look up to you as an author who is able write about a very personal experience, and still make it sound graceful by putting it in poetry form.
Out of your four books, Impluse was the most relevant to me. Going through a similar experience myself, reading about three teens who attempted suicide and were admitted to a psychiatric hospital was comforting. I especially connected to your character, Vanessa, who hid the secrets of her sorrows, and revealed them only to a sharped razor. She knows something is wrong with her brain, something that is controling her beyond her own behavior. Her involentary need for male attention also reminds me of myself. Although it was fictional, knowing that other people go through the same thing that I did was uplifting. Writing the three stories in a poetic way gave them a deeper meaning.
Your style of writing and subject matter are inspirational to me, and both have changed the way I see the world
Thank you
Sincerely,
Emily Thomas
Sunday, November 23, 2008
Writing Assignment 3, Draft 1: Letters About Literature
Dear Ellen Hopkins,
Reading all four of your free verse poetry books has not only been a pleasure, but, ultimately, an uplifting experience. The way you use poetry to tell the stories of love and struggle makes me believe in every word you write. Not only am I touched by your style of writing, but I am moved by the stories you tell.
While reading Crank and Glass, I didn't know that the story was about your daughter, but when I read the end note for both books, which told that these books were based on the true story of your daughter's crytstal meth addiction, I was blown away. I look up to you as an author who is able write about a very personal experience, and still make it sound graceful by putting it in poetry form.
Out of your four books, Impluse was the most relevant to me. Going through a similar experience myself, reading about three teens who attempted suicide and were admited to a psychiatric hostpital was comforting. Although it was fictional, knowing that other people go through the same thing that I did was uplifting. Writing the three stories in a poetic way gave them a deeper meaning.
Your style of writing and subject matter are inspirational to me, and both have changed the way I see the world
Thank you
Sincerely,
Emily Thomas
Reading all four of your free verse poetry books has not only been a pleasure, but, ultimately, an uplifting experience. The way you use poetry to tell the stories of love and struggle makes me believe in every word you write. Not only am I touched by your style of writing, but I am moved by the stories you tell.
While reading Crank and Glass, I didn't know that the story was about your daughter, but when I read the end note for both books, which told that these books were based on the true story of your daughter's crytstal meth addiction, I was blown away. I look up to you as an author who is able write about a very personal experience, and still make it sound graceful by putting it in poetry form.
Out of your four books, Impluse was the most relevant to me. Going through a similar experience myself, reading about three teens who attempted suicide and were admited to a psychiatric hostpital was comforting. Although it was fictional, knowing that other people go through the same thing that I did was uplifting. Writing the three stories in a poetic way gave them a deeper meaning.
Your style of writing and subject matter are inspirational to me, and both have changed the way I see the world
Thank you
Sincerely,
Emily Thomas
Sunday, October 26, 2008
Writing Assignment 2, Final Draft, Title: Jobo
It was a cold, New York morning. The sun rose slowly from the concrete sidewalk to the top to the wall, illuminating all the squiggles and swoops of the graffiti language letters. Also shown by the light’s appearance, was a man. Sitting slouched, leaned up against the graffiti wall. He had not a home nor a penny to his name. Well, he did have one penny, a lucky penny, but he doesn’t like to talk about it. As the sun peeled the darkness away from his face, Joe Clarence opened his eyes to the brick wall of a building across the street. It was no surprise, because it had been there for forty five years Joe had lived there. On the sidewalk. A little worm in the Big Apple. Leaning against a graffiti wall. Joe the hobo.
Over the years, numerous layers of spray paint were spritzed onto the wall that Joe guarded. Although it was his home, he appreciated the decoration. In fact, during the day when there were no people to beg for money, he would analyze the pictures, the words, and the symbols. Sometimes he would get distracted by a bit a cracking paint, so brittle it was begging him to be picked off.
If someone walked by when he was staring into the eye hole an airbrushed skull, he would ask, “What do you think this means? I think it is symbolizing the oppressive government.” The woman would look Joe up and down, with eyes filled with disgust and judgment. As she quickly walked away, Joe’s face would droop, and his heart would sink. Would anyone ever love him and except him for who he is?
One day, when the sky was particularly cloudily, and the rain was starting to drip-drip-drip onto poor Joe’s balding head, dropplets sitting in his beard, something magnificent happened. Across the street, in an alley way, there was a trash can and out of trash can climbed a tarantula! As it crawled out, it looked both ways before crossing the street, and when it spotted Joe, it ran with it’s fuzzy, spider limbs. The tarantula crept up to Joe, possibly looking for a human companion, maybe just looking for some shelter from the rain.
When Joe looked down and found the spider, crawling at varying tempos around the dirty man, his heart was pounding. He had never been fond of insects or bugs as a child, but the years of loneliness left him numb to hear childhood fears. The tarantula, started to climb onto Joe’s leg, and the lonely hobo embraced him. It hiked up his shirt, like the stock market, climbing up, then falling back down to the denim bellow. Joe realized the eight legged fuzz was trying to climb into his pocket, so he held out him palm (with raised eyebrows), as an elevator for the creature. “Come,’ Joe said, and the spider sheepishly stepped onto the hand, so dirty from years of use. The tarantula needed shelter, but Joe saw it also needed love, and this was new for him. He had never been needed.
With Joe Clarance’s new confidence and responsibility, he decides it was time for his Picasso covered wall to be the home to another hobo with a lucky penny. He was in search of a better ‘home’ for him and his new friend. As he walked away with nothing but a penny and a third hand, he whispered to the odd creature in his pocket “I will never let you down, my friend.”
Over the years, numerous layers of spray paint were spritzed onto the wall that Joe guarded. Although it was his home, he appreciated the decoration. In fact, during the day when there were no people to beg for money, he would analyze the pictures, the words, and the symbols. Sometimes he would get distracted by a bit a cracking paint, so brittle it was begging him to be picked off.
If someone walked by when he was staring into the eye hole an airbrushed skull, he would ask, “What do you think this means? I think it is symbolizing the oppressive government.” The woman would look Joe up and down, with eyes filled with disgust and judgment. As she quickly walked away, Joe’s face would droop, and his heart would sink. Would anyone ever love him and except him for who he is?
One day, when the sky was particularly cloudily, and the rain was starting to drip-drip-drip onto poor Joe’s balding head, dropplets sitting in his beard, something magnificent happened. Across the street, in an alley way, there was a trash can and out of trash can climbed a tarantula! As it crawled out, it looked both ways before crossing the street, and when it spotted Joe, it ran with it’s fuzzy, spider limbs. The tarantula crept up to Joe, possibly looking for a human companion, maybe just looking for some shelter from the rain.
When Joe looked down and found the spider, crawling at varying tempos around the dirty man, his heart was pounding. He had never been fond of insects or bugs as a child, but the years of loneliness left him numb to hear childhood fears. The tarantula, started to climb onto Joe’s leg, and the lonely hobo embraced him. It hiked up his shirt, like the stock market, climbing up, then falling back down to the denim bellow. Joe realized the eight legged fuzz was trying to climb into his pocket, so he held out him palm (with raised eyebrows), as an elevator for the creature. “Come,’ Joe said, and the spider sheepishly stepped onto the hand, so dirty from years of use. The tarantula needed shelter, but Joe saw it also needed love, and this was new for him. He had never been needed.
With Joe Clarance’s new confidence and responsibility, he decides it was time for his Picasso covered wall to be the home to another hobo with a lucky penny. He was in search of a better ‘home’ for him and his new friend. As he walked away with nothing but a penny and a third hand, he whispered to the odd creature in his pocket “I will never let you down, my friend.”
Wednesday, October 22, 2008
Writing Assignment 2, Draft 2 Title: Jobo
It was a cold, New York morning. The sun rose slowly from the concrete sidewalk to the top to the wall, illuminating all the squiggles and swoops of the graffiti language letters. Also shown by the light’s appearance, was a man. Sitting slouched, leaned up against the graffiti wall. He had not a home nor a penny to his name. Well, he did have one penny, a lucky penny, but he doesn’t like to talk about it. As the sun peeled the darkness away from his face, Joe Clarence opened his eyes to the brick wall of a building across the street. It was no surprise, because it had been there for forty five years Joe had lived there. On the sidewalk. A little worm in the Big Apple. Leaning against a graffiti wall. Joe the hobo.
Over the years, numerous layers of spray paint were spritzed onto the wall that Joe guarded. Although it was his home, he appreciated the decoration. In fact, during the day when there were no people to beg for money, he would analyze the pictures, the words, and the symbols. Sometimes he would get distracted by a bit a cracking paint, so brittle it was begging him to be picked off.
If someone walked by when he was staring into at an airbrushed skull, he would ask, “What do you think this means? I think it is symbolizing the oppressive government.” The woman would look Joe up and down, with eyes filled with disgust and judgment. As she quickly walked away, Joe’s face would droop, and his heart would sink. Would anyone ever love him and except him for who he is?
One day, when the sky was particularly cloudily, and the rain was starting to drip-drip-drip onto poor Joe’s balding head, something magnificent happened. Across the street, in an alley way, there was a trash can. And out of trash can climbed a tarantula! As it crawled out, it looked both ways before crossing the street, and when it spotted Joe, it ran with it’s fuzzy, spider limbs. The tarantula crept up to Joe, possibly looking for a human companion, maybe just looking for some shelter from the rain.
When Joe looked down and found the spider, crawling at varying tempos around the dirty man, he stayed calm. The tarantula, started to climb onto Joe’s leg, and the lonely hobo embraced him. It hiked up his shirt, like the stock market, climbing up, then falling back down to the denim bellow. Joe realized the eight legged fuzz was trying to climb into his pocket, so he held out him palm (with raised eyebrows), as an elevator for the creature. “Come,’ Joe said, and the spider sheepishly stepped onto the hand, so dirty from years of use. The tarantula needed shelter, but Joe saw it also needed love, and this was new for him. He had never been needed.
With Joe Clarance’s new confidence and responsibility, he decides it was time for his Picasso covered wall to be the home to another hobo with a lucky penny. He was in search of a better ‘home’ for him and his new friend. As he walked away with nothing but a penny and a third hand, he whispered to the odd creature in his pocket “I will never let you down, my friend.”
Over the years, numerous layers of spray paint were spritzed onto the wall that Joe guarded. Although it was his home, he appreciated the decoration. In fact, during the day when there were no people to beg for money, he would analyze the pictures, the words, and the symbols. Sometimes he would get distracted by a bit a cracking paint, so brittle it was begging him to be picked off.
If someone walked by when he was staring into at an airbrushed skull, he would ask, “What do you think this means? I think it is symbolizing the oppressive government.” The woman would look Joe up and down, with eyes filled with disgust and judgment. As she quickly walked away, Joe’s face would droop, and his heart would sink. Would anyone ever love him and except him for who he is?
One day, when the sky was particularly cloudily, and the rain was starting to drip-drip-drip onto poor Joe’s balding head, something magnificent happened. Across the street, in an alley way, there was a trash can. And out of trash can climbed a tarantula! As it crawled out, it looked both ways before crossing the street, and when it spotted Joe, it ran with it’s fuzzy, spider limbs. The tarantula crept up to Joe, possibly looking for a human companion, maybe just looking for some shelter from the rain.
When Joe looked down and found the spider, crawling at varying tempos around the dirty man, he stayed calm. The tarantula, started to climb onto Joe’s leg, and the lonely hobo embraced him. It hiked up his shirt, like the stock market, climbing up, then falling back down to the denim bellow. Joe realized the eight legged fuzz was trying to climb into his pocket, so he held out him palm (with raised eyebrows), as an elevator for the creature. “Come,’ Joe said, and the spider sheepishly stepped onto the hand, so dirty from years of use. The tarantula needed shelter, but Joe saw it also needed love, and this was new for him. He had never been needed.
With Joe Clarance’s new confidence and responsibility, he decides it was time for his Picasso covered wall to be the home to another hobo with a lucky penny. He was in search of a better ‘home’ for him and his new friend. As he walked away with nothing but a penny and a third hand, he whispered to the odd creature in his pocket “I will never let you down, my friend.”
Monday, October 13, 2008
Writing Assignment 2, Draft 1 Title: Jobo
It was a cold, New York morning. The sun rose slowly from the concrete sidewalk to the top to the wall, illuminating all the squiggles and swoops of the graffiti language letters. Also shown by the light’s unavailing, was a man. Sitting slouched, leaned up against the graffiti wall. He had not a home nor a penny to his name. Well, he did have one penny, a lucky penny, but he doesn’t like to talk about it. As the sun peeled the darkness away from his face, Joe Clarence opened his eyes to the brick wall of a building across the street. It was no surprise, because it had been there for forty five years Joe had lived there. On the sidewalk. A little worm in the Big Apple. Leaning against a graffiti wall. Joe the hobo.
Over the years, numerous layers of spray paint were sizzled onto the wall that Joe guarded. Although it was his home, he appreciated the decoration. In fact, during the day when there were no people to beg for money, he would analyze the pictures, the words, and the symbols. Sometimes he would get distracted by a bit a cracking paint, so brittle it was begging him to be picked off.
If someone walked by when he was staring into at a skull (air brushed to perfection), he would ask, “What do you think this means? I think it is symbolizing the oppressive government.” The woman would look Joe up and down, with eyes filled with disgust and judgment. As she quickly walked away, Joe’s face would droop, and his heart would sink. Would anyone ever love him and except him for who he is?
One day, when the sky was particularly cloudily, and the rain was starting to drip-drip-drip onto poor Joe’s balding head, something magnificent happened. Across the street, in an alley way, there was a trash can. And out of trash can climbed a severed human hand! As it crawled out, it looked both ways before crossing the street, and when it spotted Joe, it ran with it’s dirty, stubby fingers. The hand crept up to Joe, possibly looking for a human companion, maybe just looking for some shelter from the rain.
When Joe looked down and found the hand, walking around on it’s fingers, he stayed calm. The hand, a spider not so nimble, started to climb onto Joe’s leg, and the lonely hobo embraced him. It hiked up his shirt, like the stock market, climbing up, then falling back down to the denim bellow. Joe realized the hand was trying to climb into his pocket, so he held out him palm (with raised eyebrows), as an elevator for the severed hand. “Come,’ Joe said, and the hand sheepishly stepped onto the hand that looked quite like it’s self. The hand needed shelter, but Joe saw it also needed love, and this was new for him. He had never been needed.
With Joe Clarance’s new confidence and responsibility, he decides it was time for his Picasso covered wall to be the home to another hobo with a lucky penny. He was in search of a better ‘home’ for him and his new friend. As he walked away with nothing but a penny and a third hand, he whispered to the odd creature in his pocket “I will never let you down, my friend.”
Over the years, numerous layers of spray paint were sizzled onto the wall that Joe guarded. Although it was his home, he appreciated the decoration. In fact, during the day when there were no people to beg for money, he would analyze the pictures, the words, and the symbols. Sometimes he would get distracted by a bit a cracking paint, so brittle it was begging him to be picked off.
If someone walked by when he was staring into at a skull (air brushed to perfection), he would ask, “What do you think this means? I think it is symbolizing the oppressive government.” The woman would look Joe up and down, with eyes filled with disgust and judgment. As she quickly walked away, Joe’s face would droop, and his heart would sink. Would anyone ever love him and except him for who he is?
One day, when the sky was particularly cloudily, and the rain was starting to drip-drip-drip onto poor Joe’s balding head, something magnificent happened. Across the street, in an alley way, there was a trash can. And out of trash can climbed a severed human hand! As it crawled out, it looked both ways before crossing the street, and when it spotted Joe, it ran with it’s dirty, stubby fingers. The hand crept up to Joe, possibly looking for a human companion, maybe just looking for some shelter from the rain.
When Joe looked down and found the hand, walking around on it’s fingers, he stayed calm. The hand, a spider not so nimble, started to climb onto Joe’s leg, and the lonely hobo embraced him. It hiked up his shirt, like the stock market, climbing up, then falling back down to the denim bellow. Joe realized the hand was trying to climb into his pocket, so he held out him palm (with raised eyebrows), as an elevator for the severed hand. “Come,’ Joe said, and the hand sheepishly stepped onto the hand that looked quite like it’s self. The hand needed shelter, but Joe saw it also needed love, and this was new for him. He had never been needed.
With Joe Clarance’s new confidence and responsibility, he decides it was time for his Picasso covered wall to be the home to another hobo with a lucky penny. He was in search of a better ‘home’ for him and his new friend. As he walked away with nothing but a penny and a third hand, he whispered to the odd creature in his pocket “I will never let you down, my friend.”
Sunday, September 28, 2008
Writing Assignment 1, Draft 3
Before I begin writing about my emotional experience, I believe that I should write a quick introduction. Mental illness is an extremely serious issue. There is nothing funny about it. By posting this for all to read, I am trusting that who ever may choose to read this will not take advantage of this information. On the contrary, please don't feel sorry for me. I'm not looking for attention, I'm just telling it like it is. This is what makes me emotional, because this is what used to control my emotions.
The Monster
Lying on my bed, staring at the clock. 8:32:54. It's moving; but me? I am numb. I'm lying here in this one moment in time, mind is racing, but there's no time to think. The thoughts in my head, like race cars speeding down the track, going right by me. Trying to identify each one would be like trying to tell the difference between two galloping zebras. But I try to slow them down. I relax my mind until I can filter the thoughts, take the time to inspect each one. The first, is of last night. Hormones racing; so much energy. This doesn't happen when I'm gray. Gray is in between high and low, and gray is fading away. I'm about to touch the moon I'm so high, as I slip out the downstairs window. I think I'm going crazy, as I get in the car. And then mom calls his phone. From my phone, which I left at home. So I get home and ring the door bell at one in the morning. Their voices don't even penetrate my brain, they just wisp right over my forehead like wind, and I am coming down. The high I had only minutes ago is slipping away. Slipping into sleep....
As I wake up at 8:23:12, the Monster hits like a train going 185 miles an hour. Sleep was my temporary escape for the reality I had entered last night. The monster is clawing at my pajama bottoms, taking me to the dark depths of his layer. I look at the window. I see another kind of escape, different from the sexual escape out the basement window, different from the temporary escape the night’s sleep brought. A total escape; from the second floor window. As I open the window, take off the screen, I perch on the window sill, looking down at the pavement that could bring my skull the comfort I want. I Need. Adrenaline pulsing through my body like blood. Heart palpitating, pulsing, thumping, wanting to break out of my rib cage and tumble out the window. So heavy with feeling it will drag my limp body by the arteries down the side of my house. My tense body shaking. Shuttering in the skin I don’t want. Do I really want to do this? I do, but I can't. I lay back down, until my mom comes in and I tell her. I tell her that I almost jumped out the window. Yes, I want to kill myself. It's not my fault, I'm so trapped. My skin is wrapped too tight. The mania and the monster controlling me. The high and the low programming me like a robot.
From the ER, to the ambulance. It was a long ride on a stretcher, mother's tears pouring down her face like there was no tomorrow. Why is she crying? I'm the one who has the problem. As they push me into the ambulance, I wave goodbye. I think about why I'm here. The monster. Why did the monster come? Because the mania left. My inability to control my impulses, and the plunges I took into the icy blue madness some call depression. Put these two together and you have Bipolar Disorder. And I knew all along but no one would listen to the one actually feeling the pain.
What pain? Little girls can not feel pain like you describe. Little girls can’t love and loose. Little girls can not possibly understand what it is like to have someone give you everything you ever thought you wanted and have it taken because of something uncontrollable. Little girls can not comprehend the fact that it is wrong for men to touch little girls. But now you are a big girl. Now I am a big girl and I know it was wrong. Maybe that is why I feel so much pain, because I see it was wrong. Because I’m not a little girl like everyone thinks. I am Emily Thomas, and I know what love is. I know what lose is. And I know what pain is.
As I took my first steps into the Dominion Psychiatric Hospital in Falls Church, Virginia, I wasn't sure what to think. I'm now official crazy, a nut job. Yeah, I'm in the nut house. But when I woke up, I got my first dose of lithium, a powerful drug to treat bipolar disorder. And this gave me hope. Really, there was no where to go but up. Now, I just had to find the soul that I never had before. Who I was, just wasn't me. It was the monster, and the mania. It was madness, and I was starting to claw my way through everything that was holding me back. In a way that I couldn't have even thought of without some serious help. Who am I? It was time to find out, for the first time, in 14 years.
The Monster
Lying on my bed, staring at the clock. 8:32:54. It's moving; but me? I am numb. I'm lying here in this one moment in time, mind is racing, but there's no time to think. The thoughts in my head, like race cars speeding down the track, going right by me. Trying to identify each one would be like trying to tell the difference between two galloping zebras. But I try to slow them down. I relax my mind until I can filter the thoughts, take the time to inspect each one. The first, is of last night. Hormones racing; so much energy. This doesn't happen when I'm gray. Gray is in between high and low, and gray is fading away. I'm about to touch the moon I'm so high, as I slip out the downstairs window. I think I'm going crazy, as I get in the car. And then mom calls his phone. From my phone, which I left at home. So I get home and ring the door bell at one in the morning. Their voices don't even penetrate my brain, they just wisp right over my forehead like wind, and I am coming down. The high I had only minutes ago is slipping away. Slipping into sleep....
As I wake up at 8:23:12, the Monster hits like a train going 185 miles an hour. Sleep was my temporary escape for the reality I had entered last night. The monster is clawing at my pajama bottoms, taking me to the dark depths of his layer. I look at the window. I see another kind of escape, different from the sexual escape out the basement window, different from the temporary escape the night’s sleep brought. A total escape; from the second floor window. As I open the window, take off the screen, I perch on the window sill, looking down at the pavement that could bring my skull the comfort I want. I Need. Adrenaline pulsing through my body like blood. Heart palpitating, pulsing, thumping, wanting to break out of my rib cage and tumble out the window. So heavy with feeling it will drag my limp body by the arteries down the side of my house. My tense body shaking. Shuttering in the skin I don’t want. Do I really want to do this? I do, but I can't. I lay back down, until my mom comes in and I tell her. I tell her that I almost jumped out the window. Yes, I want to kill myself. It's not my fault, I'm so trapped. My skin is wrapped too tight. The mania and the monster controlling me. The high and the low programming me like a robot.
From the ER, to the ambulance. It was a long ride on a stretcher, mother's tears pouring down her face like there was no tomorrow. Why is she crying? I'm the one who has the problem. As they push me into the ambulance, I wave goodbye. I think about why I'm here. The monster. Why did the monster come? Because the mania left. My inability to control my impulses, and the plunges I took into the icy blue madness some call depression. Put these two together and you have Bipolar Disorder. And I knew all along but no one would listen to the one actually feeling the pain.
What pain? Little girls can not feel pain like you describe. Little girls can’t love and loose. Little girls can not possibly understand what it is like to have someone give you everything you ever thought you wanted and have it taken because of something uncontrollable. Little girls can not comprehend the fact that it is wrong for men to touch little girls. But now you are a big girl. Now I am a big girl and I know it was wrong. Maybe that is why I feel so much pain, because I see it was wrong. Because I’m not a little girl like everyone thinks. I am Emily Thomas, and I know what love is. I know what lose is. And I know what pain is.
As I took my first steps into the Dominion Psychiatric Hospital in Falls Church, Virginia, I wasn't sure what to think. I'm now official crazy, a nut job. Yeah, I'm in the nut house. But when I woke up, I got my first dose of lithium, a powerful drug to treat bipolar disorder. And this gave me hope. Really, there was no where to go but up. Now, I just had to find the soul that I never had before. Who I was, just wasn't me. It was the monster, and the mania. It was madness, and I was starting to claw my way through everything that was holding me back. In a way that I couldn't have even thought of without some serious help. Who am I? It was time to find out, for the first time, in 14 years.
Sunday, September 21, 2008
Writing Assignment 1, Draft 2
Before I begin writing about my emotional experience, I believe that I should write a quick introduction. Mental illness is an extremely serious issue. There is nothing funny about it. By posting this for all to read, I am trusting that who ever may choose to read this will not take advantage of this information. On the contrary, please don't feel sorry for me. I'm not looking for attention, I'm just telling it like it is. This is what makes me emotional, because this is what used to control my emotions.
The Monster
Lying on my bed, staring at the clock. It's moving, but me? I'm lying here in this one moment in time, mind is racing but there's no time to think. The thoughts in my head, like race cars speeding down the track, going right by me. I can't see them. But I see their colors. I try to slow them down. I relax my mind until I can filter the thoughts, take the time to inspect each one. The first, is of last night. Hormones racing, why so many? This doesn't happen when I'm grey. Grey is in between high and low. I'm about to touch the moon I'm so high, as I slip out the downstairs window. I think I'm going crazy, as I get in the car. And then mom calls his phone. From mine, which I left at home. So I get home and ring the door bell at one in the morning. Their voices don't even penetrate my brain, they just slip right over my forehead, and I am coming down. The high I had only minutes ago is slipping away. Slipping into sleep....
The Monster took me while I was sleeping. He's bringing me down with him. The monster is what makes me think my next thought. I look at the window. I see another kind of escape, different from the night before. A total escape; from the second floor window. As I open the window, take off the screen, I perch on the window sill, looking down , heart racing. I'm shaking. Do I really want to do this? I do, but I can't. I lay back down, until my mom comes in and I tell her. I tell her that I almost jumped out the window. Yes I want to kill myself. It's not my fault, I'm so trapped. I'm trapped inside my own skin, the mania and the monster controlling me. The high and the low programming me like a robot.
From the ER, to the ambulance was a long ride on the stretcher, mother's tears pouring down her face like there was no tomorrow. Why is she crying? I'm the one who has the problem. As they push me into the ambulance, I wave goodbye. I think about why I'm here. The monster. Why did it all start? The mania. My inability to control my impulses, and the plunges I took into the icy blue madness some call depression. You put these two together and you have Bipolar Disorder. And I knew all along but no one would listen to the one actually feeling the pain.
Yeah, I knew. I knew the humiliation I felt when word got out about me being a slut. I knew the frustration of not being able to take everything back. And yes, I even knew the devistation of depression.
As I took my first steps into the Dominion Psychiatric Hospital in Falls Church, Virginia, I wasn't sure what to think. I'm now official crazy, a nut job. Yeah, I'm in the nut house. But when I woke up, I got my first dose of lithium, a powerful drug to treat bipolar disorder. It calmed the chemicals in my brain. Controling me. And this gave me hope. Odd isn’t it, that something taking away your freedom could give you hope. But in this strange, twisted world, anything is possible. So by controlling my emotions, keeping them under control, I was set free. Now, I just had to find the soul that I never had before. Who I was, just wasn't me. It was the monster, and the mania. It was madness, and I was escaping. In a way that I couldn't have even thought of without some serious help. Who am I? It was time to find out, for the first time, in 14 years.
The Monster
Lying on my bed, staring at the clock. It's moving, but me? I'm lying here in this one moment in time, mind is racing but there's no time to think. The thoughts in my head, like race cars speeding down the track, going right by me. I can't see them. But I see their colors. I try to slow them down. I relax my mind until I can filter the thoughts, take the time to inspect each one. The first, is of last night. Hormones racing, why so many? This doesn't happen when I'm grey. Grey is in between high and low. I'm about to touch the moon I'm so high, as I slip out the downstairs window. I think I'm going crazy, as I get in the car. And then mom calls his phone. From mine, which I left at home. So I get home and ring the door bell at one in the morning. Their voices don't even penetrate my brain, they just slip right over my forehead, and I am coming down. The high I had only minutes ago is slipping away. Slipping into sleep....
The Monster took me while I was sleeping. He's bringing me down with him. The monster is what makes me think my next thought. I look at the window. I see another kind of escape, different from the night before. A total escape; from the second floor window. As I open the window, take off the screen, I perch on the window sill, looking down , heart racing. I'm shaking. Do I really want to do this? I do, but I can't. I lay back down, until my mom comes in and I tell her. I tell her that I almost jumped out the window. Yes I want to kill myself. It's not my fault, I'm so trapped. I'm trapped inside my own skin, the mania and the monster controlling me. The high and the low programming me like a robot.
From the ER, to the ambulance was a long ride on the stretcher, mother's tears pouring down her face like there was no tomorrow. Why is she crying? I'm the one who has the problem. As they push me into the ambulance, I wave goodbye. I think about why I'm here. The monster. Why did it all start? The mania. My inability to control my impulses, and the plunges I took into the icy blue madness some call depression. You put these two together and you have Bipolar Disorder. And I knew all along but no one would listen to the one actually feeling the pain.
Yeah, I knew. I knew the humiliation I felt when word got out about me being a slut. I knew the frustration of not being able to take everything back. And yes, I even knew the devistation of depression.
As I took my first steps into the Dominion Psychiatric Hospital in Falls Church, Virginia, I wasn't sure what to think. I'm now official crazy, a nut job. Yeah, I'm in the nut house. But when I woke up, I got my first dose of lithium, a powerful drug to treat bipolar disorder. It calmed the chemicals in my brain. Controling me. And this gave me hope. Odd isn’t it, that something taking away your freedom could give you hope. But in this strange, twisted world, anything is possible. So by controlling my emotions, keeping them under control, I was set free. Now, I just had to find the soul that I never had before. Who I was, just wasn't me. It was the monster, and the mania. It was madness, and I was escaping. In a way that I couldn't have even thought of without some serious help. Who am I? It was time to find out, for the first time, in 14 years.
Saturday, September 6, 2008
Writing Assignment 1, Draft 1
Before I begin writing about my emotional experience, I believe that I should write a quick introduction. Mental illness is an extremely serious issue. There is nothing funny about it. By posting this for all to read, I am trusting that who ever may choose to read this will not take advantage of this information. On the contrary, please don't feel sorry for me. I'm not looking for attention, I'm just telling it like it is. This is what makes me emotional, because this is what used to control my emotions.
The Monster
Lying on my bed, staring at the clock. It's moving, but me, I'm lying here in this one moment in time, mind is racing but there's no time to think. The thoughts in my head, like race cars speeding down the track, going right by me. I can't see them. But I see the colors, maybe even the number. But I try to slow them down. I relax my mind until I can filter the thoughts, take the time to inspect each one. The first, is of last night. Hormones racing, why so many? This doesn't happen when I'm grey. Grey is in between high and low. I'm about to touch the moon I'm so high, as I slip out the downstairs window. I think I'm going crazy, as I get in the car. And then mom calls his phone. From mine, which I left at home. So I get home and ring the door bell at one in the morning. Their voices don't even penetrate my brain, they just slip right over my forehead, and I am coming down. The high I had only minutes ago is slipping away. Slipping into sleep....
The Monster took me while I was sleeping. He's bringing me down with him. The monster is what makes me think my next thought. I look at the window. I see another kind of escape, different from the night before. A total escape; from the second floor window. As I open the window, take off the screen, I perch on the window sill, looking down , heart racing. I'm shaking. Do I really want to do this? I do, but I can't. I lay back down, until my mom comes in and I tell her. I tell her that I almost jumped out the window. Yes I want to kill myself. It's not my fault, I'm so trapped. I'm trapped inside my own skin, the mania and the monster controlling me. The high and the low programming me like a robot.
From the ER, to the ambulance was a long ride on the stretcher, mother's tears pouring down her face like there was no tomorrow. Why is she crying? I'm the one who has the problem. As they push me into the ambulance, I wave goodbye. I think about why I'm here. The monster. Why did it all start? The mania. My inability to control my impulses, and the plunges I took into the icy blue madness some call depression. You put these two together and you have Bipolar Disorder. And I knew all along but no one would listen to the one actually feeling the pain.
As I took my first steps into the Dominion Psychiatric Hospital in Falls Church, Virginia, I wasn't sure what to think. I'm now official crazy, a nut job. Yeah, I'm in the nut house. But when I woke up, I got my first dose of lithium, a powerful drug to treat bipolar disorder. And this gave me hope. Because, really, there was no where to go but up. Now, I just had to find the soul that I never had before. Who I was, just wasn't me. It was the monster, and the mania. It was madness, and I was escaping. In a way that I couldn't have even thought of without some serious help. Who am I? It was time to find out, for the first time, in 14 years.
The Monster took me while I was sleeping. He's bringing me down with him. The monster is what makes me think my next thought. I look at the window. I see another kind of escape, different from the night before. A total escape; from the second floor window. As I open the window, take off the screen, I perch on the window sill, looking down , heart racing. I'm shaking. Do I really want to do this? I do, but I can't. I lay back down, until my mom comes in and I tell her. I tell her that I almost jumped out the window. Yes I want to kill myself. It's not my fault, I'm so trapped. I'm trapped inside my own skin, the mania and the monster controlling me. The high and the low programming me like a robot.
From the ER, to the ambulance was a long ride on the stretcher, mother's tears pouring down her face like there was no tomorrow. Why is she crying? I'm the one who has the problem. As they push me into the ambulance, I wave goodbye. I think about why I'm here. The monster. Why did it all start? The mania. My inability to control my impulses, and the plunges I took into the icy blue madness some call depression. You put these two together and you have Bipolar Disorder. And I knew all along but no one would listen to the one actually feeling the pain.
As I took my first steps into the Dominion Psychiatric Hospital in Falls Church, Virginia, I wasn't sure what to think. I'm now official crazy, a nut job. Yeah, I'm in the nut house. But when I woke up, I got my first dose of lithium, a powerful drug to treat bipolar disorder. And this gave me hope. Because, really, there was no where to go but up. Now, I just had to find the soul that I never had before. Who I was, just wasn't me. It was the monster, and the mania. It was madness, and I was escaping. In a way that I couldn't have even thought of without some serious help. Who am I? It was time to find out, for the first time, in 14 years.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)