Stories. Not a blog.

“Do not be so open-minded that your brains fall out.”

i've been sleeping with my window open despite the cold and two days ago I woke up in the middle of the night to one of the most heartbreaking things i've ever heard. it was a man, sobbing outside my window. at first the shuffle of his feet felt unreal, a fragment of my sleep-addled brain, but when he spoke my brain untangled itself from its haze, heartbroken by what my ears were hearing.

'i can't leave this fucking job that i hate because that would jeopardize my future with you, and i don't know what to do.'

that's it. that's all i caught before he continued walking; before his voice disappeared perhaps never to be heard again. oh geez, did my heart break. i lay in my bed for about an hour, thinking about the pain in his voice and wishing that there was something i could do to help him. i've been in that situation before—more times than i can count—but the agony in his voice made the despair i've felt infinitesimal.

there was a rawness to it. a frustration and desperation and agony that i don't think i've ever expressed with my own voice before. there was a metaphorical clawing of his skin, a severing of every tendon and nerve in his body. there was a pleading as he spoke that i've felt but have never been able to properly convey to others; perhaps even to myself. is it because i am numb beyond repair? or because my emotions are only surface level, despite how strongly i think i feel them? perhaps a day or two of meditation will help. or maybe a lifetime.

i hope that man is well.


c. w.

Blood Cake

I watched Matilda for the first time when I was three. Over the years, I've watched it multiple times, but before re-discovering it (at the age or nine), horrible images of a particularly ghastly scene plagues my mind endlessly.

(p.s: it's nice to be back!)

the scene in question is this one:

For six long years, I had been convinced—and nothing on this planet would have changed my mind—that poor Bruce had been forced to eat a cake made out of BLOOD and SWEAT by Ms. Trunchbull. I don't quite understand how my mind made that connection, but at the time it made complete sense, and in a weird way, I suppose this is why I don't like eating chocolate cake. I'll eat chocolate bars and hot chocolate, but that's about it. No cake, no ice-cream, no cheesecake, nothing. Zilch. Nada.

(the last sentence is a realization I made JUST NOW, as I was typing this, so hooray for me for working out where some of my childhood traumas/preferences came from!)

I remember being so disgusted and terrified of this scene, that I actually refused to watch it in its entirety when I re-discovered this movie. It wasn't until I heard the words “smells chocolatey, eh?” that the hears in my head began working. Slowly, I looked up, my ears as attentive as those of a dog waiting for its favorite snack. I watched, enthralled, as Bruce struggled (and triumphed!) his way through that chocolate monstrosity, cheering him on with the rest of the children watching him eat.

As the scene progressed, my mind ate at itself; relived that Bruce had not been forced to eat blood cake, but also slightly disappointed that that had not been the case? How weird is that? Geez, I was such a strange child...

Anyways, I watched and re-watched and re-re-watched the movie until I could quote a big chunk of it and my mind stopped eating itself. Bruce had been OK (I was ten at the time and not capable of grasping that this poor child had been tortured, etc.). The cake had been chocolate and he had succeeded. I didn't have to feel afraid of a small boy eating sweat and blood, and that felt good. But as relived as I was I had promised myself to never eat chocolate cake or anything resembling it for that matter.

I have yet to break my promise.


C. W.

After months of obsessively watching Book Nook videos, I finally made my own! It's not perfect, and I can already see myself re-making it in the future, but for now I'm so proud! I did it! I made a piece of art and it turned out quite nice! This was my first attempt at a book nook and hopefully I did this movie scene justice.

Yay! Here is a link if you wanna see it:


C. W.

I'm having second-thoughts about continuing therapy.

Something isn't working. I don't know what it is, but I know it. I feel it. I can almost taste it, too.

Something has changed. Shifted. Morphed.

But I don't know what.

It's strange, because everything started out great. But the more sessions I have, and the more J. knows, the worse I am beginning to feel.

I know. I know.

Things get worse before they get better. (that's how trauma works)

But I'm tired. And time is ticking by.


C. W.

This is a tiny story about the time I became enemies with my elementary school lunch lady.

Once upon a time, I waited in line to get my food and when I sat down, I noticed my ChexMex and fruit cups were expired. Grossed out, I showed my friends and when they realized theirs were expired (3 days overdue), we let a teacher know. Some kids at the other tables overheard us and checked their ChexMex and fruit cups, too.

Eventually the entire lunchroom realized we had (and some had eaten) expired ChexMex and fruit cups and the head lunch lady was forced to open new boxes. Walking by each table, she placed the expired items into a box and placed teddy bear cookies and apple slices on our plates. When she got to me, however, she threw my teddy bear cookies on my food and tossed my apple slices into my lap. She literally looked red with anger and since then Debby was never the same with me again.

The end.


C. W.

PS: I’ve FINALLY arrived at the new place and am having an awful time unpacking everything. Wish me luck! Xoxo!

I'm moving at the end of the month and I feel really excited! After 4 torturous years I am saying goodbye to my crappy basement apartment and moving to a third-floor unit on a super busy street! I can't wait to have windows I can look out of, and a heater that works in the winter! The apartment is smaller than the one I'm leaving, but I think the change will be good for us. The aura in this place is so draining, dark and heavy; and I can't wait to leave it behind. Packing has been daunting and stressful, but I am slowly making progress and I'm in a great place right now; thanks in part to my insomnia and 3am packing sessions. Everything looks like a downright mess, but the messier the room the bigger the progress.

I'll update soon!


C. W.

Let's talk about suicide.

The last time I seriously considered suicide.

It was June 2019. I'd just quit my job and I was feeling more alone than I'd felt in a long, long time. My family had gone out somewhere; the movies, Walmart, I don't remember; but I was alone with my thoughts and the darkness of my room, which did not feel like my room, and which as the minutes passed by, suffocated me more and more, until tears flowed down my eyes and my throat began to hurt.


Gone, but not forgotten.

Why do I always abandon things I love?


I love this little place so much.

It is my corner. My hideout. My public 'safe space'.

So why did I leave?

Is it because things have been good?

Or better?

More consistent?

I don't know.

And that's why I'm back, I suppose.

To figure it out.


C. W.

I had a sad dream about a beautiful, pink frog that was the size of a roll of tape. It fit perfectly in the palm of my hand and I took care of it; happily, lovingly, carefully; until it suffered an accident. The wind roared and screamed, and in one big swoop took my little love out of my hands. And then down it went, slamming against sharp rocks; its fragile arms and legs torn from its body as it fell into the water.


After months of struggling with secondary trauma at work, I will (officially) begin working part-time soon; and there are no words to describe how happy and liberated (and exited!) I feel.

I enjoy my job a lot, but the toll of hearing people’s trauma—and feeling like shit afterwards every single time—has fucked up my mental health in ways I cannot even begin to describe. Their stories and pains are so similar to my own and having flashbacks and physical manifestations of my mental symptoms mid-job has been excruciatingly difficult. And to make matters worse, the boredom and workplace drama that I am forced to witness have not helped, either.

Only time will tell if working less, yet still working (there) will help to improve my mental space (something tells me that it will!). Some drastic changes have been on the horizon for a long time and this one was long overdue.

I shall update soon on how the endeavor is going.


C. W.

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