“If even one apple fell up, wouldn’t we have to at least begin to question the laws of physics?”
- Dr. Daniel Dormand, Psychiatrist and author of Dante’s Cure
Mad in America posted an article that shared a trailer for a new documentary by Western Massachusetts Recovering Learning Community called Beyond the Medical Model.
“The film’s message is one of freedom. It is one of the right to tell your own story and choose your own path (including the medical model), or to meander about across many paths as works for you. In order to create equal access to all the paths, we do need to recognize the oppressive ways that the medical model has been and continues to be applied and the legal, financial and other system structures that have become dependent upon it. We need to cut it down to size, so to speak, but we needn’t erase it all together.” -Susan Davidow
I’ve erased too many times so now I’m frustrated!
Here is what I wrote of a story a few months ago. Maybe I just need to leave it there or wait longer for something to come to me. Still needs some more editing but I wanted to share it.
This story is a perfect example of how I can live through my writing. This story is based a little bit on truth.
I Fight for Mine
I put my hand around her throat and pushed her against the wall. I held her there. I wasn’t trying to harm her, just scare her. I could vaguely hear people yelling around me. They sounded like they were underwater. The only thing I could hear clearly was my heart pounding in my ears, the rush of adrenaline and rage. She was clawing at my hands, scratching them. I wasn’t holding on that hard was I?
Who is she? I thought. Who is this girl to think that she could come in and turn my life upside down? Just when things were starting to get better…The yelling was getting louder but still sounding fuzzy. I didn’t know what the voices were saying. Her eyes showed fear. Her mouth was moving but no sounds were coming out. I felt a slight pain on my hand now. I glanced down and saw that some of the scratches were starting to bleed. I don’t care. What was one more thing to cause me pain?
I felt a hand on my shoulder, rough, fingers digging into my skin. The hand shoved me violently. I began to fall and she fell with me. As I hit the floor I let go of her neck. Her hands flew to her neck where mine had been. I lay on my side and watched, now in full sound, a small crowd gather around her while she coughed and gulped air back into her lungs.
The music was loud. From my position on the floor I could feel vibrations sent out by the bass run through my entire body. People must have been yelling really loud over the music, I thought. I wonder what they were saying.
Someone from the crowd turned and looked at me. It wasn’t him but his friend, our friend, Daniel. On his hands and knees he crawled the short distance over to me. “What was that?” He half yelled. He look confused, shocked. He knew this wasn’t like me. I knew it too. “Why did you do that?” Daniel yelled now. I sat up and looked him. I shook my head. Daniel wouldn’t understand. Or he would but use his logic to show me that I had done something wrong. I found it difficult to care. She took him from me. I had fought for him. He was supposed to be fighting for me too. She changed him. She made him abandon me. I hated her. Daniel knew I hated her and so did he. What did they expect me to do when I saw her? Smile at her? Hug her? Laugh with her? Pretend everything was ok? I can admit that I didn’t know I would have ended up with my hands around her throat.
They weren’t even supposed to be at this party. Daniel told me they wouldn’t. This is Daniel’s fault. “Amie!”
“WHAT!” I screamed back at him. His faced clouded over. The first time I’d ever seen him become angry. Now it was his turn to shake his head.
I finally stood. And saw him. He was standing behind Daniel but still beside her, who was still on the floor, crying now. His fists were clenched, he was breathing heavily. I got the impression it was taking him a great amount of strength to not run across the room and choke me back. He just stared at me and I stared back.
Daniel, not knowing he was looking at me, began talking again. “Amie, what the hell is going on?!” I couldn’t take my eyes off him. He was so angry. He had usually looked at me with such care in his eyes. No one had ever looked at me that way he did.
You all know I blog and that I blog frequently but I used to write stories. I haven’t written a full story since I entered university 5 years ago.
I miss writing.
I was the kid in elementary and high school that was getting special permission from teachers to write more than the 3 page limit they set on our creative writing.
I was the kid who was writing stories about issue that were above her age.
I was the kid who’s writing style was above her age.
When I was in gr. 8 I wrote a 148 page story about a girl who was a witch. If that story had gone anywhere I probably would have been sued by J.K. Rowling, it was that close to Harry Potter I had the whole history of that world mapped out!
When I was in gr.9 my English teacher was a little hard on us. She let me go over the 3 page limit and she told my Mom and I during parent-teacher interviews that my story was the only one she actually enjoyed reading.
“From the Top to the Bottom, Bottom to Top I Stop” was the title. It was about a girl who was shunned at school so she began to self harm (I had been self harming for about a year at this point). The character had a crush and would later accidentally cut to deep because she was upset that he didn’t want to be with her. When she woke up in the hospital the boy she had a crush on was there. She stopped cutting and they lived happily ever after. That’s how I wanted my life to go.
At the end of the year this English teacher gave us all awards because she knew we complained that she was too hard on us. My award was for showing her how creative a gr. 9 could be.
I took a gr. 12 writer’s craft course where that teacher again praised my writing.
I used to consider going into journalism and in my 3rd year of university thought about switching to the journalism program because I was so unhappy in social work at the time.
I want to get back into writing. I seem always able to write down the first idea in my head and then nothing else comes to me. It’s fairly upsetting.
Writing was the place where I could make anything happen. I had no control over my own life so I could live out my fantasies, the good and the bad, in my stories. It was great that I could talk about suicide or murder in a story and not get in trouble because it was just a story. I could have fantastic adventures and get into fights and it wouldn’t matter because it was just a story. I think it was more of an outlet for me than I thought.
I have a story pulled up on my computer right now from a few months ago. I’m going to try to write more. We’ll see.
One of my amazing friends and fellow Madvocate has written about her hateful experiences while attending Canada’s top theatre school. No words I say can describe the stupidity of what Flossie experienced but she does it amazingly and will make you laugh while enraging you! Although these people ended her theatre career she will not let that stop her! She still acts in Canadian film, tv shows and commercials and is looking to change how theatre is taught to aspiring actors!
Read her part 1 of her story “Downtown Famous”