They seem virtually interchangeable to me, although I recently learned that the latter is explicit AND gratuitous in terms of violence, sex, etc. My WIP is very complicated because it has various mature themes (villain is a serial killer, and there are themes with relation to abuse), and they get handled in a very straightforward manner (as I don't think it would do anyone justice to sugarcoat stuff--seems very dismissive to me), with the caveat that...while things are explicit, it is not for shock value nor is it gratuitous.
Everything serves a narrative purpose with the intent to resonate with my audience in some fashion to let them know they aren't alone and, hopefully, that there is hope for them.

the heart wants what it wants- does that mean it cannot still be wrong?/ the heart is not a perfect instrument/ I am not a perfect person/ You are not a perfect lover/ i am but a fawn left at your safe doorstep/ again and again and again./ do not open the door/ don't you dare try to pick me up/ or especially, do not carry me inside your home./ my mother would surely coming running for me/ but she wouldn't. she does not./ I dont always know that much to be true./ at times, I find myself still waiting for her./ its okay, I was meant for the world, not to be brought inside just because the doorstep is safe./ it's okay, enough time has passed that I have legs to stand on / I have taught Bambi to walk, how to wander, how to follow my heart./ I've followed my heart into places I can't understand why it would want to go there. but it was never misguided./ it's not about where it takes me but rather, why./ WHAT is here that I need so badly that my heart aches?/ It's not always an organ of love, it can also be an aching wound, pulsating and bleeding out- seeking pressure, seeking comfort, seeking to be tended to./ above all else, that's what it needs. /what I need to teach myself to do./ the heart may want what it wants, but it needs it what it needs a lot more

ISO of fellow SA survivors to weigh in on an intimate scene between my two MCs, who both suffered from that trauma. It's open door but tasteful as I felt like that does more of a service to the healing aspect and my audience, but I'm hoping I did it correctly. Relationships are foreign to me, despite my personal experience.
Honestly, finding the right people has been extremely difficult and I've often felt judged bc of how I decided to write this and many lack understanding about the nuances of this trauma, so I figured I'd best ask my own tribe about this....

Reasons To Leave

• He told me he was tired of my tears and if I kept it up, I had to leave.

• I’d rather be hit than to be silently stared at with tears streaming down my face.

• If they don’t acknowledge how their actions made you feel that’s their guilt talking.

• If they are more focused on how you reacted rather than how they treated you that’s manipulation.

• I don’t know how he can fall asleep so peacefully when I’m sobbing next to him.

• I pass lovers on the street - I hope she gets everything I don’t.

• I know I deserve better but I just want him to be better for me.

• He wants me to change but wants me to accept him for how he is and that his bare minimum trying is enough.

• People need to understand it hurts when the person your the person breaking up with them for the better and they don’t see you BAWLING after so much guilt because you loved them so much.

It's taken me a long time to find the right place to stake my tent because the novel series I'm working on, though a sci-fi crime thriller (both popular genres), is very, very niche, particularly in how it addresses abuse, PTSD, and related traumas. It's been the most difficult project I've ever had to work on thus far, and...because it hits so close to home, it's kinda been...salt on my CPTSD wounds. But, hopefully, someday it becomes more of a balm to the wounds of others.
It's just been hard to find people who write similar or who understand why I'm writing this and why I'm portraying things the way I do. I get it, it's not exactly a comfortable and fluff story - it makes ME uncomfortable, but I believe it needs to be written because there is little in the way of fiction that actually properly addresses a lot of the topics, based on what I've heard through research and others.
It's R, it doesn't hold back, but ultimately...it's to help people recover and feel like they're not alone. Sometimes (well, perhaps *often*), those of us with CPTSD feel like we're the odd ones out, that the outside world doesn't understand us...but we certainly matter as much as anyone else.
I'm so thankful to have found you guys! I don't feel so...ostracized now. :)
This WIP has been UNBELIEVABLY hard to write, and I hope to get back to it without feeling sick.... Or else I'll be tempted to quit it completely even though I want to finish it for our sakes. Breaks do nothing but prolong the sickness and emotional setbacks - I've tried. So, I hope I find a way around that.
Have you guys experienced anything similar? How do you work around it?

I am tired

Of finding more rest in 2 hours of dissociating awake on the couch

Than the 4-8 hours of fighting you, over and over and over again

This time, I am running from you

This time, I am hiding

This time, I am finally fucking fighting back

And even though there’s part of me that knows through everything that my body is lying in paralysis next to the one man who has never weaponized his fists or his uncaring against me

My heart rate is elevated

Exhaustion barrels over me

As every strike against you, every scream, every hit I take, every sob that wracks my body again and again takes more and more of me

I finally wake, gasping, drowning in a cold sweat

I pad to the bathroom, wash my face, name three things I see

Look into the mirror, see your eyes and your curls staring back at me

Your rage rises in my chest on behalf of that tiny girl who lacked the strength to fight back

Rage at my personal demons refusing to die

And I wonder for the millionth time

How angry I can be at you, who is now an old man in the process of losing your mind

and remain some semblance of civilized

I am Nothing

I am glass. 

I am wind.

A shadow

On a dark night.

Unseen.

Unheard.

Invisible.

I don’t matter.

Nothing is empty.

I am filled with nothing.

I am filled with emptiness.

For I am nothing.

Nothing for Nothing

I confuse myself.

What is a bung hole

Without a barrel

Who or what

Holds this Nothing

Nothing is safe.

No one hits air.

Shadows can’t be hurt.

Nothing is good. 

Nothing means no pain.

Still… Nothing hurts.

Does that mean something?

– Scared Squirrel

Squirrel

I pick up 

A piece of bread.

Dry and tasteless.

That tiny tip.  

End slice on an oval loaf.

Hold it tight.

Both hands tight.

Hypervigilant.

Feet together.

Shoulders hunched.

Elbows tight

By my sides

Don’t look up.

Just look down.

Be no threat.

Never challenge.

Nibble slowly.

Make it last.

Where are they.

All those others.

Those who watch.

Those who take.

A piece of bread

From a squirrel

Afraid to live

Afraid to die.

If there is

A god of squirrels

Please take from me

One of these:

Fear of life

Or fear of death.

It does not matter 

Which you take.

I pick up 

A piece of bread.

Dry and tasteless.

-- Scared Squirrel

CSA victim

Hi everyone,

I’m working on a story featuring a female character whose actions and personality are deeply influenced by unresolved trauma, and I’d love your insights to make her portrayal authentic.

Here are some key aspects of her behavior:

• She struggles to set boundaries and often puts others' needs above her own.
• She flirts with nearly everyone, often to mask her own vulnerability.
• She’s outwardly happy, exuberant, and the life of the party, but it feels performative.
• Her personality shifts around different people—she’s almost a different person in each context.
• Her friends don’t really blend into a cohesive group, keeping her relationships compartmentalized.
• She engages in self-destructive behaviors, though not always overtly.

I’m trying to understand the motivations behind these behaviors and how they might connect to a history of CPTSD. If anyone has insights, suggestions, or personal experiences they’re willing to share, I’d be incredibly grateful.

Also, if this post isn’t appropriate for this group or could be worded more respectfully, please let me know—I want to approach this topic with care.

Thank you!

(A poem about trying to have dinner with a psychopath father, who had insane rules that changed at his whim with no warning, and the shortest fuse imaginable, nothing graphic) 

Dinner with Dad

By: CNW

I didn't let it clatter 

Barely made a sound

Never let tines scrape the plate

Your wrath knew no bounds 

Watched you, carefully and counted

  How many times I picked it up

Don't even get me started about

what you did,

 for excessive lifting

of a cup.

Making it through a meal with you,

 much like disarming a bomb,

Severed all my joy and chatter

Replaced it with an anxious, eerie calm.

Praying not to trip the wrong wire

Or ignite your shortest fuse

Breath and feeling only returned 

If I made it through,

And avoided the chaos and pain, 

By not becoming a casualty,

Of dinner with you.

All the words are gone, They were taken away

All the strength is used up, It was used in the fight

All the hope is lost, It got scared and ran away

All I have left, Is what's left of myself

I take a breath and delve deeper in

and I feel something reaching out to me

My breath grows deeper and stretches out my chest

The world flashes, trying take me away from myself

The feeling calls me back

But my breath begins to fail

The world sweeps me away

until I remember again

The lamb's white fleece.

There was this little lamb. This cute, adorable little lamb with fleece so pretty. So pretty, but the lamb was considered futile. So futile, because it was ugly. When it was born, it was born with a certain condition. At first, when the birth was certain, it was for certain planned to become the new part, member of the farmer family's herd. The one herd, because each family of the village had exactly one. But that lamb see, it was born uncommon. Different.

The farmer did know what that condition was, indeed. It was the root of the devil, nature's and God's flaw, the farmer, the husband, the father thought. And the farmer's wife, she said – when she saw and found out she said- put it right back.

That little lamb was called Sin. Sin, for being born. Sin, a gender neutral name. As that version of the name, what nobody of the farmer family saw, was that the little lamb was indeed of good nature, good and pure. It loved poppies, lavender and lilies. It's favourite colour was the rust of the rusty faucet at the back of the shed, where it drank crisp water from when it was a bit too warm in that summer it was still so young within.

But oh, what to do, what to do – the wife complained.

What kind of meat does it produce?

The farmer scratched his chin, looking over at Sin, as it laid in the grass and chewed that fresh grass. Innocent, innocent, yet not a lamb they needed – yes indeed, what if the meet was foul, unclean – not to be sold? But yet yes, by the law, that lamb had to be treated with the bare minimum of decency, until it became old enough for either wool usage – or slaughter. But slaughter wouldn't be possible – what a waste of resources! For some rotten meat.

But, wouldn't you know it, that lamb had the prettiest fleece of the whole herd – maybe even the whole neighbourhood, if treated right.

And that was – right. The fleece was shorn and sold, and the customer to buy it so bold, from the lamb's uncertain root – loved it. Market place was well. And so, the lamb was renamed Fleece.

The farmer, after dinner, at eve, glanced over to his beautiful wife. He remembered biology class in school – apparently there was a cause of female beauty, in the gist. And so, after tying some loose ties, he got himself some medicine. But oh, just one week after the medication mixed into the lamb's milk food, Fleece became weak and brittle, so little and so – useless!

It needs to be put back into balance – the wife complained.

The farmer scratched his chin and cut loose ties to tie new shoe laces, and injected the lamb some more medicine– to balance it back out. But oh, just one week after the injections, the prettiest of wool started to fall out, as the lamb became old and ugly. Both of those things – resulted in failure!

In the end the little lamb now named Sin again became sick, and tired – too useless for either slaughter or wool! And so, by the law's order – it was fed and given water, but aside from that – ignored by the farmer. The other little lamb friends came on over to Sin one day, as it laid with its head low, as those friends had witnessed it all, but did not know how to help at all. Bereaved, they were. Say, one little lamb said, what is unborn? Sin stayed silent. The little lamb continued: My mother said, you would have been happier. Well, you see, fleece said: There's no need. I'd crawl right back.

-Fin.

Often humans struggling with past or recurrent trauma are hard to pick out. You can’t possibly be the only one with a story can you? The truth is that most humans will experience trauma at some point in our lives. Many aspects play into the likelihood but my point is that just because you can’t see it, unless some one tattooed it on their forehead (you do you boo), that doesn’t mean its not there. Trauma is an invisible wound that if left untreated will fester and infect every part of a person. Generally that is when you see it. The Veteran screaming on the sidewalk on 7th Street still wearing his hospital band. You can say it’s not real but I promise I have seen that infection grow in people until there is nothing left that is recognizable. I have seen untreated trauma take lives and cause pain. I have seen untreated trauma in children that are labeled the “difficult student”. I have seen it in bullies and the young lady that never showered or spoke. I have seen untreated trauma in the mean girls and I have seen it in young men who grow up without fathers. I have seen untreated trauma ruin relationships and break hearts. I have seen it end in addiction, abuse and death. My ramble here is simply to show that it does not discriminate nor does it care who you are or who you are meant to be. The movie Crash highlights how no one is safe from trauma. There is no vaccine, helmet or harness that can save you from it. If trauma has come for you already or you happen stumble into it someday, you are not alone.

You are not alone and there is a way through this. It’s going to take some blood sweat and a whole lot of tears but nothing worth having is easy.

There are people who love you even if you don’t feel worthy or good enough for them. They still see you. Let them see you. You are not hopeless and there is still so much more waiting.

Something out of my writings. I am trying to put something together. I dont know what or the form it will take yet but I would appreciate some feed back on the style or feeling invoked.

I.

I developed this crush recently, 

It slowly filled up like adding water to flour 

And seeing what happens. 

I heard his shoes tap rhythmically, 

Felt the vibrations across the floor, 

Trusted his hands turning, spinning, holding, directing me 

As I let him lead, 

Fiddle playing wildly, pressingly, singing about a life out in the country with kids and chickens and green hills and community. 

I dance with a lot of people and my heart opens for them but he 

Was really good 

Does he dance like he lives? 

Is he sure, practiced, passionate, desperately enjoying each playful moment? 

If he was shorter, would he make a good follow, letting me lead when I choose? 

Taping shoes clip clopping like someone so sure and practiced, 

I resent his tallness. I can’t test my theory. 

II.

Sinking down in the heat again, sliding along towards the floor, I rest, staring ahead. 

He's young. I’m wrong. My dreams deceive me. 

Printing fables of potentialities for this young man’s journey forward 

I know because I 

Took him out after dancing one night 

To this late night Persian cafe 

And he told me about his partner, who is lives with, and how they were together since college, and they moved here together. He might be lost he might be fine I can’t really tell. I can;t tell a lot of things but my heart is pounding outside of my chest and I have all the courage to just tell him I’m seeing things, bright big things with him. But I just state the minimum, which is still big. “I really like dancing with you.” “I’m so interested in all your stories.”

He asks if he can join me for my walk in the cemetery the day he says they broke up and he’s not doing well. But the train ride is long across the city in the space between us so he ends up not trying. He’s been listening, hasn’t he? Is he feeling it, too? But again, too soon. I must retreat, I must back off. 

He doesn’t know what hit him. I believe he can’t comprehend the immensity of this break up now. And he’s younger than me. I have no evidence he’s as emotionally literate as I’d hoped. Am I? 

III.

The IRS employee woman on the TV show cries out to the wise, gentle woman she is auditing, “Is THAT what I am attracted to?!” Its her husband who treated her horribly in all the ways and won’t acknowledge any of it, and just keeps berating her. 

We all want to know when we are raised by parents who never loved each other and should not have brought a kid into the world under such a terrible canopy whether we are destined to just repeat the cycle of abuse til death. 

We all want to break out of it and we all want to believe as we heal and break ourselves and assert ourselves and shut ourselves out or in that we’re making progress and seeing what we really deserve (love). 

But what is the world we never get to know? The world of children born into a canopy of fertile love and attention and availability. The world of growing from infant to teenager to adult and being passed from family relationships to platonic relationships to romantic relationships that reflect back to them what they were born into and assume they are entitled to. What is the insular world we never get to touch, where the only abuse is that weird moment for that person where they realize they’re dating an inept person so they break up with some pain but move on to more appropriate, loving horizons. What is it like in that safe passage of the chest where a heart can throb and thrum unbothered, unafraid of attacks from the very people that person relies and relaxes on. 

Help me find this. 

IV.

Our boy is probably just a boy in a man suit. I’m a woman who feels like a girl, a child, all the time. When I dance in community settings I find safe, predictable, skilled touch. I practice leading and following. I am comfortable in both roles, and the best dance partners are the same way. 

Do we dance like we live? Can I dance until I find the passage way to the safe loving connection? To the hearts speaking front their open, relaxed, safe spaces in tandem and beating together in gratitude and harmony? I want to dance with you. I want to love with you. I want to live. I wish I knew how to get there.

V.

I’m giving up on him, it’s over. I feel the sharpest pain even when I keep my distance in these situations. He might never even know. Or maybe it’s not over, maybe I’ll be too curious. Or maybe we’ll be friends. Or maybe I’ll just get hurt even more.

But the question still stands. How do I get there?

VI.

Mom and Dad were 38 when they had me. Yeah they might have hated each other but they had a kid. Here I am. Am I still standing behind them as they make a path against the current? He’s dead, and I don’t talk to her and I feel builty about it but she’s a parasite. But they did it. And now, am I following, am I still wishing? Should I have emphasized my mothering, co-parenting, homemaking dreams far more years ago? I tried but I got smashed by that dreadful breakup. That was so long ago and I’m still here. And every time I think about every child born into this world without loving parents I feel so glad I have chosen not to have a child. But 

I don’t know. What if 

What if all I really want is to find a perfect spouse and make a baby and pour my soul into that? Its probably too late, right? 

I can barely handle daily hygiene. I can barely stay housed. I haven’t been able to hold a job. My healing, my attempt at improving my functioning in this hell society, is my full-time job and I’m dedicated. But I’m drowning. I need more joy. But what if

What if 

Well there’s no magical person waiting for me. I guess I gotta keep fishing around inside for what love really feels like, and then I’ll recognize it when it shows itself to me from another person. Dancing feels like love, just for a moment. Everything feels like love when i’m just so desperate, just so starved and deprived. The tiniest drop in the chest and the eye from my dance partners brings out the best in me. I know they see it - I’m charming, I’m wildly playful, I’m going all the way in every move i make and I’m a thrilling dance partner. I love them for it, I love us for it. But then, dancing isn’t everything. 

VII.

You see me, from above, staring up from the dance floor. I’m alone standing, a little wobbly, and I’m praying in your general direction. I’m begging you. All I have to offer you is the greatest yearning of my heart, like mercury fluid flowing straight out of my chest steadily outwards, awaiting receptivity I can’t even picture. I’ve never known it. I’m crying out. Hold me, please.

You're pretending like you're an authority but you're not, you're a politician. Politicians don't necessarily run for office (wink). I see you in the AMA I see you in APA in the DSM and more personally the meetings of the PTA.

Forever Young

You’re too young Too young to play in the rain, To scrape your knees and chase the stars, Too young to love beneath the summer moon, To feel the rush of a reckless dare, Too young to dream of distant lands, Or pack your bags and fly away.

You see, you’re too young— Everyone’s grown up Except you, Because you’re too young.

Don’t worry, you’re taken care of, You can stay young as long as you live. Why bother with what everyone else thinks? You’re too young to care, Too young to decide What music makes your soul dance, What path feels like home. Too young to forge a way, To make a mistake, Too young to take the lead On adventures you never knew how to start.

Too young to participate In the clamor of life— Missed bonfires on the beach, The thrill of a first kiss, The quiet freedom of wandering the streets at midnight, Alone, but whole.

It’s okay, you’re young. There’s no way to escape. You’ll always be too young.

But there’s one thing you’re mature enough for— You hear the waves, Calling from the shore, The water is deep, dark, Its whispers cold as they rise from below, And you step in, The pull is strong, the tide unrelenting.

You sink deeper, Letting the current wrap you In its arms, heavy as night, Until the world fades into silence.

The stars above flicker— But the void, black and bottomless, It beckons you, A soft, endless nothing That swallows everything in its path.

You were always too young to decide, But now the choice has been made. The void never looks down on you, It welcomes you— Like a parent who’s finally approved of you.

my voice is a whisper lost in the wind,

trapped by shadows that dance on the walls of my mind.

i'll gaze into your soul through my fractured lens,

no longer a story with words to weave the depths of my pain.

i am now just an empty page,

silent and vacant.

this is me disassociating

(my second poem! most days i'm fighting the inner critic in me that tells me i'll never be good enough to become a writer)

Is the fleeting nature of life not what makes it precious? It seems anything ever lasting or long lasting is exhaustive of the human spirit What a peculiar perspective As my hand glides through the cats fur I see in my mind's eye my feline companion withering to physical non existence and my hand a rotted glob I suppose the eventual end and decay of this form of ourselves is inspiration and motivation to be present and enjoy what you is there in front of you in this cycle of life There will never be my hand again, there will never be this furred companion in exactly this form. Every detail unique if your eye is keen enough. Complacency and lack of gratitude for ones life situation is all too easy to malaise into I am constantly torn between resentment for being part of this life and deep gratitude that I may experience the details the universe has manifested to view it's self in. Mainly in the beauty of nature and the creatures belonging there of- and of course the "domesticated" ones that are stuck in this as much as I am.

This is the work of my friend who suffers from CPTSD, I believe it is profound and capable of healing others.

complex ptsd

i  carry with me third degree burns that you’ll never be able to visibly see

it explains why I’m suffering from the highest degree,

of shame, self-hatred, and feeling unworthy 

the intensity of my emotions often paralyzes me,

so,

i’m sorry if i...

shut the doors,

close the curtains,

disassociate,

and numb the pain

i just need to self-isolate,

from places, people, and situations that make me feel even the slightest bit unsafe

it was because i was never taught that i’ll still be loved and okay,

even after the turbulent storm rides out its waves

“i’m okay, i’m okay”

i welp out in such frantic dismay:

“what the fuck is wrong with me?”

i now reply,

“nothing, you just have complex ptsd”

please let yourself be,

just a human being with this profound ability to feel and see

"brain dump"

No Mom you're wrong! That story was probably not a story about a kid who would likely develop CPTSD. You think he went through a lot of trauma but see a lot of trauma doesn't necessarily equate to CPTSD. Many case studies of CPTSD have in common a lack of a supportive adult who isn't in denial about what's going on. Guess what? That biography was largely about a relationship with such an adult and that relationship was portrayed as the reason why he was able to succeed. Is it sinking in yet? By the way the trauma JD Vance suffered was not any more intense than what many many other children go thru and still lead "successful" lives. Kudos that you can respect someone whose politics you disagree with, good job!

How do you mourn the loss of something that you never had? How do you go through the motions of grief when the relationship you experienced wasn't worth missing?

I suppose I'm mourning the idea of something that can never be. I'm mourning the normalcy that I never got to experience.

On your death bed did you think back to all of the times you screamed at me, beat me, shook me, threatened me? Did you feel any remorse or any regret? Or were you still fully convinced that your behavior was justified?

Did you even know you would die? Did it happen suddenly? Did you take your own life? Maybe I'll never know, because nothing could ever temp me to talk to the rest of the monsters that helped you torture me when I was just a child.

The last thing I remember talking to you about was your fervent defense of the rise of fascism, and your unwillingness to confront your own biases. You hung up on me when I tried to tell you that I still loved you, even though we disagree.

Was your downfall related to a break? Did you finally see your idols for what they really were? Did you feel remorse and regret for living your life in a way that spread fear, hatred, and discord? Or did you choose to die rather than face reality?

And where does that leave me?

I cry sometimes, not knowing why. I think about what a waste your life was, how things could have been different, all of the various paths you could have chosen, but this is the one you went down, this is the one you let define you.

Did you feel sorry for yourself? Were you still so deluded and stubborn that in the end you couldn't see that you brought this on yourself? I wasn't there because you chose violent and hateful ideology over your own child. I was actually stupid enough, desperate enough for your affection, that I was willing to try. Again and again and again, until finally I just couldn't keep going anymore.

So, thank you for that. Thank you for helping me come to the stark realization that there was never anything there, and there never would be, and for all of my efforts you would never be a decent person, or a proper parent.

Thank you for triggering me so violently that I started to remember all of the horrible things you and the rest of the family did to me, so that I could find the strength to move on and leave you all in the past.

Thank you for always being an example of what not to become, for showing me examples of what not to do. I learned more from doing the opposite of what you would have preferred for me, than I ever did listening to you.

I find solace in the idea that you're no longer there to enable and protect her anymore. I find some comfort in the idea that she'll have to be all alone, in that empty house, living with the ghosts of her poor decisions and mistakes in life.

What good are her diamonds, guns, cars, and fancy trinkets when there's no one there to show them off to? When she's left alone will she realize she's only ever been in competition with herself?

The two of you spent my entire lifetime stockpiling these items, thinking that they meant something, that they made you something, all while complaining about how you didn't have the money to take me to the doctor, to get me school clothes, to send me to university. Did your material possessions bring you comfort in your final hours? Did you tell your toys how much you loved them? Were you happy they were there instead of me?

You were a coward, that's the truth of it. You ran away from all of your problems like a child, then acted surprised when everything fell apart. And now you're dead and I'm still here having to pick up the pieces.

You were never my father; you were just the first man I learned to fear. You were never my protector, just the person who thought he owned me. You never really loved me, because you never actually saw me for who I was.

I am a small patch of mold living in a pile of straw beneath summer’s warm beam, a child born this past spring.  In innocence and bliss, I slowly grew and dreamed - unaware that my birth was an unwelcome pestilence.

They, the ones who harvested the straw and left it beneath the sun’s gaze, intend to burn me alive within my cozy cradle, to feed me to their blind and deaf flame.… I want to live, I must live. I need to grow and adapt. I need to show them that I am a good and lovely mold. 

I weave between my spotted layers of hay a coarse rope and pull together a form I can move. I fashion it after my would-be destroyers in the hopes that they can accept me as one of them. That they won’t kill me and will let me live. Perhaps they will even love me and treat me with care.

It is hard and strange to move - as I waddle out of the barn to them, they look at me odd and suspicious, describing me as a ‘strange straw creature.’ It is better to be that, I suppose, than what I actually am. 

They let me live - though they keep their lanterns lit inside of the house.

Time flows by like manure. They tell me to work on the farm and do various tasks, to help with the autumn harvest. They walk so easily and quickly - yet it is painful to maneuver the hundreds of tightly bound straw strands to move even a single step after them. They demand so much of me, wish me to always be doing something. 

I miss when I was just on the ground resting, living, and growing. Every moment I can when I am not asked to do something, I collapse to the floor and dream of long warm days in the moist barn… I can’t keep up with what they want from me, not for long…. I am so tired. They raise their voices at me - its loud. I swear I can do better, I promise that I am good.

Winter comes. And their fires burn ever brighter. 

My straw grows weaker as it blackens and decays… I struggle to keep myself together and to carry what they wish me to carry. I go to lift a basket and my arms fray off. I keep trying to weave myself back together with more and more ropes and knots til I don’t even look like a straw person anymore, just a black stained mass of knotted rope with putrid smells and mucus leaking from its very core…

People get sick of me. I make them sick and cough and gag. I contaminate the lands and all that which I touch, unable to stop from coating the world with my spores and scum… I am lazy and do less work. I lounge around whenever I am not watched, for I am exhausted.... I try harder to tie myself tighter together using potato sack cloth but inevitably my mold slime leaks through its fabric. I fall apart more and more and become less and less useful.

I can smell the smoke and feel the feverish heat of their hate. ‘Please, just accept me as mold. I will live on in peace in the barn- I promise to be a good mold” I would try and say to them through my blackened maw - yet all that leaks out is more of my toxic sludge as they observe me in disgust and horror. I know - I know most painfully that am sickness. That I am an inescapably filthy and awful thing. I can’t stop being this way, I just can’t help it.. I know most intimately that I am fundamentally unlovable.

“You created me - I exist because of you. I wanted to be like you” I wish to say to them, but my guts gasp out of me and my word are drowned out by my own filth. I know any day now they will kill me even as I desperately push myself to do more and more - causing more harm as I do so - for I am mold. I am poison to all around me and to what I touch. I am destroyer of worlds and consumer of all. I cannot help it nor hope to be anything else for long… I can attempt to be a person. I can even try to be good - but in the end, my true nature is inevitable and I fall apart.

I can’t stop being mold. For I am mold. I am me.

And there is no escaping that.

What was your biggest writing block and how did you overcome it? Mine is definitely an inner critic that tells me that it would be better not to try at all or that I'm not ‘brilliant enough’.