Not at all! Thank you very much! I can be extraordinarily shaky on my grammar at times. I really appreciate it.
Journal, Diary, & Blogging / Surrender of Sanity
I have not been able to admit that I am…
Disabled.
It is a blow to my pride. Today, I am unable to deny it. After an evaluation of my condition I am told that I have been “approved” for disability. I find it funny they call it an “approval” as if it were an endorsement. Like I was waiting on the edge of my seat for their acknowledgement. That without the tip of their hat in my direction I would not actually have this…this…insanity. However, that is neither here nor there…
The reality hits you when you get that letter, that insidious nauseating sheet of paper. It names the flaws in the collection of fodder that is your particular flavor of the human condition. It lists them in black and white, a blasphemy in Times New Roman. A condemnation and salvation, supplying me with the money I need to survive…spitting in my face the weakness I strive to hide.
Tears fall down my face. Three Doors Down blares on the radio in my truck paying homage to the gods of rock, old and new. I can’t seem to put it in drive. I want to scream, the kind that bares your teeth and is not a cry for help. The kind that incites, provokes, threatens the violence I feel inside. A scream that belies my desire to rend the flesh that has betrayed me, that lends credence to my supposed instability.
I let it go, it comes out a roar. Fists clenched and knuckles white, my recently clipped nails digging into my palms. My face turns a shade of red normally reserved for the sun faded paint of old rusted out trucks. The tendons and veins bulge through my neck as I slam my fists into the dash ignorant of the pain in the action. Bending my head to the steering wheel and bringing my hands up to my face I can still smell the residue of cigarette smoke on them, the sharp tang of nicotine. I snatch the envelope and letter, wadding them up. Throwing it into the floorboard, the wadded paper resists my attempt to give it a hateful speed and lightly hits the rubber mats. Throwing back a few pills the psych doc prescribed I ram the truck into drive, regretting my trip to the P.O. Box.
Audioslave begins to play on the radio, my sub-woofer kicking in ; “This ringing in my head; is this a cure or is this a disease...!”
I do not want their pity, nor do I want yours. Reserve your sympathy for those without the ability to resent it. I want to be normal again. I want to look into the mirror and see the man I could become not the man I was, not the man I am. To be able to sleep at night and not dread the dreams, the things unmentioned, I can only speculate as to what it would be like to be able to tell myself the truth and it not be a burden. I don’t want their damn money, I just need it.
This letter, I keep now in my file cabinet. It is my scarlet letter, a condemnation for all to behold. Even in the grocery store, the cashier knows…she sees it in my eyes. A mark of the beast posted on me in such a way that it cannot be washed off. Believe me, I have tried. No matter how hot the water or how hard you scrub.
Not only can I see it, they can see it too. My cesspool of a soul and mind is open for them to read clearly. I feel defeated. I somehow hoped they would say I was fine; that everything would be all right. They didn’t…instead they gave my monster a name. They call him Post Traumatic Stress Disorder. I call it a surrender of sanity.
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jadedpoet reviewed Version 2 -
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Jimmel104 reviewed Version 1 -
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First of all, lose about 2/3’s of the criteria. Most are pretty meaningless anyway.
Pretty well written and not a bad idea for an ending though I’m not sure that one would actually journal in that manner. I mean, who are you surprising?
To be honest, the emotions you were writing about did not come across as real. Now I obviously don’t know if you have PTSD but if you do, I rather think when you came face to face with that monster that your feelings were much stronger than you portrayed in this work.
I do have a sense of this because I was in Nam and have seen dozens of my friends racked by the ordeal, never to be able to return to any semblance of normality, whatever that is.
So, if this is who you are I think you can do a better job of capturing the agony of this condition. If you are not suffering from this, then pick another topic. You will never be able to do it justice.
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derekosborne reviewed Version 1 -
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”...to the gods of rock [,] old and new.”
”...man I could [have] become, not the man I was, not the man I am.”
“To be able to sleep ….....unmentioned [,] I can only …..”
“This letter, I keep now in my file cabinet.” Sentence OK, but declareative would be more powerful. ”Now I keep this letter in my file cabinet.”
”...cashier knows …she sees it in my eyes.” Get rid if the initial “it”
“No matter how hot the water or how hard you scrub.” “it lingers” is already implied and saying so waters down the sentences impact.
“Not only can I see, they can see too.” Again “it” is already implied
“My cesspool of a soul is open for all to read.” The shorter and more concise the more powerful. By now the reader is on you side. You can almost use shorthand. They will understand.
“I feel defeated[.] I hoped they would say I was [fine]; that everything [would]be all right.”
“I call it a surrender.”
Hope you don’t mind the edits.
tkarma reviewed Version 1 -
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I am touched by this writing for several reasons, not the least of which is my own encounter with, “a blasphemy in Times New Roman.” The writing is clear and very vivid. The imagery lingers-the teeth clenching smile, the wadded paper not gaining the speed desired, the music in the truck, the ambivalent feelings regarding the need for the almighty buck and the label one must endure to get it. The anger is palpable and this piece would speak to many, whether given a label or not. We are all disabled in some way, after all. It is a time of war, financial ruin, and misguided values that leaves no one unscathed.
I want to read more of your work. I need to. And that I think is the strength of the writing.
Peace
Tina
crimsonarchon reviewed Version 1 -
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Powerful. Thought provoking. Too short.
This is a huge idea. Mental illness is a giant beast, the proverbial big pink elephant honking a horn in the room. Nobody ever talks about it. Most people get uncomfortable even thinking about it. If you are brave enough to admit to it, to share it…REALLY share it. I want to know what the disorder stems from, what made you seek help, all the trials and tribulations and struggles you’ve had to endure because of it.
Take this snippet, now only a journal entry, for a starting point and expound upon it. Develop the character. It shouldn’t be too hard if the character is yourself. There are many out there, myself included, who are perhaps not in the same boat as you but definitely in the same fleet. They would want to hear the whole of your story.
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