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---> disclaimer <---

the motley turtle journal. here there are words. sometimes art. sometimes it will be raw. showing up in poems. creative non-fiction. mature content may show up here too. trauma. depression. anxiety. abuse. molest. & curse words. it is not my intention to offend.

Things That Occur to Me Randomly While Sitting on the Back Porch Watching Squirrels

sometimes the moments
are few and far between
the moments when she feels
a little more at ease
moments when the truth
doesn't hurt quite so much
because she recognizes
it's just what she tells herself

her issues are strong
so they keep coming back
haunting her days
dominating her nights
but the moments of ease
peace and grace
give her the moments she needs
for deep, healing breaths

srh 9/2017
Recent posts

The Sarah Chronicles :: Sarah and Her Ritual

Some days Sarah skips around the edges of her depression and anxiety. Some days she manages to get on the treadmill and nourish her body. Some days she manages to touch the wisps of thoughts and swipe them aside. Some days she can throw some paint in a way that pleases her. Some days Sarah feels as though the weight is shifting. I just need to learn to love myself.
It’s not this way every day.
Sarah rolls off the couch where she’s been sleeping and hobbles into the kitchen to turn on the coffee pot. Her neck hurts and she’s got a headache. While the coffee brews she wanders to the bathroom to empty her bladder and brush her teeth. She considers doing her hair, but there’s no reason to make herself presentable, let alone pretty. She isn’t expecting any deliveries and she doesn’t plan to leave the house.
It’s the same thing every day.
She pours her cuppa, splashes it with cream and stirs in half a packet of Truvia. She knows this day will be no different than the rest as she remembers yeste…

Breathing :: a found poem

i was purging documents in the Pages App on my iPad and found this, written February 2015. i still find myself holding my breath, waiting for the exhale.



for most my life
it seems i held my breath
waiting to exhale
in fear of the next
relieved i can breathe
i expel moments past
inhale the present

breathing deeply at last

Most Days

most days i am fine or maybe i just pretend they say you must behave in order to believe i’m not sure that’s true for me i’ve pretended most my life i keep trying though maybe i’m not doing it right
most days i am fine some days i’m not shrouded in the darkness of near suicidal thoughts they say to reach out sometimes i do to the deafening silence of someone tip-toeing around
most days i am fine life is just a mess sometimes the mud and the muck are too much to bare there’s no justice to be had for the things that have been done to me some things are what they are eventually i will heal
most days i am fine some days i am not they say you have to love yourself that’s not what i learned other’s would decide if I had any worth so most my life i’ve waited for the others to show up
most days i am fine some days i am not learning who i am despite my broken heart acknowledging my path sharing stories untold writing crappy poetry

After The Panic Attack

Now that I'm breathing again and reading and making art and writing.....

um....
yes, writing. 
At the beginning of 2016 I destroyed all of my hand written journals. You read that right. I ripped every one of them to shreds. I had flipped through a few and decided that they just made me feel horrible. They were page after page after page of venting and complaining and whining. The same rubbish over and over and over. The same pain and disparity was scribed page after page; journal after journal. I decided that I needed to tell stories and resolved to stop regurgitating the same chewed up feelings that came out as mostly anger and frustration.
For a while I kept the shreds in a paper bag in my art loft. I would collage some of the shreds onto art journal pages. When I had to pack up for our move a year ago, I tossed it all into the recycling bin. Our new home didn't afford me a studio and I had to purge a lot. 
Eventually I deleted all of my digital journaling too.  Since then I have…

A Moment of Truth

I've been wallowing in the dark places lately. Once you're in it, it's hard to get out of it. You fight against the flow and try to swim against the current. It takes a while to realize that until you relax and let yourself float on the surface, to just go with the flow, you're not going to get out of it. You'll just drown.

     I was home alone yesterday when I had a panic attack. Pacing through the house like a caged animal who couldn't find it's way out. Looking out the window and knowing there was a whole world full of life and people beyond my view, but I had no where to go and was too afraid to leave. 
     I kept sitting down at my desk, then jumping up and pacing. Bawling my eyes out. The thoughts came so fast and furiously that I couldn't hear them. All I could hear were the shattering bangs as they hit the back of my mind.

     Then I felt her. She told me to stop.  "You're having a panic attack." She placed her hand on my …

Shoofly

she shoos away flies
from her freshly poured coffee
wondering how she got here
this place of self loathing

where all her thoughts are angry
resentful and dark
hating everything about her life
feeding her broken heart

she isn't suicidal
but she doesn't want to live
not like this anyway
broken to bits

she tries to pick up the pieces
one shard at a time
wishing and hoping
this isn't all she has

told she has the power
to change her life's plot
to rewrite the story
she so often tells herself

but the voices that crowd her head
won't go away
wondering how she got here
to this place of self hate

srh 2016