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Dark Tales

Posted on by rollinnoel

Something was off. Ever since Sam got home from the mental hospital, she noticed that her parents were

acting strangely. She knew they were shocked at her serious attempt at suicide (overdose by mixing pills, 

vodka, and cutting her wrists in a bathtub) and so she expected them to frequently check on her for safety 

reasons. But, she also noticed some small differences in the way they did things, which was out of the 

ordinary. For example, her mother always made Green Chicken Enchiladas using an old recipe she got 

from grandma. It was a rich dish, with sour cream, green chilis, Monterey Jack cheese, coriander spice 

and corn tortillas, among other ingredients. Usually, one serving would fill Sam up and she would be 

satisfied for a long time. However, last night, her mother served Green Chicken Enchiladas and Sam was 

struck by how different they tasted. They were not as flavorful and much lighter in the stomach. Sam 

asked her mother if she had done something different, and her mother acted like she had slapped her. “Oh!

Well, I found a variation of the recipe in Better Homes and Gardens with less fat so I thought it would be 

healthier and it still tastes just as good, doesn’t it?” When Sam asked about what was different in the 

recipe, her mother seemed to struggle to answer her questions. 

Suspicion grew in Sam’s mind. Mom and Dad still looked the same. Both in their sixies, a few pounds 

overweight but nothing extreme. They were still physically active and kept up their garden, walked their 

dogs, attended functions with friends, and went for walks in the evening after dinner. Why were they so 

health-conscious now? Odd. Then, Sam noticed a change in her mother’s appearance. Her mother was 

usually conservatively dressed, wearing long sleeves and pants, comfortable walking shoes, very little 

makeup, and had her hair styled in a typical short bubble hair style that many older women had. She dyed 

her hair blonde to hide the gray and had for years. Last Friday, when her mother and father went to meet 

friends for drinks for their “Beer Drinking Group” on Fridays, her mother had been wearing a tropical 

print dress with sandals! “My mother would never wear that,” Sam thought. What is going on? She asked 

her mother about her outfit and she stated the dress had been given to her by a friend and she liked it. 

Besides, it was just Friday night “Beer Drinking Group” she was attending, so who cares? Her mother 

said she was ready to “let loose” after all these years. That was her explanation. Um, OK, That didn’t 

make sense. Sam was not ready for her mother to change her hair and makeup style, but she did that next. 

During her mother’s next hair appointment, a new stylist had suggested a different cut and color, and had 

also redone her makeup to refresh her look. When Sam saw her at home, she was shocked. “This person 

doesn’t even look like my mother anymore,” she thought. The Pixie haircut, the Navy blue eyeliner, gray 

eye shadow, the dark lipstick-none of it was something her mother would wear. Certainly not in public. 

Maybe at Halloween. When Sam approached her father about the changes in her mother, her father 

rebuffed her. “What’s wrong with your mother having some fun after all these years? She’s just doing 

things she never got to do when she was a young girl. You know how your grandma was.” Sam thought 

that her grandma was a strict Holy Roller Baptist, but she didn’t see anything wrong with that. Her 

grandma had raised her Mom to be a good one, always home when she got home from school, keeping 

the house clean, cooking great meals, and taking good care of Sam. Her grandma was just not educated on

mental illness. When Sam made her first suicide attempt at age 9 because of the voices, her grandma said 

she was “possessed” and “needed to accept Jesus in her heart” and then everything would be fine. She 

rejected that Sam actually needed psychoactive medications and encouraged Sam not to take them but 

instead to pray and read the Bible daily for hours. Sam kind of liked this, finding it soothing and she hated

the side effects of the Risperdal she was supposed to take. It made her groggy, her mouth dry and her 

mood blah. When she wasn’t on medication, she felt so much more alive, like herself again, not numb. 

She could feel everything! She hated feeling numb. Grandma had died of an aneurysm while Sam was in 

the hospital this past time, and so she could not go to the funeral. Her mother took pictures of the service 

and of family who attended, but this also made Sam suspicious. Who takes pictures of a funeral? Why 

couldn’t I have left the hospital for a couple of hours to attend the funeral? It was local. Her parents would

have taken her and brought her back. WTF was that about? Did her grandma even die? 

The last straw was when her mother started talking about redecorating the house or even selling it and 

moving to a new one! Sam found her family home comforting and a place she could always return to, 

after having her “episodes” which were coming on more frequently as she aged. Sam made a last-ditch 

effort to talk to her mother about this and all the other changes, but her mother just reassured her she 

would always take of Sam, no matter where they lived or what her mother wore or how she looked. The 

family home didn’t matter to her mother. Her father was on board with this plan too, so Sam knew she had

to do something drastic. She was no longer certain that her parents were really her parents. They both 

seemed so different after her last admission to the hospital. What happened? Who were they really? She 

had to find out.

Aging Feminist Crap To Deal With

Posted on by rollinnoel

Recently, I joined a book club after hearing positive things about it from my hairdresser. She was enthusiastic and stated she attended once weekly as time away from family and to build up her female friendships. I thought that was a great idea and since I work full-time, work independently and live alone, I too would like to build up my social life and besides, who wouldn’t like more friends? So, I went to the bookstore she recommended and bought a book so I could join the club.

The vibe of the bookstore (which is also a bar) was hip, low-key, and cozy. Lighting was poor but I wasn’t concerned about that since I would be reading mostly at home or on an iPad. There was a bartender making drinks at a wood-paneled bar and a relaxed atmosphere. There was a fire burning in the fireplace and stuffed leather chairs along with tables and benches for seating. I saw one older couple my age sitting awkwardly at a bench side by side, watching everyone, which made me feel self-conscious. Most younger folks were reading or talking quietly at tables. They did not have a huge selection of books but I found one that intrigued me plus the book club choice. I made my way to the register where a mother and daughter were checking out, which made me feel somewhat like I may belong here (although I have no daughter). My doubts came up when I went to buy my book. I asked about the book club and the impossibly young ladies there, who appeared to be about 14 years old, with various facial piercings, lash extensions, acrylic nails, facial gems, and tattoos, appeared perplexed. I asked about the club and they seemed almost reluctant to give me information about it. They provided me with the needed information and I checked out. I was added to their weekly newsletter as well. They were polite but guarded.

This week, I received a newsletter from the bookstore. They now have an “over 50s happy hour” between 5 and 7pm for us oldsters to have drinks and talk weekly. Then, the same night, from 7pm on, it’s a time for ladies aged 25 to 45 years old to talk, play games, drink and meet others, both men and women as a Valentine’s Day event.

I was taken aback by the separation of the age groups. What did that mean? I do not get off work until 6:30pm so am I too old to go the younger women’s special night to talk to people? I can go from 6:45pm to 7pm and then leave? I know that sounds silly, but I was genuinely confused about the newsletter. I appreciated that they wished to create a space for older women since making friends past age 35 can be difficult. However, I just wasn’t sure why we had to be separated from younger women, like we would be boring or have nothing to talk about of any importance to anyone. It’s true, I have no tattoos, only one piercing in each ear and have short nails. I don’t dress in a modern fashion because I opt for comfort. I wear flat shoes and boring tops and stretchy pants but does that mean I’m invisible or only welcome for two hours once a week? Odd, since older women usually have more disposable income and can buy more stuff! I would want older people with money and high credit card limits in my store. Maybe this is more of a bar atmosphere than I initially though it was. It leaves me doubtful and a bit anxious about attending an actual book club meeting. And leaving me to think I need to create an Old Crone bookstore for us oldsters who want to be comfortable, drink, talk and not be judged by appearance (or less judged). We can come as you are, not dipped in bleach, but cranky and stinky from work so we old ladies can commiserate about being invisible and alone and missing the old Women’s Lib days. I need to set up a payment link I guess, to get it going.

My Barbie Moment

Posted on by rollinnoel

Everyone knows about the “Barbie” movie and how it highlights a patriarchal society where men are often praised for simply being white men (especially if they are physically attractive.) while women have to work their asses off to get any kind of recognition, especially if they are women of color. Even with the Oscar nominations, Ryan Gosling was nominated for his part as Ken while Margot Robbie and Greta Gerwig were ignored by the academy voters, giving us a real-life example of one of the themes of the movie. While Ryan undoubtedly deserves his nomination, so do the other actors and the director of the movie.

This kind of stuff happens all the time in daily life. I work at a mental health clinic as a psychologist. At my work, we had a staff meeting where a supervisor was asked how many people we served in our clinic. What was funny is that the lead psychiatrist had no idea. She guessed about 500. I was infuriated because I had learned in my review that I had seen 2000 patients in the past year alone. A couple of people were surprised I had seen that many people but most said nothing. Then another supervisor made a half-hearted attempt at praising therapists for being so “strong” to make us feel better about being worked to death. A young male white therapist said he too had seen 2000 patients the past year and everybody began to sing his praises in the meeting. How wonderful he was, what a great job he did, what a great group he did, etc. I didn’t say anything because well, what could I say? What could I say that would not make me look like an asshole? While again, my male colleague does deserve praise and support for his work, so do I.

Dark Tales continued …

Posted on by rollinnoel

Sam laid on her bed, and pulled a weighted blanket over her to calm her nerves. Her memories came back with a vengeance. She was sitting in the psychiatrist’s office with her parents. The office was a typical mental health office, devoid of any opinions or flare: gray couches and chairs, beige rug and landscape paintings on the wall. The psychiatrist sat with his fingers interlaced on his desk, leaning forward in order to show interest. Sam’s parents were seated on the pleather gray couch across from the doctor, with her mother appearing to shake with fright while her father’s anger could not be disguised due to his red face and ears. 

“Sam, you were off your medications for two weeks, and what happened?” asked Dr. Fido. 

Sam quietly responded “they said I tried to hurt my next door neighbor.” 

“Why?’ he asked 

“Because they said that I thought she was watching me and planning to do something to me,” Sam said. 

Dr. Fido asked “Why would she want to hurt you? Or even watch you?” 

“I don’t know why she would hurt or watch me, but she always seems to looking at me when I look out of the window,” Sam replied. 

Dr. Fido looked meaningfully at Sam’s parents across from him.  

Sam’s father could not restrain himself any longer. “Cut the bullshit! You put a rattlesnake in her house to try to kill her. Why are we beating a dead horse here? Let’s just get to the point.” 

Sam’s own anger began to surface. “She was always around, everywhere I went. I didn’t put a snake in her house, either. You yourself said she needs to cut down all that tall grass around her house. The snake just got in. She’s always leaving her doors and windows open. It wasn’t me.”

“What were you doing in her house? You hate her,” her father asked. 

“I thought I heard her crying for help. I was actually trying to help her.” 

Sam’s father said “Next time, pick a house to break into that doesn’t have cameras and ADT security. Her doors and windows were shut. The camera shows you opening her back door and going in with a sack. I’m so tired of this shit. You really need to cut it out Sam.” 

Her mother chimed in “She began to call for help when she saw the snake, Sam! You know that.”

Sam fidgeted in her chair. Why do they ask her questions they think they already know the answers to? Why make her sweat? 

Her mother began to tear up and asked “Are you a sociopath? Did we raise a serial killer? What’s wrong with you? What did we do wrong?” 

Dr. Fido pushed his tissue box over to Ms. Sam who took the tissues to blot her face. Black mascara came off on the tissue but her mother didn’t seem to notice. 

Sam thought “Wow, she’s really a good actor.” 

The psychiatrist didn’t a family feud in his office to break out so he interjected. 

“Sam, the reason we are going over this today is that I think you are ready to discharge from the hospital. But, you must stay on your medications. Please take them, and if you are having side effects, please contact me and we can change something. But don’t just stop them, Ok?” 

Sam was looking at her lap. Dr. Fido said “Sam, this is serious. If you stop taking the meds, those intrusive thoughts about your neighbor will come back. You might actually hurt someone. You really don’t want to do that, do you?” 

Sam thought for a minute. She knew the correct answer. “No, I don’t want to hurt anyone.” 

Mr. Sam then stated “Don’t you worry about her not taking her meds. I’ll be giving them to her myself every day, twice a day if necessary. I know when she’s cheeking so I’ll look in her mouth and make sure she’s taking them.” 

Sam’s stomach dropped. Shit. Her father was an asshole who still thought he was in the Army and she was one of his soldiers. Why can’t I just be your daughter, that is, if you are truly my father? 

Sam was good at cheeking her meds. She was wondering how she could do it if her father really looked in her mouth each time, or was he just grandstanding for the doctor? She usually could save her pills in her mouth between her cheek and gumline and then spit them out when no one was watching. How would she be able to avoid that poison the doctor prescribed? 

Sam’s parents watched her for a reaction. They didn’t trust her. They knew they couldn’t after what she had done and also written in her online journal. 

Everybody was dancing except Steve. He had gone to the club after work with his friends but felt left out. His day had wiped him out emotionally and mentally. He just wanted to numb out. He watched the others dancing and thought “how do they have so much energy?” 

He sipped his beer and scanned the room. He noticed two young women sitting at a table nearby. One woman was animated in her conversation, laughing loudly, and appeared to be having the time of her life. The other appeared wary, was looking around the room, and their eyes met briefly before she looked down. He kept watching her and she looked back at him again, this time flustered and again, looked down and then to her cheerful friend, as though noticing her for the first time. Steve wondered what their relationship was, as they looked so different from each other: one woman was dressed in a tight T-shirt, jeans, and a blingy belt with dramatic makeup and the other looked as though she had just gotten out of bed. Her hair was tousled, looked dirty, and she was wearing a sweatsuit and tennis shoes, with no makeup he could discern. He found himself getting curious about this pair of women and so began to watch them.  “Maybe sister? Or stepsisters?” He wondered about sending them drinks in order when one of his work friends asked the extroverted one to dance, which she gladly accepted. She left the quiet women alone, uncomfortable and almost terrified. Steven thought “Maybe she’s afraid to be in a bar by herself. I could go over and just chat with her until her friend comes back.” Steve caught her looking at him again, and he knew he had to say something to break the awkwardness of the situation. 

Steve took his beer and walked over to the young woman, and introduced himself. “Hi, I’m Steve. I don’t want to bug you but noticed you from the bar. Can I sit down? Just until your friend comes back?” 

Sam appeared pale, as though all the color had drained out of her face but she squeaked out “Sure. I’m Sam.” She looked back for her friend who was still dancing and having a great time, and resigned herself to making conversation with a strange man. 

“So, I’m here with my coworkers. We’re just blowing off steam from work. How about you? What brought you and your friend to this place?” 

Quietly, Sam stated “Oh, we are old friends who haven’t seen each other for a few months, so thought we’d catch up. This place was in a convenient location, but I’ve never been here before. I didn’t know there would be dancing.” 

“Does that make you uncomfortable?” Steve asked. 

“Well, I just thought it would be a quieter place to really talk and catch up, but my friend seems to want to cut loose and “blow off steam” like you and your coworkers. Why aren’t you dancing?” 

“Oh, just tired. I guess I wanted a quieter night too. How do y’all know each other, you and your friend?” 

Sam’s eyes opened wide and her mouth opened but nothing came out. Steven said “I didn’t mean to pry. Just making conversation.” 

Sam thought about how to answer Steven. Do I tell him we were roommate in a mental institution and we both were just let out? I don’t even know this guy and why he’s even speak ing to me. What does he want? Why was he watching me? 

Sam said “We were college roommates together. She’s visiting me for a bit.” 

Steve said “Baylor? UT? Where did y’all go? I went to UT.” 

Sam diverted Steve “What did you major in?” 

Steve stated “Psychology. I’m getting a Master’s at Baylor now and working full-time so guess that’s why I’m so pooped. Just glad to get out of house for a change. How about you?”

Sam hesitated. What do I tell him? How much does he already know about me? Did my “parents” send this guy to spy on me? Am I safe here? When is Becca coming back? Is she going to dance all night? 

Sam stood up and said “Sorry, I need to go to the bathroom. I’ll be right back.”  She had no intention of going back until Steve was gone but she wasn’t going to tell him that. 

Steve watched her walk around the bar aimlessly, looking for the ladies’ room and finally finding it. She glanced back at him before going in and he could not tell if she was angry or scared. 

“Shit,” Steve thought. “I guess I’m not as charming as I thought I was.” 

Becca came up to the table and sat down. Her face was perspiring from dancing. She she was vibrant,  with emerald green eyes and a wide smile. “So, who are you? I saw you talking to Sam while I was dancing. She must be terrified.” She said with a laugh. 

“Well, yeah, I think I took her by surprise. I didn’t mean to butt in but I saw her alone at the table and she looked kind of scared so I thought I’d keep her company until you came back. Now that you’re back, I’ll go back to my friends.” 

“Hey, wait a minute! Let me buy you a shot. It’s the least I could do for keeping my scaredy-cat friend safe from creepers in the bar,” Becca said. She wanted to know why this guy would be attracted to Sam and nor her. Why not her? 

“Oh, I don’t do shots. I don’t feel anything when taking them, and then I stand up and boom- crash. Before I know it, I’m on the floor so I just stick to beer.  I’m ok, but thanks for the offer.” 

“Well, then let me buy you a beer. Don’t you want to keep me company until Sam comes back? Somebody could creep on me too, y’ know.” 

Steve laughed. “Sorry about my friends. They just want to channel out some of that energy.” 

Becca asked, “Oh, I danced with one of your friends? He was nice, not creepy at all. I had fun.” 

Steve smiled at Becca. He wondered where this might go if he decided to stay at her table. 

“I guess I can hang out here until your friend gets back. Don’t want you to be sitting all by your lonesome.” 

Becca smiled and signaled for the waiter “Pitcher of Lone Star, please! On my tab.” 

Dark Tales, 2

Posted on by rollinnoel

Sam sat in her dark room, lit only by the light of some electric candles. Her parents wouldn’t trust her with real candles with live flames, so she had to make do with electric ones.  She was not certain whether to unpack from her hospital trip or not. Her parents seemed so strange. Was she safe? 

As though reading her mind, her mother called “Sam, I’m getting ready to wash some clothes. Do you have any darks to add to mine?” 

“Yeah, I’ll bring them to you,” Sam replied. 

“Great, hon. So glad to have you back home.” 

Sam thought, huh, glad to have you home? Did y’all really miss me? 

As Sam gathered her dark clothes for laundry, trying to beat her mother from invading her space, her phone vibrated. 

“I’m out!!! Can’t wait to see you!” 

Sam stared at her phone, wondering who sent this text. A mistake? 

“It’s me Becca! Your roomie from Shavano Park. I’m out today. So good to be free! God, I need a cigarette. And a beer. Are you on? Where should we meet?” 

Sam startled, recognizing the name- her roommate from the psych hospital. Becca had gotten herself committed by making an extreme suicide gesture by taking a handful of her pills mixed up in a bag, after her parents kicked her out of the house. She had texted them a “farewell” message right before she took the pills, and they responded immediately, called 911, in order to save her. Becca hated rejection and she saw her parents as rejecting because they did not want her to bring men into their home at night and have sex with them on the dining room table.  She was in and out of hospitals all the time, unlike Sam. To Becca, a hospital was more of a retreat than a restrictive punishment for being mentally ill. 

Sam hesitated. Should she respond? Could she trust Becca or did her parents hire Becca to watch Sam? Well, maybe that was a bit far-fetched, even for her parents. 

Sam texted “Glad to hear you are out. Yes, that place was run by Nazis, only made me feel worse! Never going back again, ever. Where are you right now?” 

Becca texted “On I35, outside of San Antonio, heading your way. My parents gave me a charge card so they could get me out of the house for a while, at least until I get in trouble again.  Thought I’d get a hotel near you and we could have a reunion of the crazy ladies of Shavano Park. Hahaha. I should get up there about 6. Where would you like to go? It’s on my Dad, so the sky is the limit.” 

Sam thought, Shitshitshit. I have too much to deal with now, do not need Becca. 

“Sam! You have your clothes for the wash? I’m starting it now,” her mother called. 

“Yes, Mom. I’m coming” Sam said. She felt her cheeks and ears flush, and her heart palpitated. She quickly scanned her laundry for dark clothes and then took them to her mother, who was busy working in the perpetually tidy laundry room.  A blue rug with a “The NeverEnding Story-Laundry” logo laid across the floor. 

“What took you so long?” her mother asked. 

“Oh, a friend has been texting me. We may get together sometime this week.” 

“Do I know her? Or is it a him? Or a them? I never know these days,” her mother asked. 

Sam cringed at her mother’s non-PC-ness. “No, you don’t know her.” 

“Really? I thought I knew all of your friends. When did you meet her?” her mother asked. 

“Last month,” Sam stated cautiously. 

“But you were in a psychiatric hospital all month. When did you have time to meet anyone?” her mother innocently asked. Her back was turned away from Sam so her expression could not be seen. 

Sam didn’t answer. She knew her mother would connect the dots and have an opinion before even meeting Becca. At least, her old mother would have.  Not sure how “new mother” will act. 

Sam’s mother closed the washer and set the wash settings to “normal”. Sam almost laughed at the incongruity. She wished her life could be “normal” again, like turning a dial on a washing machine, setting it to “normal” and then starting again. 

Sam’s mother suddenly turned around, moved closer to Sam looking intently at her face, and said “I guess you made some friends at Shavano. I’m glad. Maybe y’all can help each other out. You know, someone who really understands what you’re going through.” 

Sam could feel her stomach sinking and her head got dizzy. She felt her the hair on the back of her head tingle. What had she said? This is not my mother. 

Her mother noticed the change. “Are you all right? You look like a ghost just walked over your grave.” 

Sam nodded, and stated, “I need to lie down, especially if I go out later. I’m tired.” 

Her mother asked “Tonight? I thought you were meeting later in the week.” 

“Well, yeah, but think my friend is having a tough time right now. She needs a friend. Not a big deal, but maybe we’ll meet up tonight.”

Her mother looked at Sam uncertainly. “Well, if you feel up to it. I wish you would take it easy. You just got discharged last week. Don’t rush anything. Remember what the psychiatrist said.” 

Oh, how can I forget, Sam thought. Nobody will let me forget.  

Modern-Day Horror Story

Posted on by rollinnoel

I did not have to wait long for any kind of idea for a horror story. Just had to read the news of the so-called ”Supreme” Court’s overruling of Roe v. Wade which has been in existence almost my whole life. I am in shock. We had Trump and Mitch to thank for that as they overloaded the ”Supreme” Court with sleazy Bible-beaters that want to control women, down to the ability to choose whether or not to have a child. This piss-poor decision will affect men too who do not wish to be fathers or cannot help raise a kid, resulting in yet more children in poverty.

I had an abortion when I was 20 years old. It was at a Planned Parenthood in San Antonio where I received counseling, medical care, and comfort. It was traumatic, but they tried to make it less so. My boyfriend at the time was a bisexual asshole addict alcoholic (yes, I know, my fault) who could never raise a child, especially since he didn’t work. If I had the baby all those years ago, I most likely would not have finished college, obtained advanced degrees (including a doctorate) and never would have traveled outside of San Antonio. I certainly would never have been a professor of psychology, or a psychologist, or a therapist for veterans and for folks diagnosed with serious mental illness and cognitive impairment. That never would have happened. My world would have remained narrow and that is what conservative men want. I would have probably remained a waitress or possibly worked in retail, earning barely enough to live with my mother and a kid, and my life would have been even more of a struggle than it was already. Do I think about ”what if I had the child”—of course I do. I think about how old he or she would be and wonder what they would be doing, how they would have turned out despite my immature parenting. But, raising another child in poverty and keeping me in poverty was not how I wanted my life story to end. So, I went on with my original plan to become more educated than my parents (their wish too!) and work and travel and meet all kinds of new people I never would have met if I had stayed at home and had a baby at 20.

I saw a post on Facebook about women stopping, taking a deep breath, and then burning everything to the ground. I feel this to my core. Women cannot allow themselves to become handmaidens. We have come too far for this. Ruth Bader Ginsberg would be so disappointed in us as well. I feel like marching in Austin and D.C. and letting all the conservatives know that the fight is not over. It’s never over as long as women are targeted and oppressed.

Merrick Garland published a statement which is somewhat reassuring in that he does not agree with the ”Supreme” Court (really, the name of the court needs to change) and neither does President Biden. They wish to support women’s rights to medical care and I hope they follow through with these wishes. Part of his statement is as follows:

“The Supreme Court has eliminated an established right that has been an essential component of women’s liberty for half a century-a right that has safeguarded women’s ability to participate fully and equally in society. And in renouncing this fundamental right, which it had reportedly recognized and reaffirmed, the Court has upended the doctrine of the stare decisis, a key pillar of the rule of law.

The Justice Department strongly disagrees with the Court’s decision. This decision deals a devastating blow to reproductive freedom in the United States. It will have an immediate and irreversible impact on the lives of people people across the country. And it will be greatly disproportionate in its effect—with the greatest burdens felt by people of color and those with limited financial means….”

Mr. Garland goes on to state how the Justice Department can still support women who may need an abortion, including a need to travel to and to obtain the drug Mifepristone. I am somewhat relieved to read his statement, but the next fight will be for the contraception. We just need to read “The Handmaid’s Tale” to find out what will happen next if we do not act now.

Trying Again

Posted on by rollinnoel

I started trying to write (or blog) in 2019 as a way to cope with life and adjust to several changes that had occurred. I posted a few times, but then, I had a tragedy. I work as a therapist and a patient committed suicide. I have never had that happen before and was not only full of grief, but also “what if” scenarios. I did everything I legally could do for the patient but still questioned each of my actions. I quit writing, changed jobs, and moved since that time. I am still a therapist but a much more cautious one.

I didn’t really want to write about the suicide. I originally wanted to write fiction, but found that in this blog previously, I mostly bitched, whined, complained and said things I could not say to others, at least, to their faces, especially work supervisors. I would like to change that. Being a therapist in these dystopian times is awful and I would not wish it on anyone. So, I wish to write to escape the reality of my day-to-day existence by writing fiction.

I recently finished reading “Disappearance at Devil’s Rock” by Paul Tremblay and was both amazed and disturbed by it. I also read his book “Headful of Ghosts” and loved it. Why can’t I write like that? Well, I know why. I want a happy ending. I have enough sad and tragic endings in real life every day (Ok, not every day), and that’s enough. I’m full. It’s the same feeling with Stephen KIng, especially after reading “Pet Cemetary.” I recently read that he wrote that book after a near accident, where his young son almost ran into a road and got hit by an 18-wheeler. I don’t have the brass cojones to write like that. I’d be depressed all the time! Ha, maybe I am anyway….

Shirley Jackson wrote horror and also humor from her daily life depictions of raising her children, “Raising Demons.” I admire her ability to write both humorous and spooky stories. Recent books I read that have the right amount of camp in them are ones by Grady Hendrix, such as “The Southern Book Club’s Guide to Slaying Vampires” and “The Final Girl Support Group.” I guess I am biased, being a woman and from the Southwest but really could identify with those books. How to put that type of prose to paper is my problem and my ultimate goal.

I thought a way to start again is to write short stories in my blog. I have been writing most of my life but for academia. Ugh. Boring and dry as shit. I’m done with it. So, I hope you will stay tuned for stories in the days to come, Constant Reader (as Stephen King would write)…